knoxcotn

knoxcotn-digest Saturday, August 18 2001 Volume 01 : Number 187

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2001 01:31:18 -0400

From: "Billie R. McNamara" <knox@tngenweb.org>

Subject: [KnoxCoTN] 30 June 2001 Sunday Afternoon Rocking

Sunday Afternoon Rocking

In God we Trust (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking series)

Not so long ago, my husband and I were high in the sky, thousands of feet

above the earth, speeding our way across the western United States, and as

I often have on such a journey I looked down, past the clouds, and

marveled. Sometime back we had left behind the lush green fields of the

east, the checkerboards of fertility and the patchwork quilt with all those

verdant shades of "green and growing". Below us now stretched miles of

desert, brown and barren, no sign of life, scorched, daunting,

ungenerous. I drew in my breath at the immensity of both the barren land,

and the thoughts that occurred. I thought how easy was my progress in a

matter of minutes across such rough ungiving terrain, and how different it

would be on the ground. How very different it would be with only a

primitive mode of transportation. I thought of the pioneers whose

sacrifices and courage had been responsible for this country stretching

from one ocean clear across the breadth of a great land to the ocean on the

other side. And as I often have thought, I thought again that God must

know what time to place His people in, for I cannot say I would have the

courage they had.

What kind of people, I thought, did it take to wish to cross such desolate

land? What on earth would drive a people to leave all that they had, to

leave the promise of lush green country and embark on a journey through

land of no promise at all? What type of motivation had hardened hearts in

such concentrated effort that these people were willing to leave all behind

them, taking only the lives most dear to them? How would it be to know full

well they stood quite good chances of leaving even those behind in the

desolate sun-scorched desert, to run the risk themselves of becoming

nothing more than a pile of bleached bones to dot an immense

landscape? What courage and faith must they have possessed to risk all

they had, quite literally, including their very lives and the lives of

those they loved the most, for a promise of something better on the other

side…a promise they had never seen?

So high above all of this, it occurred to me that it seemed as though I

could reach out my hand and sweep the daunting mountains from the path of

anyone gazing up at them on the ground, with trepidation as they

contemplated crossing them. It seemed I could poke my fingers down deep in

that desert sand and dig until water appeared at the surface, making an

oasis for weary travelers. It seemed I could open my palm at the edge of

that desert and gently pick up a family and then place them just as gently

down on the other side, safe from the burning heat and isolation and

dangers that desert proclaimed. Two things of course, were very wrong with

that sort of fantastic thinking. One, I was over a hundred years later in

time. But most of all, what I was feeling was merely an illusion and as

far as mankind has come in ability to conquer the daunting aspects of earth

by speeding in the clouds above it, there are things that are only in God's

realm, and never to belong to mankind. I certainly could not truly reach

down and sweep aside any mountains or spread my fingers apart and span one

side of a desert to the other. I was indulging in an impossible fantasy

based on the illusion flight provides.

And that sort of fantasy is when the light bulb did indeed go off. What

sort of people did it take to make such a

journey? Foolhardy? Impulsive? Perhaps, for some of them, this truly is

the answer. There have always been, and will always be, those folks who

leap first and think later. Desperate, willing to take any risk for any

outcome, because any was better than what they had already faced? Perhaps,

for some of them, this was truly the answer. There have always been, and

will always be, those folks who have known such great adversity that they

are dulled to risks, and reach only for an end to it, however it may work

out. But for many, for perhaps most? I suspect it was faith. Those

people never once were able to view the earth as I in my time could do.

They could not look down on a desert and see it as a patch of barren earth

that would be very shortly transversed and seemed so small from a bird's

eye view that one could simply sweep a casual hand across it. But I

suspect, that they full well in their hearts realized that their God could

do so, and that He who had designed this very awesome world could indeed

smooth a path across mountains and deserts, and that the destiny of a

nation lay in His hands. It is no small thing that on our coinage is the

inscription "In God we trust". It was chosen by the people who knew how

true those four words actually were. If our people had not trusted, they

could not have done what they did.

All too easily, all too quickly, our plane conquered the land, and bounced

to a halt on a runway. I felt a small pang of guilt realizing how easy

this was for me and my time, and the sacrifices of those in the past that

had made this very simple accomplishment possible for those of the future.

All too easily my husband and I traversed more desert, more barren rough

terrain speeding along a well-maintained highway. Because we knew there

truly was no great danger, we could indulge in the luxury of marveling at

the sights around us, the beautiful formations and colors. Because there

was no anxiety in my heart, I could gaze around at what must be the

ultimate of art galleries, with natural masterpieces of color and sculpture

where ever I looked, a feast for the eyes to gaze upon, a song for a heart

to sing praise of. Because I had no fear, I gazed incredulously at the

immensity and beauty of Grand Canyon. My thoughts? "Oh, if only we could

pack all the agnostics and atheists into one great tour bus, and take them

across the country, viewing all of these awesome and magnificent gifts! If

only they saw this they would realize what love had to be at the source of

a Hand that would give us such a gift! Surely there would be no one on

earth who could proclaim there is no master plan, no ultimate of artists

and creators, no God! For surely all of this shouts that indeed there is!"

And so it is, I am in my time. I can appreciate, I can look at the beauty

and with the luxury of doing so in my more secure time, realize how great

is the plan of our Creator, how wise, how loving in the gifts bestowed to

us. But I also stand in admiration of the ones who crossed that desert

that looked so small to me in the air, knowing that these hardy courageous

folks of another time trusted in God with none of the securities I know in

my own time. I do not know that I could have done as they did, and it is

awesome to me. "In God we trust". Yes, I believe if ever those words are

swept aside, if ever they are removed from our proclamations as a nation,

the shame and tragedy of it would be a terrible thing. For that motto

tells it all. It is, after all, the only reason we are as we are, we have

what we have, that our nation stretches from one shining sea to the other,

and our people have the freedom to admire the beauty of it. "One nation,

under God". Truly we are, truly it is why and how we have survived and

conquered, and if we can see this on the wings of a manmade bird in the

air, it is beyond awesome and beyond imagination how in control of it all

our Creator is.

Just a thought,

jan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be

shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in

entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the

author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and

intent of the publication.

Thanks, jan)

Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday

Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per

week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to

Sundayrocking-subscribe@topica.com

Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to

unicorn@sun-spot.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

------------------------------

Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2001 01:29:46 -0400

From: "Billie R. McNamara" <knox@tngenweb.org>

Subject: [KnoxCoTN] Gammon

>Date: Fri, 06 Jul 2001 01:11:23 -0600

>From: j gammon <jgammon@midiowa.net>

>To: knox@tngenweb.org

>Subject: surname search

>looking for a james w. gammon born 6/16/1825 in knox county. moved with

>father (name unknown) to indiana in 1828. would like to know who his

>parents are.thanks

------------------------------

Date: Sun, 19 Aug 2001 01:34:52 -0400

From: "Billie R. McNamara" <knox@tngenweb.org>

Subject: [KnoxCoTN] 10 Aug 2001Sunday Afternoon Rocking

Sunday Afternoon Rocking

How Our Gardens Grow (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking series)

When I was a small girl, my family lived in the upstairs garage apartment

of a landlord who had planted a veritable garden of beauty around us. The

"folks in the big house" I will call Mr. and Mrs. C., and truly they had

given the fullest of their spare time over to the grounds of their

home. For a young child, it was a fairy kingdom, peopled with the bright

happy faces of a hundred varieties and more of first this flower, then

that. To add to the beauty of the tiered flower beds, there was a brick

floored special part of the garden in herringbone pattern, the center

attraction of which was a glittering gold fish pond, complete with moss

covered fountain. Where the brick was not, the lawn was as soft as any

carpet I have ever walked barefoot across.

Mrs. C. spent long hours in her garden, and took it upon herself to

befriend the little girl I was, and allow me to happily traipse behind her

as she tended her flowers. I would kneel beside her in the soft grass and

she would gently lift the little heads of the flowers, cupping their bright

little faces, each in turn, telling me what "its name was", and why it was

best planted when, and how long it would bloom and how. Before long, I

knew better than most adults how to call the names of the flowers in the

garden. I was allowed free reign with one very important admonition. I

was never to pick the flowers.

I did quite well with that one rule, until after a very hard winter (and

winters were indeed cold and bleak in that country), the tulips

bloomed. Such an array of color I thought I had never seen in all my life

and virtually overnight! The colors bloomed in cheerful abandon and no

rainbow ever could out glow the myriad tints and shades of them! I

promptly forgot the "rule", proceeded with careless abandon, and to this

day can remember my mood going from elation to horror as I realized that in

my arms were a dozen and more tulips, plucked rudely from the earth that

had coaxed them forth. So impulsive was my action, I was not sure just

when I had even done it, only that I had.

In the way of all those who bear guilt of any kind, and fear repercussion,

my first thought was to avoid it. And the only place I could think of to

"hide my sin" was under the profusion of last autumn's fallen leaves that

lay between my home and a retaining wall. There it was I sadly buried that

beautiful array of tulips, under the damp and moldy leaves. No one at all

could enjoy their colors now, and for myself, there was now a load of guilt

to carry. I carried it many years, for though I am sure the very kind Mrs.

C. noted the tulips had been plucked, she said not a word. Nor did I. But

I never forgot it, frequently thought with sadness how I had betrayed my

adult friend, and what a shame it was that I had tried to bury beauty in

the dampness of moldy leaves. I was well into adulthood before I ever

admitted to anyone what I had done. All the hours Mrs. C. had devoted to

creating beauty, only for a thoughtless little girl to destroy it!

Many years later, I returned to that place with my husband and one of my

teenage children. I almost wished I had not. The carefully tended "big

house" and its grounds were no longer carefully tended. Whoever lived

there now, did not appear to be at home, and because I had ventured

hundreds of miles to see this home of my young girlhood, I also ventured

into what had been the garden area. I peered down at a patch of untended

earth where Lilies of the Valley once graced arriving visitors. I could

not find the rose trellis or any semblance of where it had been, nor the

fern bed. And to my shock the bricked garden I remembered no longer even

existed! It was now a weedy patch of ground, the glittering gold fish pond

had long ago been filled in, and the peonies that once profusely proclaimed

its outskirts were no longer in sight. Desperately searching for something

to remind me of what I remembered, I finally spied, sitting abandoned in

the corner of the yard, the fragmented pieces of the fountain. What I

remembered now only lived in my memory, and thinking of Mr. and Mrs. C., I

realized how much time had passed and that by now they must have long ago

left this world. I left with a heavy heart, thinking how many hours had

been devoted to create beauty, only for it to be buried in neglect.

Sometimes I think of how many hours I have devoted to building a family

story for my children and their children and the children to come. I

wonder if it will continue and be nurtured as I have tried to nurture

it. And I wonder if it might go the way of Mr. and Mrs. C.'s gardens,

abandoned perhaps or destroyed by someone thoughtless. I suspect that is

possible, for I well know of a cousin who spent tireless hours on family

history. How I would love to see her research! She was much closer to

"pivotal sources" than I was, being the granddaughter of the ancestor that

has been a stumbling block. But she has been gone this many a year, and no

one seems to know what went with it!

Two lessons I can only bring from this.

One that we trust no one person with the precious history we have spent so

long preparing, but unclasp the treasure we hold tightly to, and share

freely, that with at least one of these folks who receive it, surely it

will be passed on. I cannot take each of you by the hand and show you the

gardens I remember, but I can describe them for you. I can pass that on. I

can give you a picture of what was given to me. And we can do the same with

our histories, each time we share them freely.

And two, the knowledge and admittance of the other reason we have spent so

many hours at this. Our own pleasure and delight is no small thing, nor

anything to feel guilty about enjoying. What we learn from our passion we

pass on in far more ways than a documented source of names and dates. Each

time our passion brings a lilt to our tone or a light to our eyes, each

time we meet with pleasure a stranger we have learned is a cousin, each

time we share the love of family with those around us, we are lighting a

flame that indeed will live on in someone who is lit by the fire that has

warmed our own hearts.

It is a shame the garden of Mr. and Mrs. C. did not survive, was not

passed on to yet another who loved beauty and not only preserved what they

had built, but added more to it. It is a shame, but it does not mean their

efforts were in vain or that they were wasting their time. They gained

great pleasure in those gardens, great rewards from seeing the beauty their

efforts brought forth. They surrounded themselves with beauty and they

shared it with others. I am sure there were others, but I know of a little

girl who will never quite forget, and always associate her very youthful

years with the beauty of the flowers and the kind caretakers who loved

them. Part of the reason for our love of genealogy has nothing to do with

what we wish to pass on, but has everything to do with our own pleasure in

assembling it, and the pleasure we give others by our response to it. And

that too, is reason enough for the effort.

Just a thought,

jan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be

shared...simply share though e-mail as written without alterations...and in

entirety. If planned for a publication, permission must be granted by the

author. Please forward sufficient information concerning the nature and

intent of the publication.

Thanks, jan)

Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday

Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per

week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to

Sundayrocking-subscribe@topica.com

Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to

unicorn@sun-spot.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

------------------------------

End of knoxcotn-digest V1 #187

******************************