tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17676459039565075092024-03-05T01:58:16.806-05:00Paula Goff Christy's BlogThis Blog is dedicated to Family History. On my dad's side, Goff, Stephens, Pointer, Gover, Smiley, Bradley and Holmes. On my mother's side, Webb, Hamby, Hall, Grimes, Dodson, Bowlin (or Bolen,) Stewart, Davidson (or Davison,) and potentially Stonecipher. My husband's family: Christy, Poe, Clark, Jett, Bush and a few more!Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-68999870435432626812011-08-23T13:16:00.009-04:002011-08-23T14:40:45.533-04:00Is There Such a Thing As Revisionist History?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghf1HWJmKiI7RG0XRBQz5IaX14AMZ1OdM8nUukD9Aym_KNkl_wUXTVTH7BiCiEZ3E4KwWELPHRKLclZlBSXJHo4iRpAHsO7NYarAAoRsfcTWijXjXFFOWGoKeyvscOB-8LmoxCEcmRh8I/s1600/Worthy+Lee+Christy+courtesy+Mary+Cervantes.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 177px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghf1HWJmKiI7RG0XRBQz5IaX14AMZ1OdM8nUukD9Aym_KNkl_wUXTVTH7BiCiEZ3E4KwWELPHRKLclZlBSXJHo4iRpAHsO7NYarAAoRsfcTWijXjXFFOWGoKeyvscOB-8LmoxCEcmRh8I/s320/Worthy+Lee+Christy+courtesy+Mary+Cervantes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644119656568091954" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Worthy Lee Christy, ca 1901, courtesy Mary Cervante</i>s</div><div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Anybody who has studied history at the collegiate level has heard this question: Is there such a thing as<i> revisionist history</i>? Answer "no" to that question and fall quickly into the trap that discredits new research and new conclusions drawn from such research. Revisionist History gets a bad reputation when an historian rewrites certain events to prove a question not previously asked, such as, <i>Are white European settlers responsible for building New York City when it was actually built by slaves?</i> That gets a lot of people's goats. I don't know why. We can't deny that slavery existed even in the Yankee north. We can't deny that history was written by the educated and affluent, the victors, if you will, and those people were not slaves. Well, duh, guess who got the credit. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Revisionist History is necessary. The big picture will remain the same, but that which was witnessed from ten feet away is subject to change. That which is seen with a jeweler's eye will show many facets, and those facets keep history from being static. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I had a boss once who refused to hear me when I offered history as to how certain issues arose and why. He only wanted to know what the issue was and how to fix it, claiming the rest was wasted time. Then when he would go ahead with his idea of the solution to fix the problem, he often found himself digging a much bigger hole, exacerbating an issue that might have been mended by a needle and thread if he had only understood the nuances that would have come from knowing history.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">All this being said, I bring you to an example drawn from my genealogical studies. I have been researching my husband's family. His father was orphaned when he was twelve years old. He and his siblings were farmed out to relatives, friends and orphanages. Their mother, Etta Poe Christy died after childbirth in 1932. Their father, Worthy Lee, for some reason gave up the children, remarried and started a new life. The presumption of Etta's family was that Worthly Lee was worthless, a drunkard, a lazy low down rotten scoundrel void of any redeeming qualities. Research, however, has revised the circumstances in which Worthy Lee Christy was weighed in the balances and found wanting. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Remember this was the height of the depression. The stock market crashed in 1929. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was elected President of the United States in November, 1932 and didn't take office until January, 1933. History shows that sometime between 1929 and 1932, Worthy took his family out of the rolling hills of Kentucky that offered little for a city man trained as a freight hauler. Worthy and Etta settled their family in Cincinnati, where he took what work he could get and Etta took ill during her pregnancy. When Etta died, how was Worthy to rear a family? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">There is no evidence that Worthy became a drunk. There is evidence that he became a diabetic later in life and lost both his legs. He died in the Drake Hospital in Cincinnati of complications of diabetes on December 18, 1962. It is true that he died indigent. Hamilton County took him back to Bracken County, Kentucky, to be interred next to his first wife, Etta. The only "mourners" were his son, Bernard, and his wife, Lucille. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">We know now that Worthy Lee was not totally estranged from his children. One child, Bert, was adopted out of the Methodist Children's Home in Versailles, Kentucky. Evelyn went to live in California. Patty was adopted by Oakley and Pauline Poe in Brooksville. The other boys remained in touch as much as possible. We know now that Worthy lived with each of his children from time to time, but we also know that wasn't the optimum situation whenever he did. He did seem to have trouble keeping employment even after the depression.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">We don't know if Worthly Lee suffered from mental illness, although I <i>think</i> he did.. We don't know what was on his mind or in his heart when his family was broken apart, but it isn't hard to surmised that a man whose own father died when he was 7 would have been a tad dysfunctional and rightfully so. The point is - he wasn't the man of ill repute the Etta's family made him out to be. He wasn't a one dimensional man.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Poes were well to do even by depression standards. Why is that only one of Etta's siblings stepped up to give her children a home? Why is they didn't want Etta's children? Is it possible that their history of Worthy Lee was written to masque their own ineptitude toward their sister and her children? Could it have been easier for them to point the finger at Worthy Lee rather than step up to the plate with Christian charity and do what they should have done? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">The Poe family cannot be written as one dimensional either. We haven't yet delved into that family history, but these are</span> questions for the revisionist historian. They may never have answers, but they have to be asked none the less.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
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<br /></div></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-36558008607246265352011-08-18T13:47:00.002-04:002011-08-18T14:31:31.624-04:00Leave It to the Professionals<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">Once upon a time I went to an NGS conference with a very bad attitude. Having a bachelor's in history, I thought I already knew how to do research. I knew my way around courthouses, libraries and archives, so what could they possibly teach me that I didn't already know? OMG! Was I ever wrong?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >With the first seminar hosted by Barbara Vines Little, my eyes were opened and I felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass. There were more possibilities than I had even imagined. Class after class, my enthusiasm for my amateur sleuthing was growing to the point I thought I just might burst. Traipsing through libraries and courthouse vaults has now become a passion.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I do, however, have one little bone to pick with about three genealogists and I'm not sure if they will know who they are. Somebody suggested on Facebook that if she never heard another story about the research of an amateur it would be too soon. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Wait! Weren't you supposed to be a teacher? Isn't that why you teach conferences, to inspire and nurture the novice? Look, I know you're tired. I know you've been doing this a long time and a beginner's little escapades mean nothing to you, but do you have to make it so obvious? Are you truly the professional you claim to be?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Madeleine Albright once said, "There is a special place in hell for women who will not help other women." Well I think that might be true for anyone who is in the position to help someone and chooses not to do so because she thinks the person needing the help is somehow beneath her. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Barbara Vines Little is AMAZING! Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I hang on every word she utters. She is a GREAT teacher! She is great because her students become great at what they do. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Are you a great teacher like Barbara Vines Little? Do you inspire? Do you encourage? Do you stay and answer each and every question no matter how benign? If you answer no to any of these questions, please don't teach anymore. You're a waste of time and oxygen. Leave it to the professionals.</span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-35348793859187230622011-08-17T12:01:00.000-04:002011-08-17T12:03:24.510-04:00Wordless Wednesday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg189p02VUBRY5MFBrKEvufyzEJhUc8Ep0R1aqhR3ZqaHsr-OsjnTJU3Q795fTB595PKbAv-gqB92a3mlVurlxDoujWMtR-O-XakpnDZ30UtkRD7fhc7f0DITYyQymJDgeO6G_oZGd4n_M/s1600/Hillsdale+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg189p02VUBRY5MFBrKEvufyzEJhUc8Ep0R1aqhR3ZqaHsr-OsjnTJU3Q795fTB595PKbAv-gqB92a3mlVurlxDoujWMtR-O-XakpnDZ30UtkRD7fhc7f0DITYyQymJDgeO6G_oZGd4n_M/s320/Hillsdale+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641856109864587122" /></a>
<br />Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-6739972012792769152011-08-12T17:14:00.005-04:002011-08-12T17:23:00.450-04:00Found Poe Creek<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><i>It was easier than I thought. It is off Cumminsville Road, close to where I was when I took the previous picture. In fact, I was right - that is the creek, but Poe Creek was (or is) an actual place and not just a tributary to the Ohio River. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><i>
<br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><i>This is still going to require more legwork to the PVA office, and probably the county clerk's office to view tax records and deeds. This part is loads of fun, and actually getting to Poe Creek might require a horse. I know I'm from Kentucky, but I'm afraid of horses. This might be an assignment for my daughter, Miranda. I'll let her use my camera!</i></span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-77496864350831191022011-08-12T13:34:00.004-04:002011-08-12T13:47:49.289-04:00Could This Be Poe's Creek?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1Jq8p5JURoZba9BjP5bKg3GxwGQow68YOQYyarkou-RgjLYqdBRRGdeEtbX_8KbzbM_1NdY_QX3QLJCOfUazq_hGsO3AUncSyuo-onD1LHp13NnaHQGIlZw1N1X8PH-r3aqUp76Wl_4/s1600/Is+This+Poe%2527s+Creek.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1Jq8p5JURoZba9BjP5bKg3GxwGQow68YOQYyarkou-RgjLYqdBRRGdeEtbX_8KbzbM_1NdY_QX3QLJCOfUazq_hGsO3AUncSyuo-onD1LHp13NnaHQGIlZw1N1X8PH-r3aqUp76Wl_4/s320/Is+This+Poe%2527s+Creek.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640025402345976066" /></a>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><i>It's a mystery, really. Where is Poe's Creek in Bracken County? Most people think it is south from KY 1159 going toward Cumminsville, but nobody knows for sure. It's an opportunity to explore some historical, or do I dare say, hysterical maps to see if I can find exactly where it is.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>
<br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Clues: According to family lore, the Poe family, along with the Cummins family, donated land to Concord Methodist Church for construction of a church and cemetery. This is why most people assume that behind the church is the likely site.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>
<br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Some people I've talked to think it could be behind the Christy house on KY 1159. There used to be a horse path beside the Christy property that is mostly covered over; but just in front of the creek is the footprint to an old log house. Is it possible that this was the place where George Harvey Poe and Stella Cann reared their family? This requires a trip to the Bracken County Property Valuation Administrator's office.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>
<br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>This is the fun part of genealogy research. Next week we shall embark upon what is shaping up to be a very interesting journey.</i></span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-52228750851768147932011-08-10T15:14:00.006-04:002011-08-23T00:53:59.800-04:00Worthy Lee Christy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDGZyXcpBEDSpQ8qavDej_FPN9rT6AyZDyIgp2KfOeYKCtPzwtIXqusmLypiMYJkTvvHRPjxo3smkaMoXiQBb8DyLzNyYmyVP_O18VmGp8_xxs9MLZMLulHJpht5iLcFaXe3ibaS8IX3Q/s1600/Worthy+Christy%2527s+Grave+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDGZyXcpBEDSpQ8qavDej_FPN9rT6AyZDyIgp2KfOeYKCtPzwtIXqusmLypiMYJkTvvHRPjxo3smkaMoXiQBb8DyLzNyYmyVP_O18VmGp8_xxs9MLZMLulHJpht5iLcFaXe3ibaS8IX3Q/s320/Worthy+Christy%2527s+Grave+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639694174055882658" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Having hit another brick wall while researching my own family, I decided to work on my husband's side of the family. Phil's father was orphaned at eleven years of age and sent to live with the Askins family on the Belmont Road in southern Bracken County. For all of my husband's life, he only knew who Bernard Christy's parents were. He knew very little about them until now.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Bernie's mother was kind of easy because she was a Poe, and anybody from Bracken County knows that Poe is a very common name in these parts. Christy, however is not a name that goes back centuries in Bracken County. The best I can deduce is that the name Christy was introduced to Bracken County when Etta Poe married Worthy Christy. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Worthy Lee Christy was born on December 18, 1896 in Huntington, West Virginia to a James W. Christy and Frances Priscilla Bush. He is listed in the 1900 and 1910 U.S. Census for Huntington's Ward 4. By 1920, however, Worthy resided in Brooksville, Bracken County, Kentucky, according to the U.S. Census for Bracken County, Kentucky. He is also in the 1930 Census for District 7, Bracken County.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">At this point in my research, it is not known where or when Worthy Lee Christy married Etta Nevada Poe. It is unknown why he migrated from Huntington, West Virginia to Brooksville, Kentucky. The Census gives James W. Christy's (Worthy's father) occupation as "Teamster," and if that means in 1900 what it means today, Worthy's father would have been among the first in the country. Given the violence of the early labor movement, could Worthy have left West Virginia to avoid it? He would have had to come west on a train. Did he get off at the old depot in Brooksville, meet Etta, fall in love and decide to stay? These are questions that cannot be answered given present research.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Worthy and Etta had six children, Harold, Chester, Bernard, Royce, Walter and Patsy. Etta died in 1932, leaving Worthy to finish the child rearing. As history has recorded the children were farmed out to relatives, friends and orphanages. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Worthy was a diabetic and in his later years became an amputee, losing his right leg to the insidious disease. From the time Etta died, however, Worthy was in and out of hospitals. Unable to hold gainful employment, Worthy lived off and on with his children, but ultimately, they'd get tired of him and put him to the street.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Worthy died at the Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio on December 18, 1962, from complications of mental illness and diabetes. He is interred next to Etta in the Concord Methodist Cemetery in Bladeston, Bracken County, Kentucky. </span></div><div>
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<br /></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-39710112543479959892011-08-03T14:39:00.003-04:002011-08-03T14:42:23.885-04:00Foster's Chapel Methodist Church<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Mv2GOKQT9qYAV8TwbmWqhq40TUHFIaMPLi-IVHXKdhtA9s4Fm7avbWbTDYmYEb8yHklvQRDmF-18Gih8h_ZCgRtPyN7evmONVcyKDZUOJxujA6klU_9lIfxCG4kY-3Qivn5mi8nq0-M/s1600/DSC_0743.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Mv2GOKQT9qYAV8TwbmWqhq40TUHFIaMPLi-IVHXKdhtA9s4Fm7avbWbTDYmYEb8yHklvQRDmF-18Gih8h_ZCgRtPyN7evmONVcyKDZUOJxujA6klU_9lIfxCG4kY-3Qivn5mi8nq0-M/s320/DSC_0743.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636701691724353170" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">This is a picture of Foster's Chapel Methodist Church. It is a new old church nestled in the hills of Robertson County, Kentucky. The significance of the church is not the structure or the beautiful woodworking within; nay, it is the story of the<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">resilience</span> of its members.</span><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span">On May 15, 2009, miles away from a water mainline, let alone a volunteer fire department, nearby residents stood in anguish and watched their beloved 141 year old church burn to the ground. Members of the Case and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 0); "><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Insko</span></span> families have been parishioners of Foster's Chapel since it's original founding in 1868. The final resting place for those earliest families surrounds the building like a soft warm blanket.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span">There was but $65,000 worth of insurance protecting the building that burned, and anyone familiar with church construction knows that is not enough for most to consider rebuilding. Any other church would embark on a building program where parishioners commit to tithe greater than their normal capacity over a long period of time. These parishioners did something different. They built the church themselves.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Using the insurance money for materials, parishioners and local trades persons donated all the labor, including but not limited to plumbers, electricians, carpenters, drywall technicians and painters. They managed to get pews donated from a church in Lexington, song books donated from a church in Tennessee and hardwood floors and curtains donated from local merchants. An anonymous donation even came in for $10,000.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Services were held in private homes until it reopened its doors in the July, 2010. The white framed church once again keeps watch over its parishioners sleeping on the hillside, shaded by the hickory trees and tall oaks. It once again holds Sunday School at 9:00 on Sunday mornings followed by church services at 10:30. The sign out front says, "Everyone Welcome."</span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-53972094363754941392011-08-02T14:31:00.002-04:002011-08-02T14:57:27.982-04:00Unseemly Findings<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">As an amateur genealogist, I still get excited about turning over stones and finding something unexpected. Sometimes, I also do not know what to do with things that I didn't expect to find or that don't seem to fit into my fairy tale notions of my own family history.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >For example, it jarred my senses to imagine that my great-grandmother Mary Ellen Stephens Goff could have been married before she married my great-grandfather. I don't know why. My great-grandfather had been married before, and I can't even find his first wife. So why the double standard? Why was I so incredulous to the notion that Mary Ellen was a happy divorcee prior to getting hitched to Richard Goff? I haven't the foggiest.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Likewise, when researching my great-great-grandmother, Martha Webb, I uncovered more unseemly matter than I'd ever dreamed was possible. The family had always handed down the story that Martha was raped, and our great-grandfather, John Henry Webb, was the product of that incident. John was reared by Martha's parents as their own child following her death a number of years after his birth. The family always said that Martha "willed herself to die," because of the shame she bore from being raped. This is history handed down through the family.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >What was not handed down through the family was the fact that Martha's father, Willis Webb, had two families. Not only did his wife, Margaret, nee Stewart, spend nearly twenty years of her life bearing children, but Willis' mistress also bore him several children. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >When I think of the rural setting in which the Webb family lived and the sprawling farmland they made into a home, it shouldn't surprise anyone that Willis needed sons to help work the land. What does surprise me is that Willis' other family appears to have more information about his legitimate family than I've been able to uncover from any other source!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My mother is beside herself with embarrassment over these findings; while I, on the other hand, have embraced my new extended cousins with open arms, because they are, in fact, related to me by blood. The Webb family has always been a stalwart of grit and self sustenance, pillars of the community; so the idea that there are these skeletons in the closet is, in my mother's eyes, something one should not talk of in polite society. She would prefer I sweep these things under the rug or out the door and forget them, but blood can't forget blood - at least mine can't.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I am very curious how other genealogists have handled these situations when they uncover them. Do you add them to your tree with caveats? Do you hide them away as improper like my mother would prefer? Or do you do what I did and embrace a new set of cousins.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >As a footnote of sorts, it is important to note here that documentation on "the other family" and the information they had about the "legitimate" family has not yet been verified; however, what I have seen and heard from them is consistent with the history of the time and family folklore.</span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-14207627371521942892011-08-01T12:06:00.002-04:002011-08-01T12:11:42.248-04:00Cousins<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYFco-kHaxN2cHoHFKGR4TMNd6JAfMHlDl67xKobM1nyynqqsvNk72DgOy9N4F50v9Ak1eR9uPm0C2fr-T33RP7iNBGhkQn_65elWfsvdClVlkxueWUU-QOk5IKCbHILQ4dEGpVrYNXU/s1600/Christy+Cousins.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYFco-kHaxN2cHoHFKGR4TMNd6JAfMHlDl67xKobM1nyynqqsvNk72DgOy9N4F50v9Ak1eR9uPm0C2fr-T33RP7iNBGhkQn_65elWfsvdClVlkxueWUU-QOk5IKCbHILQ4dEGpVrYNXU/s320/Christy+Cousins.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635919715545266594" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><i>This is a picture of three first cousins, my stepdaughter, Miranda, on the right, and Stacey on the left with Faith in the middle. </i></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>I've written about Miranda before. She's a successful attorney in Nashville and married to a delightful young man.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Stacey is a single accountant living in Lexington, and Faith is a school teacher, living in Stamping Ground with her husband, Ken, and five cats.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-77874133664121839762011-07-27T13:54:00.001-04:002011-07-27T13:57:06.022-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5k34ZuyEKBtML1gUybMzQ1KuPsuxugjs2gQ6nIAyanLpnSdpUk6-18H0z1S53bLYa3d-MwnmRCGmcBNJv4rsvgyKgKeoH6MgtgKEROFyKQ9eVa5d4mfcUN57tScx699klA1SNOD4DNQ/s1600/The+North+Fork+of+the+Licking+River+at+Milford.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5k34ZuyEKBtML1gUybMzQ1KuPsuxugjs2gQ6nIAyanLpnSdpUk6-18H0z1S53bLYa3d-MwnmRCGmcBNJv4rsvgyKgKeoH6MgtgKEROFyKQ9eVa5d4mfcUN57tScx699klA1SNOD4DNQ/s320/The+North+Fork+of+the+Licking+River+at+Milford.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634092519363201538" /></a>The North Fork of the Licking River at Milford, Kentucky.Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-17620953175354667822011-07-27T13:41:00.002-04:002011-07-27T13:52:24.250-04:00Abel Goff<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; "><i>Abel Goff was born April 2, 1930 in Ludlow, Kentucky. His father, Andrew Goff was a foreman on the Southern Railroad, and his mother, Nellie nee Hughes, was a homemaker. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>In high school at Ludlow High School, Abel excelled in football and wrestling. Following graduation, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corp and served in the Korean Conflict. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Abel married Cora Hall on March 22, 1955 in the parsonage of Ludlow Baptist Church with Richard and June Goff bearing witness. The couple settled in Covington, Kentucky where Abel worked as a Covington firefighter for 28 years. They had five children, Shirley, David, Steven, Kathy and Tim. He also had nine grandchildren. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Abel died in 1992 at the age of 62. He had been on kidney dialysis for five years and succumbed to renal failure while a patient at the Veteran's Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio. He was laid to rest in Independence Cemetery, Independence, Kentucky. </i></span> </div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-74489832044301233292011-07-22T15:40:00.002-04:002011-07-22T16:01:01.511-04:00This Old House<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_awibz1b0CxebAsSpGPh9lTBST3Azemj7yD98ZfIzU2893PrySnKMl6jNWeTHVYd_hZldBGJJfbpnqg_H-Upw8f9navmooOHSLw_-6DKMJszcuulnRIdSBm4uTaL2OtRXhsMrCczD1w/s1600/DSC_0449.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632265113618934338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_awibz1b0CxebAsSpGPh9lTBST3Azemj7yD98ZfIzU2893PrySnKMl6jNWeTHVYd_hZldBGJJfbpnqg_H-Upw8f9navmooOHSLw_-6DKMJszcuulnRIdSBm4uTaL2OtRXhsMrCczD1w/s320/DSC_0449.jpg" /></a><br />This old house sits on Asbury Road in Bracken County, Kentucky. I drive by it at least once a week, and each time I do, I wonder what its story is. Who lived here? Who died here? Did children play in the front yard, and was it once alive with azaleas and junipers? What happened that it fell into such disarray?<br /><br />It's so sad now and cold like death. Termites have feasted until barely a skeleton remains. Yet it still has a story. I just don't know what it is.Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-12280488910792424992011-07-11T14:28:00.003-04:002011-07-11T16:03:29.045-04:00Cora Hall Goff<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrmInzRijPrl9pP3bABuZuR-YOaAMnYeyepaddIU5yZMloAHrDX-WcgT9jsPoGwCzI5rdNUwOwyq-zGm4cSdK8uBiRoqLr8Zv5dg8rDdmnGNOQGK-Xtm52TwFJIFb8VDwDP4UdzBAnPk/s1600/Aunt+Cora.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrmInzRijPrl9pP3bABuZuR-YOaAMnYeyepaddIU5yZMloAHrDX-WcgT9jsPoGwCzI5rdNUwOwyq-zGm4cSdK8uBiRoqLr8Zv5dg8rDdmnGNOQGK-Xtm52TwFJIFb8VDwDP4UdzBAnPk/s200/Aunt+Cora.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628171716666532882" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Cora Sue Hall was born May 10, 1934, in </span><span style="font-family: arial;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hindman</span><span style="font-family: arial;">, </span><span style="font-family: arial;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Knott</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> County, Kentucky. She was my aunt by marriage, being the wife of my father's younger brother, Abel. They married on March 22, 1955 in the parsonage of </span><span style="font-family: arial;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ludlow</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> Baptist Church, </span><span style="font-family: arial;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ludlow</span><span style="font-family: arial;">, Kentucky. Together they had five children, Shirley, David, Steve, Kathy and Tim and brought up their family in </span><span style="font-family: arial;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Covington</span><span style="font-family: arial;">, Kentucky.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Aunt Cora was a real country cook, making the best pot roast anyone ever ate. She loved crocheting, knitting and loved her country music. She was always laughing, and she loved her children and grandchildren more than anyone could ever know. It didn't matter what anyone ever did, if you were her family she loved you - end of story. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Aunt Cora died on March 30, 2011. She was interred next to Uncle Abel in Independence Cemetery, Independence, Kentucky, on April 2, 2011.</span><br /></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-85849724822565258402011-07-09T11:26:00.006-04:002011-07-09T12:31:36.425-04:00The Loss of a Giant<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIEOtP5dhYJ1MGFiUTUl3IuhI4TgAAujbyc2N6K0fTpXfVKDs9l74llplTPs8mG62WDZ_Y-derd50Y54mThBBm5DB-IQfac5u9GcExEZbTOT6Ak3I1y3od-4Up7xARYLQI0m04A-NL3s/s1600/Uncle+Richard+and+Aunt+June.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIEOtP5dhYJ1MGFiUTUl3IuhI4TgAAujbyc2N6K0fTpXfVKDs9l74llplTPs8mG62WDZ_Y-derd50Y54mThBBm5DB-IQfac5u9GcExEZbTOT6Ak3I1y3od-4Up7xARYLQI0m04A-NL3s/s200/Uncle+Richard+and+Aunt+June.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627381713488227794" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Richard Goff was the third child born to Andrew and Nellie (Hughes) Goff on November 17, 1924. The Goff family had migrated to Cincinnati from Somerset, Kentucky, and Richard was the first baby born in the city. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He started school in Cincinnati but transferred to </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" style="font-family:arial;">Ludlow</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Independent Schools when Andy moved his family into what was known as the Section House, a place owned by the Southern Railroad. After graduating from high school, Richard enlisted in the U.S. Navy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Richard Goff was a purple heart recipient for his service upon the U.S.S. Morrison. The Morrison, was sunk by a kamikaze at the Battle for Okinawa on May 4, 1945, killing 152 men. Richard was blown away from the destroyer, and grabbing a nearby life jacket, he watched as the ship plunged beneath the surface of the Pacific. Richard spent nearly a year recovering from his injuries, and he never mentioned the horrors of war. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Richard married June Hammond Perkins on June 10, 1950. The couple reared four children, Sherry, Sheila, Bruce and Richard, Jr. He worked as a tool and die maker at R.A. Jones in </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" style="font-family:arial;">Erlanger</span><span style="font-family:arial;">, Kentucky for more than thirty years. The family resided in </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" style="font-family:arial;">Covington</span><span style="font-family:arial;">, Kentucky until his retirement in the 1980s, at which time they moved to Palm Coast, Florida. He lived in the Sunshine State until his death from lung cancer on February 17, 2009. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Richard loved to camp, and he also loved boating. He was a member of </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" style="font-family:arial;">Ludlow</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Baptist Church and was a third degree master Mason. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Richard was my father's older brother, my uncle. He was always larger than life to me and one of the funniest men I ever knew. He would run up to me as fast as he could with his fists clinched, saying, "I'm gonna punch you right in the nose." Of course I would run and scream, and he would pick me up and throw me over his shoulder and kiss and tickle me. With the exception of throwing me over his shoulder, he still did the "punch in the nose" routine until the last time I saw him, which was July, 2006, just before my father lost his battle to lung cancer. For the Goff family, Richard was the last of that generation to move on, and losing him was the loss of a GIANT.</span>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-79792106054040237662011-07-08T13:24:00.003-04:002011-07-08T13:29:39.745-04:00Hello Again!Has it really been a year and a half since I've been here? When I started this blog I remember how excited I was to tell all about my family, our lives and the lives of our ancestors. I am still excited about my family, and I've actually been spending time with family, as well as writing on a novel that I intend to finish one of these days. <br /><br />Time marches on, however, and since I was last here, the Goff family lost two more from the greatest generation. I will post their stories in the coming days, and I will also recommit myself to telling the family stories here. Come back and see!Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-44297437347077563692009-11-01T23:30:00.003-05:002009-11-01T23:47:23.332-05:00Sam Dodson<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuROhKRpD_ud-I5Q0lX68x4CONsWYgFrmm5XZg7De4Z7Uq8NYNiO5Pl5BN4G-ZFZVe4ylo9mysOqw11-Xh3VGW35S0zAIQm85Iyv0fEjGrVVAGRv8wvRwco9ZHpkqjpAGJT6MERsneW8/s1600-h/Sam_Dodson%5B1%5D.jpg"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399359266921318930" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuROhKRpD_ud-I5Q0lX68x4CONsWYgFrmm5XZg7De4Z7Uq8NYNiO5Pl5BN4G-ZFZVe4ylo9mysOqw11-Xh3VGW35S0zAIQm85Iyv0fEjGrVVAGRv8wvRwco9ZHpkqjpAGJT6MERsneW8/s320/Sam_Dodson%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> This is a picture of my gg-grandfather, Sam Dodson. Sam was born in White County, TN, exact year unknown. He was married to my gg-grandmother, Emily Bolin. Sam's lineage is said to go back to the Jamestown Settlement, but I have not seen the documentation that proves it. Sam was also 3/4 Cherokee, and likewise, I have not been able to document that either. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The latter legend, however, I do believe to be true if not totally accurate. My g-grandmother, Belle, talked often of growing up in "Indian Territory," where Sam and Emily ran a boarding house. (It was there in Oklahoma that Belle met the love of her life, Lonnie Grimes.) Belle also talked about how her father spoke fluent Cherokee. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oddly, Belle wanted no part of her Cherokee roots. I now wonder if Sam's ancestors were among the assimilated Cherokee who married among Europeans and did everything they could do avoid the round up that lead to the Trail of Tears. There is absolutely no way to prove that without further research.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">There are way too many legends that come with the name, Sam Dodson. I'm just beginning research into this interesting man, so there will be more to follow.</span><br /></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-66346979886846742402009-10-30T02:13:00.003-04:002009-10-30T02:37:30.884-04:00Emily Bolin Dodson<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbIed9QNAUp6fYRcrzNRbPSYeoyqOqutRk3YcCHhyV5FnHIv-Z4OUV-HrIQD5og777ctcJmnJ30tsuYj8Xb24KG_1rZ3YDworTJXMv9YBi8G2b60JkhNc2nSwPJdwQTPE-XbHRV0J20E/s1600-h/Emily_Bolin%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398272640352505202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 212px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbIed9QNAUp6fYRcrzNRbPSYeoyqOqutRk3YcCHhyV5FnHIv-Z4OUV-HrIQD5og777ctcJmnJ30tsuYj8Xb24KG_1rZ3YDworTJXMv9YBi8G2b60JkhNc2nSwPJdwQTPE-XbHRV0J20E/s320/Emily_Bolin%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Emily Bolin was my great-great grandmother. She was Belle Dodson Grimes McCloud Cole's mother who was the mother of my grandma Virgie Grimes Webb. </em></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>I know she married my great-great grandfather, Sam Dodson, in the late 1880s. (I found the exact date in a marriage index, but I haven't seen a marriage certificate.) Not much is known about Emily. </em></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>When Belle became widowed in 1914, she moved from Whitwell, Tennessee to Sparta, Tennessee to live with Emily. Belle had two children, ages four and two, and one on the way. The one that was on his way is the lad in this picture, my great-uncle, Lonnie Edward Grimes. Uncle Lonnie looks to be about three or four in this photograph, so that puts the year about 1918. </em></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>This picture was given to me by my great-aunt Lena in 2004, the last time I saw her. She gave me this picture and a couple of pictures of great-great grandfather Sam Dodson. I love knowing where my mother got her high cheek bones. We always assumed it was from Sam Dodson, but now I see they were a gift from Emily. My mother also has Emily's eyes, set deep and close. </em></span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>It amazes me that all the summers I spent in Crossville, Tennessee at great-grandma Belle's house with my grandma Virgie, nobody ever mentioned Emily. It never even occurred to me that this woman existed until I became interested in genealogy, yet I most surely carry her Mt DNA as it passed from her to Belle to Virgie to Reba (my mother) to me. Emily's life matters now. It is her existence that ties my life to a greater purpose. Although, she was of simple means and certainly not one for the society pages, Emily was here, and I hope I can honor her.</em></span></p>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-14496760407183218412009-10-20T02:42:00.003-04:002009-10-20T02:52:49.508-04:00Angels in the Midst<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>I am just so happy! I'm happy as a pig in slop! I have a ten year old laptop computer that has about four years worth of research on it that has been dead for over a year. Talk about losing inspiration! </em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Finally, one of my husband's friends (and yes he has a few) said, "Paula, if you want, I can take the hard drive out of that laptop and see if I can retrieve your data."</em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Uh, what was that? Did the sky just open? I really thought I heard the sound of wings, because this little offer has changed my life - or at least the life of my research. In fact, this single little act brought my research back to life. I am no longer shackled with the notion that I will have to retrace my steps through history in order to retrieve the 24,000 plus names in my database. I have birth dates, death dates and burial information. I have pedigrees and registries. Where once I was lost, I have found my citations and they are complete. </em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em>Burdens have been lifted from my shoulders by my husband's friend. It just goes to show, there really are angels among us.</em></span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><em></em></span>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-85460251889247250402009-09-29T12:35:00.005-04:002009-09-29T13:09:30.767-04:00Random Thoughts About My Father<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHdFfOZflG93XjEqAyWs3lHGDlziD0NM6TiXjPoVihaZbbcPGpPzPDkqS8yEIaPjzllCcSO_UMWUiHJlqlSzePQbzG9jIa_NYblek4VlQB9gush1IUSS2vOZTM6uazdlSWdfIhZ2lOUc/s1600-h/My+Dad+-+Paul+Goff+1950.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 305px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386929366133051362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHdFfOZflG93XjEqAyWs3lHGDlziD0NM6TiXjPoVihaZbbcPGpPzPDkqS8yEIaPjzllCcSO_UMWUiHJlqlSzePQbzG9jIa_NYblek4VlQB9gush1IUSS2vOZTM6uazdlSWdfIhZ2lOUc/s320/My+Dad+-+Paul+Goff+1950.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This is a picture of my dad, Paul Martin Goff, born June 12, 1927. Dad was the fifth of six children, born to Andrew M. Goff and Nellie Hughes. The back of this picture says 1950, and I think it may be in front of the cabin in the Smokies where Mum and Dad stayed on their honeymoon. It appears he was reading a map, something of a foreign concept to the man I knew.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My dad was always neat. He wore only certain kinds of clothes, and the only time he wore blue jeans was when he was working. He has more hair in this picture than he ever had after I came along. There are more pictures of his wavy auburn hair, but I remember that he kept it very short.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dad was one of a kind. I'm sure everybody says that about their parents, and I'm certain that in all cases it is true. Dad was a strict Southern Baptist. My parents insisted that I was in church every time the doors were opened, and as a teenager, I balked consistently and was consistently overpowered! </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dad loved his bluegrass music. He would drag me around to bluegrass festivals, and I didn't really learn to appreciate the music until I was up into college and recognized what an art it truly is. Since my grandfather played several different instruments, dad always encouraged my music. He bought me a guitar when I was about seven and a 5-string banjo when I was 9. He bought me a flute when I was old enough to join the school band. He paid for voice lessons. Ha, I think if I had just listened to Dad more often, I could have learned how to sing just from hearing him do it. He was an awesome singer, even if the only song he ever sang all the way through was, <em>Froggie Went A-Courtin'</em>!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Dad worked for the railroad for 37 years! The longest I've ever been on a job is five. He loved trains, and after he retired, he would buy and watch all these videos of different trains around the country. I used to tease him that the trains weren't really moving, they just moved the background. He'd get so ticked, and I'd laugh and laugh.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I was an only child, and I was definitely Daddy's little girl in every sense of the concept. Dad brought home my first cat when I was two! It was a black and white cat that he brought in under his railroad jacket. It had a litter of kittens, and he took all of them off, including the mother, except for two little grey ones. Then he accidentally ran over one of those with his car! </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He also raised collies. We had one collie that he named Boy, and Boy was my buddy. One time I made my mom really angry, and I couldn't have been more than five or six years old. Well, I knew my mom was going to spank me, so I let Boy loose, and he cornered my mom between the propane gas tanks and the back wall of our house! I was standing back saying, "Good Boy! Yeah!" My mom was yelling at the dog and me, and when Dad got home from work, he was pretty livid. I remember that particular spanking, and I never tried that trick again. (It is pretty funny though, isn't it?) We had lots of different dogs, including a beagle named, Peanuts, and a toy poodle named Trampy. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I miss my dad more than I could ever express. When he passed away on August 13, 2005, time stood still for a long while for me. Paul Martin Goff had fought a twenty year battle against cancer. He had lost his voice to carcinoma in 1986. He fought diabetes, skin and prostate cancer. In 2002, we thought we were losing him to congestive heart failure, when a wonderful doctor finally suggested sending him to the University of Kentucky for an experimental defibrillator. By God's grace, that defibrillator bought him five more years of life. In fact, Dad used to tell people, "I've got the kind of defibrillator Dick Cheney's got, only mine is better, on account it came from the University of Kentucky!"</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He fought small cell and non-small cell lung cancer valiantly and with great strength and dignity, not that there is much dignity in dying. When he breathed his last breath, Mum and I were both at his side. I remember telling him in those final hours, "Dad, when you meet your gg-grandfather, (whom we call Richard 1810,) will you tell him to send me some clues?" He was really sick and in a lot of pain, but he laughed and promised to do it. I'm still waiting for the clues, so maybe he hasn't met him yet. Maybe he's still at the feet of Jesus praising Him for the fact that Paul Martin Goff has his voice back.</span></div><div></div><div></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-55280668334190606232009-09-28T13:56:00.005-04:002009-09-28T14:52:11.793-04:00A Poignant Story Dying to Be Told<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In my Webb research, I have confirming documentation as far back as my ggg-grandmother, Margaret Stewart Webb, born in 1826 in Morgan County, Tennessee. Margaret's mother, Nancy Stewart, is listed in the 1830 US Census for Tennessee as head of household with one son and one daughter. Nancy shows again in the 1840 census, also listed as HOH, with her name spelled "STUART," and living with a son, Hiram, and a daughter, Lindsey. While there are many family legends surrounding Margaret and her "Molly Brown" type strength living in perilous times of civil war, famine and disease, very little else has been found on her mother, Nancy, who may have been the among the strongest women on the planet. I'm starting to think that Nancy's is a poignant story that is dying to be told.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I received an email from a very nice woman in California who is also a descendant of my ggg-grandfather, Willis Webb, Margaret's husband. What she has learned through other "Webb cousins" is that Nancy arrived in Tennessee alone except for her son, Hiram, and was very likely pregant with Margaret during the voyage. She believes, but offers no documentation, that Nancy and son arrived in America through the port at Philadelphia. She does not know if Nancy embarked upon the ship across the Atlantic alone with her son or if she had a husband who either perished at sea or simply did not make the voyage at all. I do not have a name for a potential husband, but this very nice woman did tell me that Nancy's maiden name was Davidson. What would have been reasons a woman would migrate to lands unknown without a male chaperone? Was that done in the early 1800s? Could her husband have already been here, and could he have perished before Nancy and his son arrived? It's fun to conjecture all sorts of things such as this, but there is no shred of proof... only questions with no answers.</span> <div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I have found a couple of Nancy Stewarts on ship manifest indexes published on OliveTreeGenealogy.com, but the ages don't really fit. Is it possible that I have a preconceived notion as to what was common in the early 1800s? Is it possible that Nancy could have been in her forties when she migrated to America? I don't think this is really plausible since the 1840s Census lists yet another daughter. She would have been in her late fifties! I'm in my fifties, and I'm way too tired to be having a baby! </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">If anybody who may read this has any suggestions on how to narrow my search, please share. I would be very grateful, because I think this lady has a story that needs to be told. From what little I have on her, it shaping up to be quite poignant. </span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-14437038777715192472009-09-27T02:39:00.003-04:002009-09-27T03:00:41.551-04:00Cousin Martha & Aunt Lucy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPeqy1P52ygbJ10csgLB-LmVbZSAP5WXqakgqvQIGimyTlv2gbMxCf_7-vWEWCIEfSqjxPesGZb9v_H-WgzwITo2blVMVIUn_kgsmoR8vLFuYeVCbaxVhzt1bpA8GWGu4bO-TamIIRbqw/s1600-h/Aunt+Lucy+-+Head+shot.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 270px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386037797672208146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPeqy1P52ygbJ10csgLB-LmVbZSAP5WXqakgqvQIGimyTlv2gbMxCf_7-vWEWCIEfSqjxPesGZb9v_H-WgzwITo2blVMVIUn_kgsmoR8vLFuYeVCbaxVhzt1bpA8GWGu4bO-TamIIRbqw/s320/Aunt+Lucy+-+Head+shot.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgwSW8DKKmvM8PWhwLRKjNp4o27sEPeVzl4Nf4b2Qr79DbF5_HxMK1RPLjcBLfXYYfNXccp9nviJGS9KR2xwxyggTynQAqxH7pgyLT4J1LeMfmcN9gEEIPd1WQEPjTGr6P1tFjfQJE_T0/s1600-h/Martha+-+Head+shot.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 315px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386037692295823698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgwSW8DKKmvM8PWhwLRKjNp4o27sEPeVzl4Nf4b2Qr79DbF5_HxMK1RPLjcBLfXYYfNXccp9nviJGS9KR2xwxyggTynQAqxH7pgyLT4J1LeMfmcN9gEEIPd1WQEPjTGr6P1tFjfQJE_T0/s320/Martha+-+Head+shot.jpg" /></a><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>These are pictures of my cousin Martha and my Aunt Lucy. I have a picture of Martha's grandmother, also named Martha, who was an older sister to Aunt Lucy. I can't get the clarity I want when I crop Aunt Martha's picture to a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">head shot</span>, but we can still see the Webb DNA marching on through time. </em></span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-55292244993718576602009-09-24T14:34:00.007-04:002009-09-25T23:21:06.208-04:00Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5YK6T3VY7b4vy2emqipxubDzRvwA82dNkkWxbyr_zGZsLmdVI_8QjcHe6L5ktHQRrqDq9KvPaRuI_0rDo8zdOiWQ5lddlmIX8soPPgudbPZ0e3_cOueTm2e46f_6TYEKOS8jrt-89Ks/s1600-h/Lucy+ca+1930.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 222px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385104443976850882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5YK6T3VY7b4vy2emqipxubDzRvwA82dNkkWxbyr_zGZsLmdVI_8QjcHe6L5ktHQRrqDq9KvPaRuI_0rDo8zdOiWQ5lddlmIX8soPPgudbPZ0e3_cOueTm2e46f_6TYEKOS8jrt-89Ks/s320/Lucy+ca+1930.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Lucy Webb Bieber was born March 17, 1906, the fifth child of John (Spoony) Webb and Sarah Hamby. Lucy was quite possibly the strongest woman I've ever known and way ahead of her time.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Lucy was born in Glenmary, Scott County, Tennessee. The Webbs were a strong, self-contained family on a large farm where the hill dropped off drastically on one side, but the views were magnificent as the land ran adjacent to the Emory River. They raised their own garden and canned vegetables to sustain them through the winter. The Webbs raised their own hogs, and slaughtered and butchered their own pork. Like their ancestors before them, they also raised their own sheep, carded their own wool and made their own blankets. The Webbs were always well dressed, and yes, they sewed and tailored their own clothes.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Lucy learned all these life-sustaining chores very young, but Lucy excelled at all of them, a quality that would make her self-sufficient in an age long before women went into the workforce. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">When Lucy was 15, she went with a boy from Glenmary by the name of Roger Human. Family lore has it that she had a baby out of wedlock, and the boy refused her. The baby died of unknown causes, and Lucy thought her life was over. She blamed Mr. Human for "ruining her life" and said she would never marry. She would take care of herself!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Lucy migrated to Erlanger, Kenton County, Kentucky in 1932, following her brothers, Will, Jim and John. She settled into a little house on Kentaboo and proceeded to raise chickens in the back yard. Lucy had quite a list of clients who bought her chickens, and she peddled them to restaurants up and down the Dixie Highway. My uncle Buddy remembered being in grade school and spending weekends with Aunt Lucy because she put him to work. He said she always paid him, but she demanded a lot of work!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Lucy sewed for people too. She made beautiful clothes and had steady clientele. She made blankets and quilts that the city people bought. Yes, my aunt Lucy seemed to be able to do it all. During the height of the depression, she was able to help her brothers by sewing clothes for their children and canning vegetables and drying beans. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Even with all these money making ventures of her own, Lucy also worked a job at Holiday Cleaners in downtown Cincinnati. She rode the Greenline bus from her house on Kentaboo into the Dixie Terminal and walked to the cleaners. It was at Holiday that she met her husband, Fred Bieber, a retired postal worker. She and Fred married in 1933, when Lucy was 36 years old. Fred had a son and daughter and was a widower. His son was a medical doctor. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Lucy and Fred lived in her house on Kentaboo for a number of years, but in 1950, they moved to Florida to enjoy their retirement. They lived in and around the Tampa area. I recall visiting them in Plant City, and the last place they lived was in a house in Holiday, Florida.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Uncle Fred preceded Lucy in death. Aunt Lucy died on May 10, 1978. She was 72. She is interred at Hillsborough Gardens in Brandon, Florida.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">I loved my aunt Lucy. I thought she could just do anything! She was a snarly old woman by the time I came along, but for some reason, she loved me. She tried to teach me how to knit, but that never stuck. She used to crochet vests, hats and sweaters for me. In fact, even when I was up into high school, Aunt Lucy was still using colors she used when I was in grade school. I didn't appreciate them when I was sixteen as I had when I was six. I still loved her though!</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aunt Lucy embroidered by hand all the tea towels my mom had when I was little. She made these beautiful quilts that kept me warm, and she made clothes for my Barbie dolls that nobody else had! Whenever we visited her and Uncle Fred in Florida, Aunt Lucy always had watermelon for me. I remember how we used to play Yahtzee! </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">When we would go to the beach, Aunt Lucy would always go along, and I knew she didn't want to be there. She went because family do things for and with one another just so they can be together. She would pack lunch and make a day of it. I was less interested in spending time with her then, as I wanted to be in the ocean. Uncle Fred would walk out to the water's edge with me and show me how to look for shells. Together, they made beautiful seashell jewelry that I still treasure to this day. I never wear it, as it's too fragile, but I take it out of its box every so often and just look at how intricate the artwork is.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Uncle Fred also painted. I thought he was wonderful! He painted churches and barns. I guess that's where I learned to love taking pictures of churches and barns. My mom got all his paintings after Lucy died, but I'm not sure whatever happened to them. I inherited Aunt Lucy's diamond ring. I've worn it everyday since May 21, 1978 when my mother let me have it on my twentieth birthday. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aunt Lucy was a wonderful woman, full of life and mischief. Hers was a life of extreme highs and plundering lows, but she never seemed to have a bad attitude. She was always jovial and happy to see us. She was a woman of faith, but she didn't wear it on her sleeve. She believed faith had to manifest itself in works, and she worked hard in life. I expect I will see her again someday. <em>I hope she reads this.</em></span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-62824491657001969962009-09-22T16:10:00.002-04:002009-09-22T16:28:24.924-04:00Linda Buring<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0x6ZvgCBP5ZEZke7ShmgPeHsIvkRxTd7MIFBb_TEczqA5arujRbEOTE66Ok_gS71gbZtJNSTobe0W6H2VJ59hYSbGXjw4BVpHdp4cv0nQkcnx4X0YHsViLLh1FxsXnH7Bkfoe2vM06ZE/s1600-h/Linda+Buring.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 261px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384387846970028242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0x6ZvgCBP5ZEZke7ShmgPeHsIvkRxTd7MIFBb_TEczqA5arujRbEOTE66Ok_gS71gbZtJNSTobe0W6H2VJ59hYSbGXjw4BVpHdp4cv0nQkcnx4X0YHsViLLh1FxsXnH7Bkfoe2vM06ZE/s320/Linda+Buring.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>Linda Buring was born in 1938, the first born child of my aunt Thelma Goff. </em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>Linda was long gone by the time I came along, and I only met her once. My father carried this picture of her in his wallet most of his life, along with photos of her half-brothers, Billy and Donny. When Linda came to visit, I must have been in junior high school. She came to dinner with her sister, Brenda, and Brenda's first husband, Bob Kemp. I can't remember if Aunt Thelma was with her. In fact, I don't remember very much about the visit at all, other than the fact that Linda was very beautiful. </em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>Linda looked just like Aunt Thelma. Her hair was coal black, and her skin was like ivory, a trait belonging to the Goffs. I don't think Linda ever identified with the Goffs, however, but she was never forgotten by them.</em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>Linda was sent to California when she was a young girl to live with her father. My mother remembers how my dad cried when Aunt Thelma put her on the train. My parents would have only been dating at the time. I think (but don't recall for sure) that Linda was around ten years old when she left. So the one time I met her, she would have been in her forties.</em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>I found what I believed to be Linda's death certificate online. I don't want to be too specific, because, I haven't sent for it yet, and if it isn't her, well... On the document, her mother was listed as Thelma Somerset, which of course, is wrong. Thelma Goff was born in Somerset, so her children filled in only what little bit Linda had told them about her life. </em></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em></em></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><em>If anyone has any information about this first cousin, please feel free to share. Her children and grandchildren remain estranged and unknown to us. I would love to meet them if I only knew where they were.</em></span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-34636026795167852182009-09-21T13:23:00.003-04:002009-09-21T13:27:20.830-04:00Grandmother & Granddaughter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgludvtEG5SdFkqQP0PQvo5VoZmnzsGtF1HAWBoCguE7SKtwHmAuaI86QwnxwOahlgP0BzuwWfQUmXDIzjwxHRVGwLAADlcdP-wCiHn-AVQtwnNTZS0PxdtArUQGHy0Z8FTm_Pafwp_HqM/s1600-h/Reba.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 318px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383973474370299042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgludvtEG5SdFkqQP0PQvo5VoZmnzsGtF1HAWBoCguE7SKtwHmAuaI86QwnxwOahlgP0BzuwWfQUmXDIzjwxHRVGwLAADlcdP-wCiHn-AVQtwnNTZS0PxdtArUQGHy0Z8FTm_Pafwp_HqM/s320/Reba.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3-c3RZwyDfiGeOX8QLNWDyQrtjE2NhwOQ45mDVF3N-AlulV_wHlzEY4rDtoq3kDWmMsQUoWinh8E402xJMlXhFBdjUqrHHiC9hnMgHXhgbA4_bUU_4h7VIEr7E-LF4o8KwGUSrea3uk/s1600-h/Reba.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nWY6apdVyc6P7U5ngbxkraXR7ik2i3tXruP7vZyrmwdnDdu72JjA288zoLouFGQIglNUefv7Boj-slVix9vk2TYWwb3y1TFXvZuF8kaITYVOXWi1tSZDpdvOKNs6dtP_ha8l1i_P__M/s1600-h/Belle.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 276px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383972784234393506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4nWY6apdVyc6P7U5ngbxkraXR7ik2i3tXruP7vZyrmwdnDdu72JjA288zoLouFGQIglNUefv7Boj-slVix9vk2TYWwb3y1TFXvZuF8kaITYVOXWi1tSZDpdvOKNs6dtP_ha8l1i_P__M/s320/Belle.jpg" /></a><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1767645903956507509.post-29374192965117421112009-09-21T02:26:00.003-04:002009-09-21T02:49:13.080-04:00End of Summer Musings<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">I took a little <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sabbatical</span> of sorts through the spring and summer months, but now, I find that I am ready to resume writing about my crazy family. The summer of 2009 has been relatively peaceful. I was able to visit with my cousin, Sherry Goff Turner, and her husband, Ron. My first cousin (once removed) on the Webb side was married earlier this month, and so, I was able to visit with many extended family members whom I only get to see on such rare occasions. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Amidst all the visiting, one thing struck me as very poignant, and that is how much my mother is beginning to look like my Great-Grandmother, Belle. I've written extensively about Belle here on this blog. I loved her dearly, as she always seemed the great paradox. On one hand, she was the epitome of strength and independence; yet on the other, she was very dependent on the men in her life.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">My mother carries that trait. She has always been incredibly strong, with a mind of her own. Yet, she loved my dad more than life itself. Losing him changed her in ways she can't even see, but I can. She has developed a love for my dad's dog and cat. One of them sneezes, and off she goes to plunk down money that she really does not have to care for animals that she always said she would get rid of the first chance she got. Well, that didn't happen. My mother made a promise to my dad, as he lay on his death bed, that she would look after his pets, and keeping that promise is akin to keeping her wedding vows. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Belle always had a cat around her house. I remember how she would sit on her front porch with an old black cat in her lap, and how she used to talk to it and love on it. Watching my mother love on her cat is like watching history repeat itself. I've seen that movie before, and even though these women are three generations apart, they look nearly identical now. Their mannerisms, their voices (minus Belle's thick Tennessee hill country accent,) and even the way they can tell the same story over and over like it's the first time we've all heard it... just like Belle.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">So, it's my desire to keep writing about the people whose DNA I carry. It's time to get to it, now, isn't it?</span></div>Paula Goff Christyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13835936966635922391noreply@blogger.com0