My grandma, putting the story into context

 

I loved my Grandma Bunch with my whole entire heart, just the way she loved me. Always. Many of my stories begin and end with her. But trying to find the facts of her beginnings proves a bit more complicated.

Oh I'm certain that if I were a better researcher and had more money to pour into it, I could learn more details. Maybe. When you go back for a few generations of everyday people, many things just aren't written down. Even official records can become spotty.  I have to infer some things from the larger histories of the time combined with the tales passed down.

When Grandma was born in Denton Texas in 1893, she was premature and not expected to live. Her older brother and sister were both born in Arkansas.  Frank was nearly 9 and Nora (Grandma always called her Nory) was nearly 6. records show that two boys had been born between Nora and Grandma that did not survive. It is understandable that they waited to make sure she would live before naming her.

Frank so wanted a brother, he began to call her Johnnie. Her parents eventually named her Mary, but her brother still called her Johnnie. She told me that when she began to speak, she called herself Monnie. This is the name that she was known by her whole life, even on many legal documents. When I was growing up I was used to seeing Mary on some of her papers, but I can't find that name in any online searches I have done.

Her middle name was Denton. For a long time I was told that it was because when was born in Denton Texas. At some point, though, my aunt found out that her mother was a cousin to the Denton family. It makes me wonder why they had moved from Northwest Arkansas to Denton sometime in the 5 years before Grandma was born. 

So I pick at the scraps I can find, and try to piece them into the stories I was told. I think my great grandpa Russell and his brother were of their time; trying to find a way growing up in chaos of the south after the Civil War.  Probably what my grandma had been told about her Cherokee grandmother was false, it certainly does not show up in my DNA, but it was believable based on my grandma's  appearance. Her dark hear never had a hint of grey until well into her 70's. But the stories about her mother Stacy Plumlee, were of a more refined lady who had a few nice things passed down through her family. They may well have moved to Texas to try to find a more secure future, maybe hoping for help from this distant, more prosperous branch of the family.  

When my Grandma was three, soon after the story I wrote about last week when her uncle bought her a thimble, the family moved to Oklahoma Territory to homestead.  This wasn't one of those wild races to claim plots. The two brothers took their families and belongings in covered wagons. 

My grandma remembered that journey to me, through her three year old eyes.  It was hot and dusty and boring.  "Frank and Nory were allowed to walk along the side.  I was too little and had to stay in the wagon with Mother. Our wagon was behind Uncle's, and there was so much dust. I had a little cat, but it got away and was lost. I cried and cried. I was told maybe it would find us when we stopped for the night, but it never did.

The brothers settled on adjoining homesteads and built small cabins. I'm not sure exactly where they were. But when Grandma and Grandpa lost their farm in Arkansas during the depression, they lived with a family member near Craig Oklahoma for about a year, so that would be a guess.

I know there was a Panic and economic depression the month after my grandma was born. I also know that there were people who falsely claimed Native American heritage to gain access to land that wouldn't otherwise be available to them. My grandma was a person of great integrity, and though she believed her father had been truthful, she always expressed uncertainty about "how much Indian blood." I would be sad to learn if there was trickery or untruths used to claim the homestead land in Oklahoma Territory.  Sad but not surprised.  

Next week I will most likely feel moved to write some kind of sappy Thanksgiving post.  But soon I will write of the memories my grandma shared about the time they spent in the cabin living near a tribe. Her great respect for those neighbors was very different from the movies and TV shows my dad loved to watch on TV when I was growing up in the 1960's. But that is the way of families. Our stories always grow in the wider context of history, and what history preserves always depends on who is writing it. I trusted Grandma with my whole heart, but I also can't deny the hard truths of the historical context. My only hope is that we can learn from past mistakes and move forward together to make better choices for the future.