I wonder.
That’s all I can do. Three photographs, a few anecdotes, his father’s death certificate, a tiny New Testament, and a story are all I have. It’s the story that intrigues me, haunts me, drives me even.
Momma remembers him. More than once she has told me that “he was the sweetest, kindest person” she ever knew. Recently, we were in her living room after he had once more taken over my consciousness. He does that from time to time. “Tell me everything you know about him,” I pleaded with her. She did, and I wrote it all down. But it wasn't much.
“We loved him,” she said getting that wistful look in her eyes. “He was very sweet. He paid attention to us, talked to us. And flowers,” she said after a pause. “I remember he always had a beautiful flower garden he took care of himself. One time he gave a bunch of us each a fly swatter and paid us a penny for every fly we killed. He married a Pentecostal lady preacher after Granny died. He was head of the engineering department of something. When he was young. When he got old, he worked on the garbage truck. Granny had five children when he married her. They had two more boys together. He put them all through college except the last one my daddy, Zane. He was too old and made too little money when my daddy came along.” I sat patiently while she searched her memory for any scrap of information. “And the journey,” she started back. “That was something.”
She had told me of the journey before, several times, and it was that which captivated me, caused me at times to lose sleep, to wonder.
But that’s about all she could tell me. And the death certificate and the New Testament. She gave me a copy first of his father’s death certificate. His father, Thomas Napper Quinton, according to the official record, lived to the age of ninety and died at Mill Creek, Oklahoma from some sort of “trauma.” The ancient paper is difficult to decipher. Even then, it seems, doctors didn’t write legibly. Momma said she thought he was injured by an animal.
Long before he died, however, when he was still living in Louisville, Mississippi, Thomas Napper shot a man who, according to Mother, was “trying to court” my great-great-grandmother Liza. My cousin Sylvia, who has taken up the mantle of family historian after her mother’s death, told me the shot man did more than “try to court” her. “Liza was loose,” said Sylvia. “Thomas killed the man and then fled first to Texas and later to Oklahoma to evade the law. About Liza,” she continued while I picked her brains during a phone conversation, “we don’t know what happened to her. She just disappeared and George was basically an orphan.”
George Henry Quinton, the subject of my obsession, was the eldest of Thomas and Liza Quinton’s three children and my mother’s paternal grandfather. Momma and Sylvia both tell me that when he was a little boy the Mormons came through Louisville, MS preaching, telling about the Promised Land in the Utah Territory. The Quintons believed, sold everything, and went west.
Once there, instead of the Promised Land they found a country in the midst of a drought. But still, the Quintons bought land, planted a crop, and managed to get a stand of wheat out of the ground before a locust swarm wiped them out and ended their dream in the Promised Land. Thomas and Liza sold everything, but only money enough to buy four train tickets back to Louisville, Mississippi.
I wonder how it could happen. It couldn’t today, but America, the world, was a much different place in 1895. Did they debate, struggle over what to do? How long did it take to make a decision? A day? Two days? A week? What was Thomas Napper’s attitude? What was George’s? Was he brave, did he tell them it would be OK? Did he try to comfort them or they him? Did he think he had a chance?
I can only wonder.
They left him.
When George Henry Quinton was twelve years old, his parents abandoned him in a strange and struggling land, a land that couldn't even support its own.
Momma says he walked. Walked. Twelve years old and he walked from Utah to Louisville, Mississippi. “It took him six months, and when he showed up, his mother was shocked. She thought he was dead,” Momma said.
Shortly after George made his epic journey, Thomas shot Liza’s lover and ran off. About the same time Liza disappeared. Did Thomas kill her? Did she die of natural causes? Or did she run off with a man? My aunts for years tried to find out, but inquiries to other family members were always met with silence. No one would say a word about her. Now both the aunts and the other family members are all dead, and Liza’s fate remains shrouded in silence, lost to the past.
But it’s the journey I want to know more about. I want to know how he did it, what it was like. Did he get cold, hot, wet? Did he sleep outdoors any or did he always make it to a town, a farm? How many miles did he walk per day? How many pair of shoes did he wear out? How did he get new ones or his old ones repaired? How did he know which way to go? Did he ever cry, was he frightened at night, did he have encounters with dangerous animals, dangerous men? Why did he come all the way back? Surely people along the way helped him. Why not stop somewhere and make a new way for himself among people who hadn’t left him to die? How did he cross rivers? Was he hungry often? Did he catch fish, kill animals, pick berries? Was walking into Louisville a joyous event? Was he glad to see his mother? Did he dread to see Thomas Napper?
I can only wonder.
He survived his journey and then he was alone again. Sylvia says his grandparents, Liza’s folks, took him up after Thomas and Liza vanished. They were named McGee, and that is why he went by the nickname Mac. His grandchildren called him Daddy Mac.
I also wonder, but I think I know, why when he was still a very young man, he married my great-grandmother, a woman eleven years his senior, a widow with five children the eldest almost as old as he. I wonder, but I think I know, why he was “the sweetest, kindest person” my mother ever knew. I wonder, but I also think I know, why he grew flowers, why he talked to his grandchildren, why he remarried after my great-grandmother died. I asked Mother if he liked cats. She couldn’t remember. I wonder, but I think I know.
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It is a typical Friday morning and while my wife is preparing to go to work, she notices me pulling on my biking shorts. “I guess you’re going to get on that bike and stay gone all day,” she snaps.
“I reckon so,” is all I mumble in return. And I wonder. Of all the things men do that piss off women, how does riding a bicycle make the list?
“One of these days you’re going to get hurt, and I won’t be able to find you,” she starts back on me. I say nothing. “You shouldn't be out there all alone.”
But she doesn't know. I ride out Money Road, into Tallahatchie County, up Cascilla Hill. I am not alone; I never am. As the crank turns and the sweat drips off the tip of my nose, someone is there keeping me company. He walks, sometimes trots beside my bicycle, but he never says a word. When I look at his face, the sadness in his eyes makes me cry. I want to hug him, to tell him I love him, but he is always just out of my reach. His jet black hair blows in the breeze and his dark eyes gaze up the road looking east. His eyes always look east. The road we travel is lonely, rocky, and dry. He is hungry and very tired. How far to the next creek, the next town, the next farm?
I wonder.
[To the reader: This is a posting of something I wrote a couple of years ago. It is a true story and something I really want to research if I can every make out to Utah. My computer file has a picture of my great-grandfather, George. I wrestled mightily but was unable to get the picture into the blog. He has such sad-looking eyes. Often I look at his photo and cry. Also, sorry about the initial line. ??? I couldn't fix that.]
That’s all I can do. Three photographs, a few anecdotes, his father’s death certificate, a tiny New Testament, and a story are all I have. It’s the story that intrigues me, haunts me, drives me even.
Momma remembers him. More than once she has told me that “he was the sweetest, kindest person” she ever knew. Recently, we were in her living room after he had once more taken over my consciousness. He does that from time to time. “Tell me everything you know about him,” I pleaded with her. She did, and I wrote it all down. But it wasn't much.
“We loved him,” she said getting that wistful look in her eyes. “He was very sweet. He paid attention to us, talked to us. And flowers,” she said after a pause. “I remember he always had a beautiful flower garden he took care of himself. One time he gave a bunch of us each a fly swatter and paid us a penny for every fly we killed. He married a Pentecostal lady preacher after Granny died. He was head of the engineering department of something. When he was young. When he got old, he worked on the garbage truck. Granny had five children when he married her. They had two more boys together. He put them all through college except the last one my daddy, Zane. He was too old and made too little money when my daddy came along.” I sat patiently while she searched her memory for any scrap of information. “And the journey,” she started back. “That was something.”
She had told me of the journey before, several times, and it was that which captivated me, caused me at times to lose sleep, to wonder.
But that’s about all she could tell me. And the death certificate and the New Testament. She gave me a copy first of his father’s death certificate. His father, Thomas Napper Quinton, according to the official record, lived to the age of ninety and died at Mill Creek, Oklahoma from some sort of “trauma.” The ancient paper is difficult to decipher. Even then, it seems, doctors didn’t write legibly. Momma said she thought he was injured by an animal.
Long before he died, however, when he was still living in Louisville, Mississippi, Thomas Napper shot a man who, according to Mother, was “trying to court” my great-great-grandmother Liza. My cousin Sylvia, who has taken up the mantle of family historian after her mother’s death, told me the shot man did more than “try to court” her. “Liza was loose,” said Sylvia. “Thomas killed the man and then fled first to Texas and later to Oklahoma to evade the law. About Liza,” she continued while I picked her brains during a phone conversation, “we don’t know what happened to her. She just disappeared and George was basically an orphan.”
George Henry Quinton, the subject of my obsession, was the eldest of Thomas and Liza Quinton’s three children and my mother’s paternal grandfather. Momma and Sylvia both tell me that when he was a little boy the Mormons came through Louisville, MS preaching, telling about the Promised Land in the Utah Territory. The Quintons believed, sold everything, and went west.
Once there, instead of the Promised Land they found a country in the midst of a drought. But still, the Quintons bought land, planted a crop, and managed to get a stand of wheat out of the ground before a locust swarm wiped them out and ended their dream in the Promised Land. Thomas and Liza sold everything, but only money enough to buy four train tickets back to Louisville, Mississippi.
I wonder how it could happen. It couldn’t today, but America, the world, was a much different place in 1895. Did they debate, struggle over what to do? How long did it take to make a decision? A day? Two days? A week? What was Thomas Napper’s attitude? What was George’s? Was he brave, did he tell them it would be OK? Did he try to comfort them or they him? Did he think he had a chance?
I can only wonder.
They left him.
When George Henry Quinton was twelve years old, his parents abandoned him in a strange and struggling land, a land that couldn't even support its own.
Momma says he walked. Walked. Twelve years old and he walked from Utah to Louisville, Mississippi. “It took him six months, and when he showed up, his mother was shocked. She thought he was dead,” Momma said.
Shortly after George made his epic journey, Thomas shot Liza’s lover and ran off. About the same time Liza disappeared. Did Thomas kill her? Did she die of natural causes? Or did she run off with a man? My aunts for years tried to find out, but inquiries to other family members were always met with silence. No one would say a word about her. Now both the aunts and the other family members are all dead, and Liza’s fate remains shrouded in silence, lost to the past.
But it’s the journey I want to know more about. I want to know how he did it, what it was like. Did he get cold, hot, wet? Did he sleep outdoors any or did he always make it to a town, a farm? How many miles did he walk per day? How many pair of shoes did he wear out? How did he get new ones or his old ones repaired? How did he know which way to go? Did he ever cry, was he frightened at night, did he have encounters with dangerous animals, dangerous men? Why did he come all the way back? Surely people along the way helped him. Why not stop somewhere and make a new way for himself among people who hadn’t left him to die? How did he cross rivers? Was he hungry often? Did he catch fish, kill animals, pick berries? Was walking into Louisville a joyous event? Was he glad to see his mother? Did he dread to see Thomas Napper?
I can only wonder.
He survived his journey and then he was alone again. Sylvia says his grandparents, Liza’s folks, took him up after Thomas and Liza vanished. They were named McGee, and that is why he went by the nickname Mac. His grandchildren called him Daddy Mac.
I also wonder, but I think I know, why when he was still a very young man, he married my great-grandmother, a woman eleven years his senior, a widow with five children the eldest almost as old as he. I wonder, but I think I know, why he was “the sweetest, kindest person” my mother ever knew. I wonder, but I also think I know, why he grew flowers, why he talked to his grandchildren, why he remarried after my great-grandmother died. I asked Mother if he liked cats. She couldn’t remember. I wonder, but I think I know.
“I reckon so,” is all I mumble in return. And I wonder. Of all the things men do that piss off women, how does riding a bicycle make the list?
“One of these days you’re going to get hurt, and I won’t be able to find you,” she starts back on me. I say nothing. “You shouldn't be out there all alone.”
But she doesn't know. I ride out Money Road, into Tallahatchie County, up Cascilla Hill. I am not alone; I never am. As the crank turns and the sweat drips off the tip of my nose, someone is there keeping me company. He walks, sometimes trots beside my bicycle, but he never says a word. When I look at his face, the sadness in his eyes makes me cry. I want to hug him, to tell him I love him, but he is always just out of my reach. His jet black hair blows in the breeze and his dark eyes gaze up the road looking east. His eyes always look east. The road we travel is lonely, rocky, and dry. He is hungry and very tired. How far to the next creek, the next town, the next farm?
I wonder.
[To the reader: This is a posting of something I wrote a couple of years ago. It is a true story and something I really want to research if I can every make out to Utah. My computer file has a picture of my great-grandfather, George. I wrestled mightily but was unable to get the picture into the blog. He has such sad-looking eyes. Often I look at his photo and cry. Also, sorry about the initial line. ??? I couldn't fix that.]
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