Her father was a famous chief and thereby came this rendering of her. Sarah was born April 11, 1667 in Nansemond, Virginia, British Colonial America. She died August 11, 1740 and is buried at Saint Paul’s Episcopal Churchyard, Edenton Chowan North Carolina. She was a member of the Mohawk Turtle Clan.
Sarah married William Vann in 1688 in Suffolk, Virginia British Columbia America. They had thirteen children together. Sarah and William tragically died in a house fire. There is a will on file for William Vann.
Sidney William Stephenson emigrated from England and joined the U.S. Army in 1870. He married in 1875 and continued his military career until he mustered out in 1880 at Fort McKavett Texas. By that time four of seven children had been born. His wife, Elizabeth Annie Denley also emigrated from England with her family. She stayed in contact with her father and when they came to Texas, Mister Denley thought he had lost track of his daughter and her family. Lottie Lucile Stephenson had turned two years old when this two page letter arrived on the family doorstep at FortMcKavett. We are so lucky to have this treasure dated 1884, written in the hand of William Denley. He wanted to come to Texas, but we can find no record that he had been able to join the family.
I bet you didn’t know I use to cuss! Well, I did. The emphasis here should be on ‘used to’ because that is what this is all about.
As a growing youngster, I stayed out with cowboys almost all the time. I loved the outdoors, horses, and all the work that went into being a cowboy. Of course, there was a different language to be learned there. And I liked that as well. Let me tell you, I learned to cuss from the best. I learned what word to use, and when to use it. It was perfected out in the middle of no where, too. There is no question about it, I was an accomplished expert at cussing by a very young age. Some problems began to develop when my social circle began to broaden and I came into contact with people other than the cowboys
My parents became concerned about my proficiency in the use of language as I neared the time to start school. I remember this time period very well and wondered to myself what the fuss was all about. After all, the cowboys had no problem with how I talked, and that was where I wanted to be.
As my first school days neared, I moved in with my Grandmother. She raised four boys and four girls. My parents expressed concern about my language to her. She said it was not a problem and that she could have that fixed in just a few days. My parents were so impressed they promised my Grandmother a complete set of china.
Looking back at all this, I am pretty sure I was set up! My Grandmother had a big family, and she really needed some china!
Starting from day one, my Grandmother let me know in no uncertain terms that cussing was no longer allowed, and if she heard a single word, she would wash my mouth out with soap!
There must be a recipe out there somewhere that Grandmothers know about for making such soap. She had some of the most foul tasting soap known to man! She either made it herself or sent off to the “cuss stopping institute” for their special “hard to cure case” soap. It was just awful. I think my Grandmother knew it was really bad stuff.
After the second time on the very first morning, she came up with a solution. She said, “I will make a trade with you. Here it is…don’t cuss around adults, and I will quit washing your mouth out with this awful soap.” I quit cussing that very day. Every once in a while I would slip, but I made sure there were no adults around.
This program was so successful my parents bought my Grandmother a full set of china for her efforts. She kept them on display in cabinets in her dining room. Everyone congratulated my Grandmother on her new china, and she would wink at me when they did.
Upon her passing, my Grandmother had it written the dishes were to be passed to me because I was actually the one who earned them. I still have them. The have “made in occupied Japan” printed on them. We use them on special occasions and they are on display in our china cabinet. I think of her when I look at them. Every once in a while, when I look at those dishes, I can still taste that soap.
If you would like a signed copy, send me a message!
The covers on these books are now considered collector items. We have changed publishers and the covers on all of the books have been changed. There are a few of these available.
My Grandmother dipped snuff!!! There it is…it’s out there now… (She really didn’t want anybody to know…even though everybody did know).
It wasn’t just any snuff either, it was three dot Garrett snuff. Ever tried that? I did…it’s the stuff you kinda want to back away from slowly. My Grandmother was the mother to four girls and four boys…she earned the right to dip what ever she wanted!
When I lived with my Grandmother, it became a common thing, that my Grandmother dipped snuff. I don’t recall ever really paying attention to it, we had so much other stuff to do. I do remember her dashing to the bathroom when unexpected company drove up to her house and she would tell me on the way to tell them she would be right out. She would call her grocery order in on Thursday afternoons to have it delivered to her house on Friday afternoon, and snuff was always on the order. If the store happened to be out of it, my aunt would be called to rustle around town and find some. I think my aunt had a small can at her house for emergency back up. Apparently, my Grandmother was someone you didn’t want to be around if she went without snuff for any length of time. Mind you, my Grandmother was the most gentle, loving person on earth. I never saw the “no snuff” side of her.
In her later years, she fell and broke her hip (doctor said it could have been the other way around where she broke her hip and fell). My Grandmother was born in 1880 and was 94 or so at the time and the Doctor gave her very little chance of recovery…even coming out of the anesthesia might not happen. We waited in the waiting room for several hours and the doctor came rushing out….” I now know she is a covered wagon girl, but what in the hell is 3 dot Garrett?” My Aunt said it’s her snuff…he said, “Well get it before she tears up the ICU!” We had some on hand and gave it to him.
Later, after all the fuss died down, the doctor came out to give us an update on how things went. He told us everything went fine, but she will need to convalesce for a few weeks, and if she went home from that, she would require nursing visits daily to make sure she stayed on the mend. The doctor said they don’t come any tougher than a covered wagon girl.
When asked about the covered wagon comment. The doctor said he had gone to the intensive care unit to check on her and she was awake and was talking-giving orders was more like it. He said my Grandmother let him know in no uncertain terms she has been through a lot worse than what his scrawny rear end could put her through, but she required her snuff before anything else happened. Once she got the snuff, he said she became an inspiration.
While my aunt had been a daily visitor for my Grandmother, she was at an age where the nursing chores would have to be taken over by someone else. As a result, my Grandmother never left the convalescence atmosphere. Her home was everything to her. Her father, a carpenter, built the structure. It was added on a couple of time before his death in 1905 in that house. Her mother lived with her in that house until her death. My Grandmother was never able to mend well enough to return to her home, and I think it broke her heart. She passed away after spending a couple of years recuperating, and finally knowing she would not be able to return home.
My Grandmother, holding her Great Grandson forty-six years ago. He has a bottle of her three dot Garrett snuff.
So, kidnapped may be too strong of a word, but looking back sixty years, it kind of looks like that is what happened.
I really enjoyed my hometown. I had friends there, enjoyed the school there, and most of my kinfolks lived there. I lived with my Grandmother much of my early years. Times being what they were in the late 50s, we had to move. I was ten or eleven at the time, so nobody asked me my thoughts on the matter. We were moving to a place on the river with some acreage in a very small village that was close to a big town where my parents could find work. Well, this sounds like an idyllic situation for a young boy, and it was for a while. I really missed my friends and my school, and I missed my relatives, too. I understood we were trying to make it, and my uncle even came to help us on the land. I liked that a lot since it was kind of a touch of the old home. Little did I know, he was there to keep tabs on me because I was apparently showing signs of being unhappy.
Things just started to unravel for me, and I stayed to myself a lot. My Grandmother came for a visit, and after a short stay, took my uncle back home with her, to my hometown. It was nice, until they left. I still yearned to go back to my hometown. And, I did strike out on my own with a suitcase in hand headed for my hometown. Time ran out on me, and I didn’t get very far before I was found. I managed to stay with my Grandmother for quite a long time during this period
Parents being parents decided the commute to town was a burden so they sold the place, and we moved to a rather large town. The school my brother and I were going to was larger than we had ever seen and the students there did not care one bit if you wanted to be a friend. It was the most unfriendly place I had ever experienced up to that point. I had come from a community where I could invite everyone in my class to my birthday party, and they all showed up-with friends! It was great. That was the baseline of my social experience, and things seem to become more and more fragile. I was really missing my hometown, my relatives, and my friends from school.
We were in that big town a very short time, and wound up in a small community again. Albeit, the community and school were much friendlier, however, it was not anything like my hometown. It became a more tolerable place to be, and I did make friends there, and somewhat enjoyed my time there.
Throughout my life, I have had affection for the life I had in my hometown. I still love the place. My relatives have all passed away and are buried in the cemetery there. I often wonder what my life would have been like, had I been able to stay in my hometown and grow with the community. I did not want to leave there, and I always thought I could go back there.
I have visited, and I have friends there. Somehow, when we sit down to talk, it is like I never left. Somehow, when I walk down Main Street, I remember all the stores there, and it is like I never left.
I spent a good number of my formative years in my hometown, and it is still trying to draw me back. I know it won’t be the same, but will it be close to what it was? It is a very small town, and the young people, for the most part, can’t wait to get out of there, and that is understandable. I see other folks who have stayed in their hometowns and I feel like I have really missed something. That connection, that grounding that comes from living in the same place for a bunch of years.
I have really enjoyed life as it has been happening! I am not sure anything could be any better, but, I was “kidnapped” from my hometown and taken out of there against my will by my parents. I hold no grudge, but I will always wonder what I have missed!
I came home from school, rather anxious to see how my uncle was coming along with a bay mare that we bought over the weekend. It was a long way from the gate to the house, and I stopped for a glass of milk on my way out to the pens where I figured my uncle would be looking over the new member of our family. I was really hoping that horse would become my horse, but there seemed to be some issues we were going to have to overcome before that happened.
I let the screen door slam as I went out the back door. That back door was actually the entry to our kitchen. It was used more than the front door, because all of the people that came to see us came in through the back door into the kitchen. It was just natural that way, because usually, we were all in that big old kitchen.
Anyway, when that screen door slammed, the activity kicked up a notch in the horse pen. I walked over and saw my uncle standing inside the pen, and that big, beautiful, bay mare taking a circle around the pen. She was snorting, kicking up her heels, just having a grand old time.
I asked my uncle what he was doing. He said, “I am studying, and that is what you are supposed to be doing in the house. You have to study that homework.” That was not really what I wanted to hear. But, I said I would if he would tell me what he was doing with the horse. He said, “Like I told ya, I am studying this horse, and this horse is studying me. Do you see those scars on her belly about where your spurs would fit?” I did see the scars, and I told him, “I saw those yesterday and wondered what happened.” My uncle said, “I saw them yesterday too, and it caused me to take a look at the spurs that fellow selling the horse was wearing. Did you notice the rowels on the spurs were wired up so they wouldn’t roll? That feller rode this mare with those awful spurs and scarred her up. Not only did they leave a scar, she has a memory of them. She didn’t like it at all, and we are going to have to see if we can convince her that we won’t hurt her. That is what I am studying, so you get to the house and study your homework.”
Off I went…my uncle stayed with that horse to well past my bedtime.
The next day, my uncle was back in the pen with that beautiful horse. She was a lot more calm when I accidentally let the screen door slam on my way to the pen. As a matter of fact, when I reached the pen, I realized that horse was eating oats out of my uncle’s hands. I asked him, “How did you get that done.” “I studied her, and she studied me” he replied. “She is beginning to figure out that I am not here to hurt her. And I think she likes me. I have a name for her, and it is going to be Millie. She has just been milling around here, calm and cool. We can’t call her milling, so we are going to call her Millie.”
The next thing I knew, Millie had a saddle on her, and my uncle was riding her around the pen. He told me to get the gate open so he could take her out to the pasture and see how she does. Off, they went. Millie on a trot and then into a gallop just as easy as you please. Mind you, Millie is only three years old. She stands right near fifteen hands. Her confirmation is really good, and she doesn’t mind showing she has powerful muscles.
My uncle came back to the pens a short time later. Millie is taking a walk, looking over everything she will be in charge of, and that included me. She is well rested, not worn at all, so I ask, “Is Millie to where I can ride her now?” He replied, “I think so. Just make sure you never use spurs on her, and she will do everything you ask of her.”
I had the most enjoyable ride imaginable. And, I think Millie actually enjoyed it also. We talked with each other a lot. I would say something and she would shake her head up and down like she understood what I was saying.
When we made it back to the barn and pens, I brushed her really good, and of course she took the opportunity to roll in the dirt. My uncle said she has found a good home. And even though the old horse trader said she was not broke, she was fun to ride. I asked, “What to you mean she was not broke.” He replied, “That old man told me he never got her out of the pen, she kept throwing him. He really needs to learn a lesson about those spurs he has don’t you think? I want you to remember that we don’t “break” horses, we train them and they train us. By studying, watching, learning we found a way to communicate with each other, and you see the result.”
short stories 