Memories of
Dianne Johnson
Jackson County, Florida

A few months ago I was asked to write a few words about my immediate family so that my account would be carried to an upcoming family reunion. I have thought long and hard about what to write. I wanted to find the words that would give credit to the lives of the family members that have passed before me. I wasn't even sure of what was expected of me, what they wanted me to write. Did they want an ancestral listing, or just names and dates? Perhaps locations of momentous happenings? I have never counted life in seconds, minutes, hours, days, months or years. I count it by the moments... from one to the next. If indeed it was a desire to have a small outline of an Ancestral Tree, I failed.

Instead my mind was immediately filled with memories: the beauty of the river in Jackson Co. the mill pond or the dry, hot, dusty roads, covered with their own orange-red version of clay. I could almost smell the wisteria and the overpowering, cloying scent of wild honeysuckle. I could almost feel the whispery smooth touch of the Cherokee Rose brush my cheek. I felt the chill of the morning air as Granddad and I would head out to do the rounds at the post office. On his off days we would go fishing at Dead Lakes, or some such swamp. The longer fishing trips were for places like Tag Slough, or Cotton Landing. Sometimes we would use a small wooden boat with a little 25HP kicker. He would even find time for me to go to Camel Lake for a short dip some days.

Monday's were wash days, and I got to help Granny with the number 3 washtub, and "run the wringer". After we hung out all the clothes, it was my job to watch the sky for rain. That didn't entail much work, the hardest part was to not get muddy playing in the creek or even the ditch while I watched the skies!

So, should this be a beginning or an end? I don't know. You can decide.

When a family member gets interested in Genealogy, everyone else might as well assume that the person is now temporarily insane and will stay that way until all the questions have been answered. As a genealogist, or an aspiring one, often our mistakes are made by following the numbers. Yet, it is the numbers we must obtain for verification and separation. We have to follow where they lead. We use a numbering system to tell who should be listed first or last on a chart. We use numbers to locate a place in time, the minute of birth, the hour of marriage, the second of death, the number of siblings and spouses, the social security number assigned us by our government, even in the first moments of life we are rated with an apgar score, down to the grave where our last number will be an assigned plot number and lot size. We are a society, a people, defined by numbers, from the beginning to the end, from birth till our time on earth is done.

Maybe the worst fate that could befall a genealogist, is to forget that each number represents something that is part of anothers existence, perhaps a defining moment for their soul. Not the obvious dates of birth and death, because the true lifetime of a person is who they are between those two moments of life and death. There are the numbers of children born into a family, and the ones who survived and those who did not. The numbers of sons who went to war, and didn't come home. The numbers of tears a Mother sheds as she cradles her sick child, or the number of times that a Dad reads that same silly book, night after night and year after year, until one day, the book is placed on a shelf, gathering dust until the first of the grandchildren come along.

Today's society places greater value on numbers then even our ancestors did. Material worth is how society as a whole judges each other. It is more common for a man to be thought of by the number of dollars his estate is worth, rather than the number of his friends. I have spent the last 9 months, searching for numbers. Rifling through every dusty piece of paper I can find, hoping to find the little clue that will add one more generation to the "tree". When I slowed down recently, I realized, I am no longer going to be searching for numbers.

What I want to find, is the story of my family. The way that I remember my parents and my grandparents, and the way that they remembered the ones who came before them. The way that our children and grandchildren will remember us! I want my grandkids to have memories like the ones I grew up with. Things I will never forget, like shelling peas on Great Aunt Amy's screen porch, and playing with the little electric fence around Great Aunt Imie's garden. I want them to know that Chocolate Ice Cream Cones were better at Gt Aunt Polly's-than anywhere else in the world just because she dipped them. I want them to know the feeling of really being HUGGED. My Great Aunt Ginnie would wrap her arms around you, and engulf your very soul! She gave hugs that would smother the largest of us. But when she let you go, you had no doubt that this woman LOVED you. I want them to know the relaxation of sitting in home-made yard chairs under an oak, and drinking iced tea and listening to all the 'old' Baxley men tell tall tales. I want them to know the look in the eye of a man who speaks of the passing of his son. I want them to think of the sly smile when a "fish tale" is told. I want them to know the great joy and love that comes from being part of someone else's life. Sharing the Grace of God, the fellowship of family and the innate knowledge that these people, this rag tag bunch of people, will always take you in.

I can try to impress you with the stories of the family line that I can trace all the way back to 1608. I can tell you that I have the blood of warriors in my veins, Cherokee and Apache WarWomen and Men. But I also have the blood of poets, and painters, and chefs, and farmers, and truckers, scientists, priests, sinners, judges and thieves. I know of no Kings or men of acclaim, mostly I have the blood of a few "average Joes" swimming around in my veins. In my genetic makeup, I carry the blood of our nation, from its birth, through its divisions, the arguments, all the bad and good times. This is the blood of a nation that is diversified, and ever changing. Our country, in all its glory and undercurrents, is symbolic of how our own little family grows and changes.

My memories of "immediate " family can get a little strange. Everyone I knew when I was growing up was kin to me. My first memory of "family" connection ( outside of Mom, Dad, and my brothers) starts with Granddaddy, Coy Lee Baxley. He was tall, with dark black Indian hair. It had a shine that reminded me of wet sealskin. He had lively blue eyes that looked too light for his skin tone and high defined cheekbones. I don't remember a time that Granddaddy didn't have gnarled arthritic hands. I remember on my visits I would get bored, as little brats often do, and I would climb onto the back of Granddaddy's chair and throw a leg over each of his shoulders, and spend hours combing his hair. I loved to part it down the middle and braid it, or slick it down on the sides to make him look like Hitler. Once I even put lipstick war paint on him just because he was napping! To be honest with ya'll, I don't think most people could identify with this "picture" of my Granddaddy. He was a "manly man", I don't ever remember him crying, I don't remember him ever raising his voice, unless it was to call for Granny, then he would thunder "EVE-er!" ( not Eva- but EVE-ER!)

Granddaddy was not a very good disciplinarian. He laughed too much when Granny was telling us not to do something.  Coy Lee Baxley was the son of John Jefferson Baxley and Eliza Jane Jackson. He was born 06 July 1905. (pronounced Nineteen Ought Five) He was the fifth of at least 6 children. Mary was born in May 1893, she married Vandy Brown, in Jan of 1912. Ernest Clifton was born Feb 1895 and married Bernice Denard in July of 1919. Next there was Eda, she was born in 1896, and dropped off the face of the Earth. Then came Alma in Jan of 1899. She married R. E. Dennard (who was kin to Ernest's wife Bernice) in Mar 1919. Then came Granddaddy, he married Granny, Eva Mae McCoy on 24 Dec 1927. Then came the "baby" as Granny was known to call her, Aunt Inez, was born in 1909, and she married Monroe David Ward.

My Grandfather passed away in Nov 1987. He was my fishing buddy. He was the man who would tell me NOT to wear those danged short shorts, and yet when I went through my overhauls phase, he didn't like that either. When he died, it was the first time that I understood what losing someone close to you was like. His favorite song was "The Last Mile of the Way". I am so sorry that I was not there to hold his hand as he left this place.

My Grandmother, Eva Mae McCoy, was the offspring of James "Bud" McCoy and Cordealie Deese. Granny was at most times the exact opposite of Granddaddy. Where Granddaddy was quiet and funny in a subtle way, Granny was boisterous and loud and outgoing. My first memories of her was in the kitchen, and boy would she cook, and cook and cook. This woman taught me how to quilt, and how to make a dress pattern out of a newspaper. She was active, working in her little garden up until the month or so before she died. Her siblings were the ones I have already mentioned. My Great Aunt Ginnie, (whose given name was Mary A. Virginia) born in 1897, she married Uncle Albert Miles and moved to Youngstown. There was Great Aunt Polly, who was married to Jimmy and lived behind Southside Baptist Church on W. Caledonia. Well, it used to be called Caledonia, now its McPherson St. :-) There were the twins, Amy and Imie. These were some feisty women - man oh man, if we could have harnessed that and sold it we would have all been rich, a long time ago.

My Granny left this life in June of 1993. Two years after my Mom, her daughter. She often said that the hardest thing to endure was outliving a child. I think I understand now. I cannot hear the song Amazing Grace without the memory of her tinny, high pitched voice chiming in.  

The Baxley and McCoy heritage is strong in this part of the south. It is intermingled with the Dees(e) and Holland's, and Miles.. The Dees can be traced back to 1675. I have my Granddaddy's line of the Baxley's traced back to 1700's. The Watfords (who married into the Baxley's) back as far as 1608 and then there are Williams and Dennards and Christmas surnames. But that is all about the story of numbers... Numbers of unknown faces, blurred by time and only remembered with the tales passed down. Some with a story that may never be told. Certainly there are those who's story will never be heard again. Their lifespan of 50 years, or a 100 years, has already begun fading in the slow passage of time.

I was delivered into this world by Dr (Roy) Wandeck (spelling?). Does anyone else remember him? I called him "One-Doctor-Deck" because I couldn't pronounce his name. He delivered my brothers, and for all I know he delivered my Mom and my Dad. One of my brothers was named after him.

My parents were Faye Jean Baxley, and James Edward Killebrew, married on July 04, 1954. They lived and loved together until Mom died in June of 1991 and Dad in July of 1993. Somewhere between those years 1954 and 1993 they made a family. They raised 2 boys of their own, and a good half dozen more that ended up at our home, looking for guidance and food and someone to love them. I came in at the tail end of the story, as usual. The "Baby Girl" . (Momma often said that raising one girl was worse than raising 10 boys.. I could never figure that out, being the perfect child that I was, you know! Humph!)

My brothers are busy men, with families of their own now. One is an Engineer. The other is one of the most admirable men I have had the pleasure of knowing. He is the type of guy that you know from the first handshake that he is different, his heart has been touched by God, and he will be fair. He is so multitalented that I don't know what one word I could use that would describe him. They have beautiful, loving families and each of them would ( and did ) make Mom and Dad proud.

Then, again, there is me. I did just what my grandmother said I would do! I became a traitor to the whole Klan. I married a "Blasted Yankee". Jack was born in Ohio and raised about 25 miles outside of NYC. I met him in late July, and we were married that October. That was 19 years ago. Jack is honest, he couldn't tell a lie if his life depended on it. He has patience, and compassion, and a heart as big as he is. In this world there are some things I don't know, some things I think I know, and only one that I DO know. That one thing is that I am the most fortunate person on Earth. I had parents who loved me, and a family that taught me to how to be a parent myself, and why its important to be a loving partner. On top of all of that, I have this man who loves me so much! Then, there is our beautiful, and some ( OK- so I may be biased- but NOT about my kid-got it?) son. James is tall and slender, with dark black hair. Some may even say its Native American black, and it shines in the sunlight, just like sealskin. He has the most wonderful bright clear shining blue eyes, strong high cheekbones and my mothers smile. He was brought into this world by the Grace of God, and has been a blessing every since.

So there you have it, my little part of Jackson County history. My story behind the numbers. I can always be found if anyone wants to share information or just swap family chatter over a cup of coffee.

Dianne Killebrew Johnson
P.O. Box 26933
Jacksonville, Fla. 32226-6933
SunshineNative@aol.com

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28 Sep 2000