Shaking the Family Tree
I’ve always known of Grandpa John Henry in one way or another. There are two pictures (actually portraits) of him on the wall of the home where I grew up. In one likeness, he’s a sleepy-eyed older fella with a rather pudgy body. In the other, he’s younger: tall and debonair, unassuming and serious. Legend has it that he was somewhat of an entrepreneur, tenacious in his pursuits, but fair and practical. Court records show that he had possessions far above those of his peers. In my imagination, he’s both stern and witty, sober and savvy, a gifted storyteller, like his son, my father, Willie Lee.
Sally Davison is somewhat of a mystery. Except for the fact that she died shortly after giving birth, there are no pictures of her nor any mention of her person anywhere. I have vague, but dear, memories of my father’s siblings. There were two sets of twins, which included my father, Willie Lee (“Bud”) and his twin, Bessie Lee (“Little Sister” or “Aunt Sister”). The other twins, Mary (“Bit”) and Martha (“Big ‘Oman”), came for random visits when I was very young, and I vaguely remember attending their funerals. Ollie Pink (“Sob”) and brother Claude both died young and I have no memory of them at all. Jim, our family’s self-taught musician, and Bessie Lee were regular visitors to our home. Ironically, both my father and his brother, Jim worked for International Paper Company, a company that, according to court records, at one time owned the property that had belonged to them. Years after the death of his first wife, John Henry remarried again, to a woman whose name was Bessie Lee (a common name at that time). From this union, a daughter, Katie Lee, was born.
My mother didn’t talk much about my father’s family, but frequently, she would point out a favorable characteristic of theirs and assign it to one of us. From her conversations, I gleaned that she felt them all to be a little stern and demanding, but also even-handed and warmhearted, the kind of people you would want in your family, in your community, and in your corner. After the death of Sally Davidson Fountain, my older aunts took over the rearing of the younger siblings (my Dad and Aunt Bessie). This dynamic reshaped the family because Aunts Mary and Martha were viewed more like my father’s parents rather than their sisters.
As a young child, I have fond memories of growing up around Uncle Jim and Aunt Bessie Lee. For as long as I can remember, Aunt Bessie lived on one part of the property in a tiny house right off the SeSe Road in Natchez. We visited her often. The property was secluded, like some kind of primeval forest, with tall pines and hemlock trees as far as you could see. I have so many memories of going with my cousins into the woods to the spring for the best water in the world and running barefoot on the rocky SeSe Road and the red clay that stuck to everything and took weeks to wash off. And at night, walking for miles under the starry sky and singing loud and acting silly and not watching out for snakes.
From court documents, I learned that Aunt Bessie’s little house had once been a big, stately home with white columns and shutters. But it was often set on fire. When Aunt Bessie left on an extended stay, someone burned it down completely and nobody built it back. If only the meager remains of that little house could talk.