Ancestors

In the second half of the nineteenth century, cousins of Mamie McClammy Gentry, my mother’s mother, made their way from Alabama to Texas, thence as cowboys in an 1880s cattle drive from Texas north to Montana, and settled there. William McClammy married a woman of German and Indian ancestry and the McClammy name became and still is part of the Native American community on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation in northeast Montana. In genealogical research my sister found McClammy family there, last year went out to meet them. A third cousin has come down from Montana, and we are enjoying getting to know her, and our family connection to Sioux, Assiniboine and Chippewa.

My interest in family history has been back into the male line, Weller specifically, because of the church connection. But limiting myself that way is dumb, because my heritage is equally back into both sides, male and female, Weller, Godfrey, Gentry, McClammy, the names doubling with each generation.

In Pensacola I have often stopped by St. Johns Cemetery, where all four of my grandparents are buried. The Weller plot is easy to find because it is imprinted in my mind from my first visit for the funeral of Mom, my father’s mother Carrie Godfrey Weller. Her death in January 1947 was my first experience of it and the graveside service was traumatic for an eleven year old grandson who wondered how all the cars could keep moving and people could keep going on about life as usual when my beloved grandmother was dead. As a memory and life experience, it is one of my treasures. Having these things happen early helps us deal with life as we go on, just as exercise strengthens us for whatever is on today’s list, even if it’s a heart attack, John, and as our work experience prepares us for the next job.

St. Johns is a historic Pensacola cemetery that was beautiful before being totally devastated by Hurricane Ivan in 2004. Lush plantings were everywhere, making it easy for me to go straight to the trees and enormous camellia near the graves of my Gentry grandparents. But the first time I went after Ivan, the place was as desolate as any wilderness, and still is not much recovered. I walked around for the better part of two hours, never found the Gentry plot, eventually gave up and left. Going online, though, I found a picture of it, took a bearing on houses in the distant background, and found it easily on my next visit.

For years after, when visiting relatives in Pensacola at Christmastime, we took flowers to Mom’s grave, and there with her were daughter Carrie (Sep 2, 1897 - Aug 17, 1898), and our Alfred (Sep 25, 1899 - Jan 7, 1918). I don’t remember when those visits died out. My mother always said she was not one to visit the cemetery, but visits are always helpful to me. Opportunity for reflection, and grounding in a way that nothing else can be. In our generation our family practice has come to be cremation and scattering ashes. To me, this return to nature is sacred and holy; but it does not leave a grave marker for future generations to know about us.

Heart and prayers this morning, John Darrah, in Ochsner Clinic, New Orleans after yesterday’s heart surgery following a heart attack. No word this morning, but at 7:12 last night the news was good.