Saturday Stories: Behind the Wheel

When I was a young teenager, probably around thirteen years old or so, my mama and I had a nasty argument. Those were not rare occasions during my teen years. We just never really saw eye-to-eye on anything.

I don't remember what started this particular argument, but somewhere along the way I told her that I could drive better than she could. She took me out to the car so that I could show her just how much better at it I was than she was. The first thing I did once we were seated was to ask her what I was supposed to do first. Bear in mind that I was still too short to reach the pedals in that car (an old Cadillac), so even if I had known exactly what to do like my sassy mouth had indicated earlier, I couldn't have done a thing about it!

She was always really good at putting me in my place back then.

Later that night, my mama caught me as I was heading out the back door of the house. She asked where I was going. I told her that I was going out to drive the car. It's a good thing that she caught me when she did - I was sleepwalking!

Saturday Stories: Anniversary of Amputation

The following is a departure from the usual type of story that I share here. Usually, I share stories from our more distant past or stories of our ancestors' lives. This is a post sharing what has been on my heart in the year since David's amputation on the eve of our wedding anniversary.

A year ago today, our lives changed. Sure, it was just a toe that they took from my husband's physical body, but more than that was taken. Any semblance of security left with his toe that night. It went out the door and a future filled with nurses and doctors and home health, hospital stays and uncertainty, and more and more of him being taken away from me was left in its stead.

"Come, grow old with me. The best is yet to be" paints an entirely different picture now that it isn't a life of the two of us traveling this journey anymore, but a multitude of others that have pushed their way into our lives and worked hard to push me out of it. With each closing door, each nurse's statement of "We'll take good care of him" and "Mrs. McClendon, you can't come in here. You need to wait out there," they are crowding in and I am being pushed out. Their words, supposedly meant for comfort, mean anything but comfort to me. I see a future that has us not growing old together, but being pulled apart and him being taken from me, piece by piece until there is nothing left of him or us.

David just recently spent another two weeks in the hospital. I don't have to wonder if there will be another hospital stay; for the rest of our lives, it will always be when, not if, until that day when the doors close and they no longer bring him back to me and I go home alone.

"What ifs" drive him crazy. He thinks that I shouldn't borrow tomorrow's troubles by worrying about them today. What he doesn't understand is that these are my troubles today. Tomorrow is here now and I don't like this tomorrow. I want the tomorrow that I envisioned all those years ago when he proposed, when he asked me to grow old with him, promising that the best was yet to be.

I want that picture of two old people holding hands on the front porch in the old wooden rocking chairs facing that sunset together, together until death parts us, not someone in a white suit and cap saying "I'm sorry, Mrs. McClendon, you have to leave now."

We don't always get what we want. Sometimes the picture is a locked door with two broken, barely beating hearts on either side, trying to catch their breath and hold on, grasping for each other, but being ripped apart instead.

Saturday Stories: First Haircuts

First haircut, J.P. McClendon, 18 June 1988

We have two sons and have been through two first haircuts. Both of our sons had their first haircuts at McComb's Barber Shop in Anderson, South Carolina.


Both times were traumatic for me, but the first haircut of our youngest son was the worst. I cried to see those beautiful curls falling to the floor. I absolutely did not want it to be done, regardless of the fact that it was getting to the point people thought he was a pretty little girl. The youngest son's first haircut was his last haircut from Mr. Arthur McComb because soon afterwards, Mr. McComb passed away. While I still wish that we hadn't had those curls cut off, I am glad that his first haircut was done by such a sweet man.

Beautiful curls, D.McClendon, 9 September 1995.

J.P. McClendon, 18 June 1988

I have been able to locate the photos from our first-born's first haircut, but have not located any for our second son. We know we had to have taken them because it was such a big moment, but I cannot find them. So, the pictures in this post are of our #1 son during and just after his haircut and of our second-born with his beautiful curls still intact.

Saturday Stories: Dallas Winfield Greer

This is one of my most favorite of the photographs of our ancestors. This adorable little baby is Dallas Winfield Greer, David's great-great-grandfather.

Dallas was the son of James Manning Greer, the founder of the town of Greer, South Carolina, and his wife, the former Molly Lueza Tarver. He was born 23 March 1848 and died 28 December 1942. He had a nice, long life occupying his "dash"!

In addition to being a farmer, Grandpa Greer was a soldier for the Confederacy during that late war of Northern aggression. He served in Company K, 1st SC Militia under Captain Preston Thompson. He was approved for a Confederate State Soldiers Pension under the Act of 1919. He was one of the last dozen remaining Confederate veterans in Anderson, South Carolina in the late 1930s and was honored at a dinner held by the Dixie Chapter of the UDC.

In 1876, he married Miss "Millie" Rainey. They went on to have nine children, one being David's great-grandmother Minnie Lee Greer (Fowler). According to our records, she was his oldest child.

At the time of his death in 1942, he was one of only two remaining Confederate veterans in Anderson County. At that time, he lived at #5 Jaynes Street, Anderson, South Carolina. Four daughters, two sons, two sisters, and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren survived him. He is buried at New Prospect Baptist Church cemetery in Anderson, South Carolina. The cause of death was cerebral thrombosis, which is a type of stroke.

I love his name. To me, it sounds so sophisticated and important, for lack of a better word. I absolutely love this photo of him!

Saturday Stories: Theodore Perry James

Theodore Perry James was my paternal grandmother's maternal grandfather, making him my second great-grandfather. He was born 15 May 1845 and died 22 December 1936.

Grandpa James served in the War Between the States in Company H, 27th SC Infantry, CSA. This was Gaillard's Regiment, Hagood's Brigade. At his enlistment on 31 May 1863, he was a private and eighteen years old. He was captured near Petersburg on 21 August 1864 at the Battle of Weldon. He was a prisoner of war at Camp Lookout, Maryland until 18 February 1865 when he was paroled and exchanged. He was present at the surrender at Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia on 9 April 1865.

After the war, in 1871, he married Caroline Roland. He was age twenty-six and she was seventeen years old. They had a houseful of children, one of which was my great-grandmother Susan Callie James.

I do not know a great deal about this side of my family, but I am enjoying every bit that I learn about them.

Sources:
Compiled Service Record, National Archives: Application for pension, South Carolina Archives; Memoirs of the War of Secession by Brig. General Johnson Hagood, CSA.

Saturday Stories: A Pregnant Suzanne and Papa Bruce

For this week's Saturday story, my husband David has made a video about a funny moment during our first pregnancy. This moment involves David's daddy, Robert Bruce McClendon, Jr., and one of his most embarrassing moments.

Saturday Stories: David and Suzanne in Hot 'lanta!

David McClendon and Suzanne Gunter, Atlanta, Georgia, Summer 1984

Those were the days! We were young and in love and had not a care in the world, nothing but good times ahead!

The preparations for our wedding were in full swing. We had recently completed our last summer session at The University of South Carolina. It was August and we were getting married in early November.

We went to Atlanta, Georgia, with David's parents to purchase my trousseau. His parents were Robert Bruce McClendon, Jr. and the former Merle Marie Roberts. We chose the Perimeter Mall for our adventure. I was nineteen years old; David was twenty-two. I must have loved clothes shopping back then, because I sure tried on a ton of things. If I hadn't been built like a young woman, I could have bought jeans in the children's department. I liked that thought. I haven't seen a child's size 12 in a hundred years! :)

It was a happy day, with more happy times ahead. It was a time of hope. The McClendon Family motto is: Dum Spiro, Spero - While I breathe, I hope.

Saturday Stories - Our First Anniversay Portrait

David & Suzanne McClendon with Jared on the way. March 1986.

 When David and I got married, the photographer included with the package a free first anniversary photo session. On our first anniversary, I was on my knees, hurling my guts out. We found out in late October 1985 that our first baby was on the way and our anniversary was early November. I wasn't going anywhere.

At one point during the pregnancy, my blood pressure was 60/40. I couldn't hold anything down (except, obviously, my blood pressure!) My mother-in-law said that I looked like death warmed over. I had to go to the emergency room on several occasions to get intravenous fluids due to dehydration.

Anyway, I wasn't up to getting any pictures taken that anniversary. The photographer said that we could put it off until I was feeling better. I didn't get anywhere close to feeling better until March 1986, and even then it was iffy. This photo was taken in March and I made it through the session without redecorating the studio with projectile ICK.

The little fellow that made me so sick that I thought I would die made it safely into this world in early June, the day before his daddy's twenty-fourth birthday. He was very healthy, weighing 8 pounds 8 ounces.

This photograph is one of my favorite photographs of David and me together.

Saturday Stories: Evans' Place Up in Smoke

Photo credit: jdurham from morguefile.com

It was an old, white, two-story house. It wasn’t completely abandoned, but vacant. The owner was alive but didn’t live in it and didn’t want anyone else to, either.

The other house was also an old, two-story house, but it was yellow and lived in. It was from the second story window of this house, crouched down in the soft yellow carpet, eyes barely above the window ledge that I watched the white house burn to the ground, wondering what would become of me if the flames jumped over to the yellow house.



The yellow house belonged to my fiancé’s parents and they didn’t know that I was there.

Earlier in the day, I had seen a man hanging around the white house. He was carrying a milk jug that contained a tea-colored liquid. Something didn’t feel right about the whole thing. I had a feeling that house wasn’t long for this world. Someone had been burning down vacant houses in town and this one was on his list. I could feel it.

I told David what I saw and he called the police. The chief came over and talked to David about it. I was afraid to talk to them for fear of being blamed if it did get torched. David said that the chief looked into the window of the house and said it would go up pretty fast.

I watched the massive red flames, heard the fire crackling, the sirens blaring, and the voice inside my head saying “See? You were right!” There were many more of these “feelings” that would happen over the years.

The fire was put out. The white house was gone. What a waste of a great old house.

I don’t know if they ever found the man or that milk jug, or if any other abandoned houses were burned after that one. But, the night of flames, window sill paint smell, and yellow carpet on my knees is one that stays with me thirty years later.



Note: The white house pictured above is a representative image of the house that burned. I do not have any pictures of the actual house referred to in this story.

Stayed Tuned for Saturday Stories

I have been reading several books lately about recording personal and family histories. This is something that I am working on doing. The book that I am reading right now is called: The Photo Scribe - A Writing Guide: How to Write the Stories Behind Your Photographs. I am four pages into Chapter 1, and already have some ideas for my memoir writing as well as a new idea for a weekly blog post here at PS Annie!


This new idea is called "Saturday Stories". The idea is to go through our photos and write the stories behind the photos. While the old saying goes "a picture is worth a thousand words", the photo doesn't tell the whole story. Maybe we know the whos, the whens, and the wheres of the photograph put before us, but do we know the whys?

Saturday Stories seeks to put into words the back story of the photographs in our collection before these stories are lost, like so many others have been.

Please be sure to check back on Saturday to see the first of these stories, one about flames, yellow carpet, and milk jugs.



Disclosure: The link to The Photo Scribe - A Writing Guide: How to Write the Stories Behind Your Photographs is an affiliate link. If you click that link and purchase the book, PS Annie! will receive a commission on the sale. Thank you for your support of my genealogical endeavors!