Page 4 of 4 FirstFirst 1234
Results 31 to 36 of 36

Thread: any interesting stories in your family's past?

  1. #31
    Senior Member
    Join Date
    Feb 2002
    Location
    Louisiana
    Posts
    2,912
    (Mods, thanks for moving this topic. I'd been looking for it for days so I could post this story ).

    My mother grew up in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, a little town north of Charleston on Charleston Harbor. Her mother came from a big Scottish family and had property on King Street, right on the harbor. They lived in the big house on the water, and as each of the children married, they were given a lot to build on. So, by the time all 6 children were married, they were all living next door or across King street from each other--a regular Donaldson compound.

    One of the brothers, Townley, married "the lady"--a "common" woman who was "beneath" him, according to the family. However Townley loved this woman and stood by her side, defending her whenever necessary. This caused a huge rift in the family to the point that no one would talk to or even acknowledge Townley, "the lady" or their children. Townley's brothers wouldn't even acknowledge him in the town barber shop. This went on for decades. Stubborn Scots.

    Even after "the lady" died, Townley and the other family members refused to make peace.

    What no one knew was that Townley was slowing coming down with Alzheimer's disease. One morning in the early 80s, Robert, one of the brothers, heard a knock on his door. To his utter amazement, Townley was smiling and walked in talking about drinking some coffee with him.

    Robert and his wife were absolutely stunned! They didn't know what to do! He was so happy to see them! It was as though there'd never been a bitter thought or word between them during all those years. So ... they sat down and drank their coffee, as though nothing had ever happened, and continued to do so every morning until Townley died.

    I try to keep this story in mind when someone has hurt or angered me. It keeps life and relationships in perspective for me. Is all that anger and bitterness I'm tempted to hold on to worth it? If the offending party suddenly forgot about it, could I forget about it too--and live like it had never happened?

    I hope so.

  2. #32
    Great story, Martha. I will remember that,too.

    Biggest story in my family is the long-held belief(rumor?) that one of my ancestors was best man for President Lincoln at his wedding. I have no clue if it's true or not. Did they have best men back then? Maybe someday I"ll look into it.

    Melissa/Kendell

  3. #33
    If you have seen the movie ''We were soldiers'' with Mel Gibson then you have heard the ''Sgt.Mckenzie lyrics''.It was a song written in memory of my great grandfater and the Seaforth Highlanders in WWI.Its still played alot on the east coast of Canada on rememberance day..

    Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
    Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun
    Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
    Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

    When they come a wull staun ma groon
    Staun ma groon al nae be afraid

    Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear
    Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears

    Ains a year say a prayer faur me
    Close yir een an remember me

    Nair mair shall a see the sun
    For a fell tae a germans gun
    (the part you dont hear in the movie)

    Lay me doon in the caul caul groon
    Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun

    Whaur afore mair huv gaun


    If ya want to look up the history of it,it was written by Joseph Kilna Mckenzie.Or look up the Seaforth Highlanders,its pretty interesting stuff

    ~Never mistake motion for action~-Ernest Hemmingway

    [This message was edited by Shaun on 07-26-04 at 05:53 PM.]

  4. #34
    Senior Member Hunker's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2004
    Location
    In a wheelchair
    Posts
    3,860
    Originally posted by David Berg:

    My wife's the one with all the stories that people will admit to. Well, I do have a story in one geneology about a guy who became a hobo about 100 years ago, but that's about as exciting as it gets on my side.

    Now in my wife's family, there's the guy who used to earn his living as a graverobber and sell the fresh bodies to med schools. He'd even dress the bodies up and put them beside him on the wagon seat.

    Then there's her great-aunt who saw a young male relative walking down the dirt road with a shotgun and an angry expression and asked him where he was going. It was fairly well known that he was brunt of too many practical jokes and he said he was going to shoot somebody. Before he had time to move, she grabbed the gun away from him and started beating him with the stock all the way to his house.

    When my father-in-law was a baby, his mother walked into the nursery one night to see an intruder climbing in the second-story window. She nailed him with a shot from her trusty derringer and knocked him out the window and down to the ground.

    My father-in-law was also a prisoner of war in WW2 in Germany. He was a very small guy and had a young-looking face. One older German prison guard took pity on him, thinking he must be only about 12 years old. After 6 months the older guy retired and on his last day he brought my FIL a change of clothes to dress like a German school-boy, a map, and a gun, then let him out of the prison. He made his way back to American lines and finished the war.

    I could keep going, but you get the idea.
    check this out http://www.crimelibrary.com/serial_k...e/index_1.html

  5. #35
    Senior Member Hunker's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2004
    Location
    In a wheelchair
    Posts
    3,860
    Originally posted by sherry38:

    Xavieria Hollander is my cousin..it gets weirder from there

    To me, boxing is like a ballet, except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other
    Sherry is she the "Happy Hooker?"

  6. #36
    Senior Member
    Join Date
    Feb 2002
    Location
    Louisiana
    Posts
    2,912
    August 12, 1939

    My father grew up as an only child on a 44-acre farm outside of Topeka, Kansas. One day when he was 13 his father left to do some hunting on the property in the woods, down by the creek.

    My grandmother noticed that he'd been gone longer than normal, so she and my father went out to search for him.

    They found him. Apparently he was climbing through a barbed wire fence when his gun went off, instantly killing him. They never heard the shot. They could see the house from where they found him.

    Those were all the details I'd heard about my grandfather's death as I was growing up. It never occurred to me that there might be a reason we traveled to Kansas every August or why we always paid a visit to the tenants on the farm. I just thought it was cool that I was a city girl with a farm.

    When I was in my early 20s, one August, my sister, a brother, an old boyfriend of mine, my father and I loaded up our cars and made the trek to Kansas. This time we did something unusual ... we drove straight to the farm. We didn't even stop at my grandmother's place.

    Strange, but I didn't think about it ... too much. We parked under the ancient elm trees. My sister wanted to show my boyfriend the barn; my brother ran off to explore. My father quietly started walking to a field between the old stone house and the tree-lined creek. I followed without saying a word. I was thinking about the grandfather I'd never known.

    Suddenly, without a word, Dad stopped at a point in the field and stared at the ground. Still wrapped up in my own thoughts, and failing to notice his demeanor, I blurted out the question weighing on my mind: "Dad, where did you find your father the day he died?"

    He was quiet for maybe 5 seconds and then said, "Right here, 44 years ago today."

    We didn't say another word about it that day. However, every August 12, I relive that day in 1939 and 1983 with my dad. We're alike. We relive those anniversaries, the good ones and the bad ones. And I know tonight he's hurting. He's probably shed some tears today too, because I sure have.

    On August 12, 1989, I called him that morning. My mother said he couldn't come to the phone. He'd been crying since waking up. On August 12, 1999, I called, same story. Today the children and I stopped by for a visit. We didn't see him, but he was there. I understand.

    For some reason, he and I are the only ones who relive this date. No one else in our family even remembers this anniversary, but we do. And we cry together, but privately. Maybe it was that moment on the farm together. It changed me. Maybe I took on some of the burden? The grief? I don't know if it's healthy or not. Freud might have a field day with us, but I don't care. My father is hurting tonight, and so am I--and it's a privilege I cherish as his daughter.

    ~ We are suffering from a catastrophic failure of imagination.. ~ Dr. Wise Young

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •