Daddy Albert

Albert Hadnot
1892-1983

I’m kicking off Black History Month with some family history. This is a picture of my maternal great-grandfather, Albert Hadnot. It appears to have been taken in the 1970’s. Albert was born in October 1892 in the Bevilport community in Jasper County, Texas. His father, Walter (Walt) Hadnot was 20 and his mother, Mary Seale Hadnot, was 19. In 1917 he married Gertrude (Ada) Larkin. Together Albert and Ada had seven children during their marriage. He died on March 4, 1983 at the age of 91.

I wish I remembered more about my great-grandfather. I do recall that he grew sugar cane and made cane syrup. I also remember seeing him cooking collard greens (Hint: Add a pinch of baking soda) at his daughter, Dorothy Wright’s  home. He lived with Aunt Dot and her family the last years of his life.

In the 1900 US Census he’s listed as a child, in 1910 as a servant, 1930 and 1940 a farmer. He rented his home in 1930 and 1940.

Black Panther Mom

Thelma Traylor Seale
1908-2008

I have always known about my shared ancestry with Bobby Seale, the co-founder of the Black Panther Party. I have had a great respect for his efforts in the Civil Rights movement. However, I know where there’s a strong, successful man there is usually a equally strong and determined woman supporting him. In most cases these women are quiet and almost invisible to the public. Bobby credits his mother, Thelma Traylor Seale, for his success. 

Thelma Traylor and her identical sister, Zelma, were born March 3, 1908 in Jasper County, Texas. Their father, Alexander (Alex) Traylor, was my third cousin. Her mother, Julie McCarthy Traylor, was also a distant cousin. They owned and worked their own farm in a community in Jasper County, Texas known to me as Traylor Settlement. 

In 1930 Thelma and her twin sister were 22 years old and living with their mother, Julia. Their father had passed away in 1920. 

Thelma married George Seale in 1933. In 1935 she and George were living in Beaumont, Texas on Dickerson Street. George worked a construction job at International Creosoting Company.

The 1940 census shows Thelma and her three children back on her mother's farm in Jasper County. Her marital status is listed as "widow". However, her husband, George is recorded on the 1940 census living in Beaumont, Texas. His marital status also recorded as “widow” (Thelma and George were said to have separated and reconciled many times).

George registered for the draft in 1941 in Port Arthur, Texas. Thelma is listed as his next of kin.

That same year Thelma and George moved to San Antonio. They both worked at Kelly Air Force Base. George worked as a carpenter and Thelma as a mail carrier. In 1943 Thelma and George were living in a housing project in Berkeley, California. By 1950 they owned their own home in Oakland, California that George designed and built. It was in the kitchen of that home that Bobby Seale and other members of the budding Black Panther Party organization did some of their planning.

During the Chicago Eight trial in 1968, Thelma was interview by KPIX-TV in San Francisco. She defended her son's actions. Thelma said, "I think he's a wonderful son. He's always have been a wonderful son. And what he's fighting for today it isn't only but one thing and... that is for the rights of people." 

On January 25, 2008, thirty seven days before her 100th birthday, Thelma died in Emeryville, California. She is buried in Richmond, California.

On February 25, 2008 Representative Barbara Lee of California recognized Thelma by reading a statement of her contributions on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives.

Lemon Jackson

Lemon Jackson
1880-1957

Everyone knows how much I like old pictures. Sometimes I find an interesting story to go along with them. This man’s picture and his story captured my attention. Lemon Jackson was born between 1874 and 1880 in Hempstead, Texas. His wife, Ada Ford, was my distant cousin. They were married on September 16, 1929, in Jefferson County, Texas. Ada and Lemon had three children during their marriage. Records indicate Lemon might have been married at least two other times. 

Lemon worked in Texas and Oklahoma as a common laborer all of his life. At the time of  his World War I draft registration he was working as a wagon driver for Commerce Ice Company in Beaumont, Texas. Later in his life, 1940's and 1950's, he worked as a delivery man at a grocer store.

Lemon Jackson’s
WWI Draft Card

Although he pled not guilty, in 1887 Lemon was found guilty of rape. From January 1897 to May 1901 he was imprisoned in the state penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas. 

Lemon Jackson died on January 18, 1957, at the age of 76. His death certificate listed his cause if death as senility and second degree burns. He was buried in Beaumont, Texas.

Moments in Time

Zula Runnels Johnson
1889-1935

They say picture is worth a thousand words.They make life stand still for a moment. I have hundreds of pictures. and they all have a story.  I probably never will uncovered all the details or their stories, but I don't think keeping them stored away in a database does the people whose lives I research justice. So, I've decided to share some of the pictures of people who may or may not be related to me, but whose lives and stories were intertwined with the lives of my ancestors. 

Mamie Johnson Martin
1904-1978

Monroe Johnson, a distant cousin, was born in the Magnolia Springs community in Jasper County, Texas in 1880. In 1901 Monroe married Zula Runnels. Together they had six children: Carrie, Charlie, Bertha, Mamie, Willie, and Evelyn. I have found pictures of Monroe's wife, Zula, and three of their daughters: Bertha, Mamie, and Evelyn. The daughters have a remarkable resemblance to their mother.

Bertha Johnson Thomas
1903-1964

Evelyn Johnson Armstrong
1910-1932

Cameras of that era took some time to be adjusted and focused. I know that photographers in those days were strict about how their subjects posed, but I'm still taken aback by the unsmiling faces. I wonder what their lives were like and what they were thinking. There is a sadness in Zula's eyes. The slump of her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head suggest a weariness that she is holding. Bertha, on the other hand, looks glamorous and sophisticated, while Mamie's stern appearance and impatient glare chills me. My favorite picture is of Evelyn. She looks so put together, poised, self assured, and confident. She could not have been much more than a teenager. Her clothes suggest the picture was taken in the late 1920s or early 1930s. She died in 1932. 

Papa’s Porch, The Garrett

Armstrong Road
Jasper County, Texas

I grew up in a small farming community in Deep East Texas called Peachtree. In the early part of the 1900’s my great-grandfather, Joe Armstrong (we called him Papa), and his sons purchased about fifty acres of land northwest of Jasper, Texas. He and two of his older sons built homes facing the main road. Another son built his home on the back portion of the property. But Papa's house always seemed the grandest to me. There were cement steps lined by red bricks that lead to the wide front porch. Papa called the porch a "garrett". All I knew was that porch was everything. Papa and Mama R. V. sat up there like rulers of their own little kingdom. With pieces of cardboard they fanned away the heat, flies, and mosquitoes with one hand, all the while admonishing and directing us children to get out of the road with the other hand. They waved to the occasional pedestrian walking the dusty red dirt road. The lucky traveler was invited onto the porch to sit for a few minutes. One of us children would be sent to get the thirsty visitor a glass of ice water. And then, with the same pieces of cardboard that fanned away the flies and mosquitoes, we were shooed away while the adults talked.

There were other men in Papa’s family who bought land in the same area around that time: Manuel Armstrong, Robert Wysinger, Otto Shelby, and Linkfield Hadnot. Dusty dirt roads wound in and around small clusters of tiny houses in the dark, lush pine forest. Each little group of homes was usually inhabited by close family members, but the family groups were all part of the larger extended family. Manuel was Papa’s older brother, Otto was married to Manuel’s daughter, Ruth, and Robert Wysinger was married to Tay Armstrong, a cousin to Papa. It was a community of family. They worked together, celebrated together, mourned together, and in a tiny church down the road, they prayed together. 

Joe and R.V. Armstrong

Papa was a proud man and carried himself in a dignified manner. He was tall and thin with dark brown skin and fine facial features. In an ex-slave narrative his brother, Manuel, described himself and his family as “pure Negroes”. Papa, being the youngest in his family, seemed honored by that distinction and wore it proudly. When I knew him he was an old man in his eighties, but he always dressed the part of a Southern gentleman farmer. His white shirts were heavily starched and the collars were stiff, his khaki pants creased, his high top black shoes shinned, and his white Panama hat held a special place in his chifferobe.

Blane Armstrong

In his old age Papa's mind and body started to fail him. He was taken care of by his daughter, Eva (Auntie), who was unmarried and taught at our elementary school. While she was at work during the day his son, Blane, sat with him. Sometimes, though, when neither of them could be with Papa, we children were assigned to “watch” Papa. The things Papa did and said often made us laugh. We thought all old people were like him. At other times Papa’s dementia caused him to be delusional and to hallucinate. Once he demanded a glass of water to take to a man on the television show “Gunsmoke” because the man was dying of thirst. He got up from his chair and started toward the front door. We couldn't get him to sit back down, so we had to call Uncle Blane to come and calm him down. It’s funny now, but for ten or twelve year old kids it was a little unnerving.

When Papa passed away in January 1967 I had not yet reached twelve years old. He had spent the last years of his life being bathed, shaved, and fed by others. His starched white shirts and creased khaki pants hung untouched in his chifferobe. By then he only wore pajamas and dragged his slipper clad feet the few feet from his bed to his recliner. Dementia had reduced my once proud great-grandfather to the status of a fearful child. I don’t remember the details of Papa’s funeral. However, I do remember the car ride home from the cemetery. My grandmother asked me what I was crying. I told her I didn’t know. Maybe at the time I thought I was suppose to cry. Or maybe it was because somewhere inside of me I knew I was going to miss my great-grandfather’s striking image in his starched clothes, the tales he told, those Camel cigarettes without a filter  he smoked, and even his delusional ramblings. Although I was only eleven year old, I knew things would never be the same in Peachtree without Papa.

Willie Mae McGuire

I have done a lot of genealogy research over the past few decades, but since I retired my research has become much more intense. You might say I'm a little obsessed. The research not only includes my family, but the families of my husband, grandchildren, in-laws, and even a few friends. Most of the time it's pretty routine information; census data, births, marriages, deaths and burials. Sometimes, though, I come across a story that captivates me. These stories won't let me go. They continue to play in my head for weeks or even months. Willie Mae McGuire's story is one of those.

Willie Mae was born sometime between 1900 and 1909 in Waco or Marshall, Texas. It's all so vague because I haven't been able to find any documentation of her birth. She appears in the 1920 U.S. Census with her husband Robert Lee McGuire (a distant relative of my husband) and is recorded as being twenty years of age. In the 1930 census she is listed as thirty years old and the mother of seven children. One year later Willie Mae was stabbed to death. Her death certificate records her age as "about" twenty-two years old. Yes, this young woman was murdered. I don't know by whom, but it was ruled a homicide. Her seven children, all under the age of eleven years, were left motherless.

During the process of this research I've learned that Willie Mae's children were were separated after her death. The older ones sent to live with relatives in Marshall, Texas. The three youngest, however, were sent to an orphanage in Upshur County, Texas. Although I live fairly close to Upshur County, I had never heard of the Dickson Colored Orphanage, as it was first known. According to the Texas State Historical Association, it was later known as the Dickson State Colored Orphanage. I haven't been able to find much information about the children as adults.

I've wondered who killed Willie Mae and why. I wonder if the children knew the brutal way they mother died, and if their lives were made better or worse by the loss of their mother. I do know that Willie Mae's husband, Robert McGuire, was drafted in 1942 and served in the military during World War II. He died in 1968 in Corpus Christi, Texas. I wonder if he ever reunited with his children. 

More about W. L. Dickson and Dickson State Colored Orphanage:
Texas State Historical Association
Recalling the Forgotten: Gilmer residents reclaim Dickson Orphanage graveyard, secure historic designation
Gilmer LDS Third Ward Completes Service Project
Hand-picked History

The Ties That Bind

Texas Highway 69 between Colmensneil and Zavalla

I always get a feeling of warmth and comfort when I'm in Deep East Texas. Just the drive there is beautiful. I was born and raised there, it is where I where my heart is. When I proudly say to people that I'm from Jasper, Texas, they can't understand how I can have these emotional ties to a place with such a brutal history. The scars from the James Byrd slaying are so deep that our little jewel in the forest might never heal completely. I am not so jaded as to think that Jasper and surrounding counties in East Texas were ever perfect places, they are not. We live in the South. The Deep South. We deal with racial incidences and prejudices. We challenged each other's actions and positions when we have to. And we compromise when we can. But, what we Southerners are good at is finding that one thing most of us can agree on. That one thing might be different in every situation. For me, it might be the beauty of our deep, dark, mysterious forests, the peacefulness of  the slow flowing rivers, or the tranquility of the deep blue lakes.

But, then there are the country churches. They touch something so deep inside of me that I can hardly express it. My family and I recently attended the funeral of a dear friend in Tyler County. The funeral, was a beautiful and touching. The burial took place at a country church, on a gravel road, in a pine forest. The church was so beautiful in it's simplicity that it took my breath away. Even my thirteen year old grandson was taken aback and asked to have his picture taken in front of it. How many pleas to God? How many amens? How many "Amazing Graces"? Only God knows. I am not a particularly religious person, but these country churches transport me back to another time and place. I can almost hear the cadence in the preacher's voice, hear the choir singing, and see the church ladies swaying and fanning themselves. When all was said and done the entire congregation would hold hands and singing "Blessed be the ties that bind our hearts in Christian love and fellowship". And in unison they all would say. "Ahhhhhmen".

A Bowl Of Red

Ora Dee Hadnot Beatty
1919-1967

My maternal grandmother’s name was Ora Dee. This is the South though, so everyone made her first and middle names sound like one word, "Oardee". She was born in the Bevil Port community of Jasper County, Texas in December 1919. My siblings and I called her Aunt Dee. My mother was born four months before her fourteenth birthday. They were raised like sisters. I guess I always knew it, but research and DNA has confirmed that she and my fraternal great-grandmother, R. V. Seale, were half first cousins. Complicated, I know, but not unusual in small close knit communities.

Although she died when I was only twelve years old, I remember her as one of the hardest working women I've known. She cleaned houses and took care of other people's children by day, and at night she was a cigarette smoking, gum chewing cafe cook. She worked at a small cafe across the street from the Jasper County jail. The Wedge Inn Cafe was famous for it's chili, and Ora Dee was the one who made it. People would come in and order a bowl of red. I thought that was funny when I was a kid. My grandfather, Alonzo Jordan, would order a bowl of red and a glass of white. That meant he wanted a glass of milk with his chili. No one ever really knew her recipe. I don't think there was one. She had made that chili hundreds of times, so she knew what it was suppose to taste like. I think she added a pinch of this and a dash of that until it was what she wanted it to be. A high school friend of mine recently gave me a recipe that she said was the Wedge Inn chili recipe. She said it came from the family that owned the place. I tried it. My taste buds have evolved since I was twelve years old, but I don't think that recipe included all of Ora Dee's ingredients. 

Wedge Inn Cafe
Jasper, Texas

One morning in May of 1967 she didn't feel well after her night shift at the cafe. She felt bad enough that she decided to see a doctor. That in itself was saying something. We were country folk who only saw a doctor for life threatening injuries or ailments that had been unsuccessfully treated with home remedies. She had to enter through the back door, of course. After all, it was 1967. She had to wait in the "Colored" waiting room. She probably knew she'd have to wait until the White patients had been seen before they even asked what was ailing her. So she sat her tired body in the hard uncomfortable chair in the Colored section. She fell asleep. When they finally got around to calling her name she did not respond. My forty seven year old grandmother had died. Her death certificate says it was a heart attack. I think she was just too tired to carry on.

I wish I could remember more details of her life, but like most kids I wasn't paying attention to what adults were saying and doing. For some reason, though, I remember her pocketbook (purse) smelling of chewing gum and cigarettes. She always had Alka-seltzer on hand, and she walked almost every where she went. She liked watching sports and she loved to fish. I remember her having a slight cough sometimes. I know now that cough was probably from the cigarettes. She also may have been a little claustrophobic. She liked to sleep near a window, preferably one that was open. Oh, how I wish I remembered more.

I'm still trying to make the perfect bowl of red. Sometimes I feel like I'm close, at other times I think I need a pinch of this or a dash of that. 

Warm Sunday Afternoons and Aunt Jewel's Ice Cream

Jewel Seale Verrett (1905-1969)

I didn't know my 2nd great-aunt Jewel Seale Verrett  (my grandmother's aunt) very well. She was already an old woman when I was a little girl. The only thing I really cared to know about was that she sold scoops of sweet delicious ice cream to us after church. I'm sure she knew that those nickles she collected for those ice cream cones were meant for the church collection plate, but she took them anyway. Even though her house was only a stone's throw from Dixie Missionary Baptist Church, I don't remember her attending Sunday services. Her little house wasn't much to look at, but I was always fascinated by the little details it held. First of all, we had to climb over a fence to get into her yard. Well, we didn't actually climb, a set of steps had been built over the fence. So, we walked over the fence. The rooms inside the house were small and crowded with all matter of things. Some were interesting, other seemed a little scary to me. The walls were not covered with drywall or wood paneling. The studs were exposed and covered with wallpaper. There were pictures of people sitting erect and unsmiling staring at us. An odd wooden shelf built to fit perfectly in the corner of the room was filled with knick-knacks that look so delicate and were placed so precariously that the vibrations from a slammed door might cause them to crash to the floor.

I could tell that Aunt Jewel must have been a beautiful woman in her younger years. Even in her old age her caramel colored skin was firm and smooth. If I remember correctly, she had a few freckles sprinkled on each cheek and across her nose.

Aunt Jewel with her husband, Richard "Skitter" Verrett behind her

Her hair, although almost completely gray, was always swept up and neatly styled on top of her head. A homemade apron usually hid most of the front of her print house dresses, but from behind even a child could see that her figure had once been stunning.

She was intriguing to me. I wanted to ask about the people in the photographs on her walls. Were they her children? Had those knick-knacks been gifts from relatives in far away places? I wondered. But I was a child and I was to be seen and not heard.

When going through some of my grandmother's things, I found these pictures of Aunt Jewel. I was immediately transported back to dusty dirt roads, warm Sunday afternoons, girls in white dresses, and Aunt Jewel's ice cream.

Girls In White Dresses

Easter reminds me of little girls is white organza dresses gloves, patent leather Mary Jane shoes, and lace trimmed socks. And then the drive down a dusty red dirt road to a little white, wood framed church.

Afterwards we would hurry to finish the wonderful dinner my mother had made waiting for us. All we could think about was the pineapple or coconut cake mama had sitting on the kitchen counter. But every crumb on our plates had to be gone before we could taste its sweet deliciousness.
In my memory the day was always bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky... just happy kids chasing butterflies. When the memories were good, they were very good. I miss those times.

Aunt Marie

This is my husband’s aunt Marie Moye.

Marie began working at the TCH (Tyler County Hospital) in 1954 as a maid scrubbing floors, cleaning bed pans, then promoted to the kitchen. It was hard work.

Just as racial integration came to southeast Texas, Iona Conner encouraged Marie to enter Lamar University’s (Beaumont, Texas) nursing program. Marie reflected, “Mrs. Conner said ‘They are letting Black people go.’ She said she would bring the application.”

Among the first five black women to enter Lamar’s nursing program, Marie was the only one to stay. The racial hatred drove the other four away.

Several parents of Lamar students threatened Marie, and one day they forced her to leave town.  Marie had to park off campus, where a police officer would be waiting, and then escort her to school. Another would escort her out every day. When she graduated from Lamar in 1957, the school administrators did not even put a date on her diploma. She was the first African American nursing graduate from Lamar.

Marie became the TCH’s first African American nurse in 1958. “It was still hard,” Marie said, “we had to say ‘Mr.’ or ‘Mrs.’ to every white person, no matter how old they were. Even to a baby and a little child. I could not eat until everyone else had left the dining room. Also, the white nurses would go and sit down, often, and I had to mop the floor.”

“For 35 years, I was a midwife. I saw the second generation come, delivering the baby of a mother I had delivered. Some say the count was over 2,000 babies.”

“One time in Spurger, way back in the woods, a couple had no money at all. The new father went to the neighbor’s garden and got some tomatoes out of the garden. Then out of his deep freeze, he got some string green beans. Got some green beans and tomatoes for delivering a baby.”

“Black or white ... so many were so poor. They needed someone to help them get that baby into world."

PreciousHeart
www.preciousheart.net/message/2012-Moye.pdf