Dragging Canoe

I think every family has some legendary tale repeated from generation to generation regarding some scandalous ancestor or ancestry. Perhaps even several stories float about in most families as they do in mine. One such historical narrative in my family was so “bad,” that a division opened up in our family. Those who believed and those who denied.

I am the daughter of one who believed  and was willing to claim the story. I remember it from the earliest years of my life. My father, whom I called Daddy, was a great fire maker, banjo picker, singer, storyteller and beer drinker. These talents usually came together four or five times a year when my uncles, aunts, and cousins would gather at my grandmother’s. The fire would signal the mothers to come out from the kitchen and the kids to settle down after the excitement of chasing fireflies. The men picking and tuning banjos and guitars promised a different kind of excitement, one that I can still feel stirring in my chest at the sound of a banjo and the smell of smoke. My cousins and I got to stay up late on these occasions, blind eyes were turned to us as we snuck sips of beer from our daddies and sips of lime daiquiri from our mamas. Soon the singing would begin.

Everything from Bobby Goldsboro and Roger Miller to Hank Williams and Johnny Cash was played, we hummed when we didn’t know the words. As the drinks flowed the music got messier, there was more humming and a general mellowing prevailed. It was then that the stories got trotted out. Against the background of soft strumming, Daddy told about the Cherokee Warrior Chief who led raids on southern colonists. His story was bloody and scary in my memory, the details vague except for the final statement always directed at me, his only child, “And that’s the story of your great-great-great grandfather.”

The days of my childhood were long gone when I started seriously researching my family’s genealogy. I always remembered that one story and that I might have Cherokee blood running through my veins, so I was ever on the look-out for the proof.

Five years ago, while on a cemetery expedition I found a memorial marker that read,
Nathan Ward
Sara (an Indian).

I knew them to be my fifth great-grandparents, I did not know she was “an Indian.” Soon after I discovered the division in our family. It seems that a living second uncle of mine was so outraged at the thought of “an Indian” in his family tree that he re-wrote history in his book. He did this with the support of many on his side who no doubt had heard the stories. I do not understand the depth of prejudice that would lead someone to deny their heritage. I have never been persecuted or discriminated against in any real way so I will reserve judgment of my uncle on this issue and I will not name him or the title of his book. I will, however, point out that he has perpetuated a mistake in our family tree by giving Sara an entirely different set of parents. He wrote the book about twenty years ago and it has been used as a reference for almost that many years. Further, he fought the historical society who placed the memorial marker in the old cemetery, he did not want Sara to be noted as Indian. The advent of records on the internet and the more recent DNA projects have proved that my uncle’s book at best is in error, at worst may be peppered with lies.

Last week through the magic of DNA, large scale genealogy projects and other documentation, I have discovered that Sara, my fifth great-grandmother was Naky Sara Tatsi Canoe Brown Ward daughter of Cherokee Warrior Chief Dragging Canoe. Daddy was right with the exception of a few greats. I have been telling anyone who will listen about this discovery. I have also been singing these lyrics over and over again, “Cherokee Nation, Cherokee tribe, so proud to live, so proud to die…” In my head, I sound just like Cher who sang my favorite version of this song. I imagine my dad singing along, minus the banjo.

A Slight Tilt of the Head

The color enhanced black and white photograph remained on her bureau more than thirty years after the subject’s death. A smooth man’s face with kind eyes stared out from the photo. His head slightly tilted with a subtle wry smile faintly playing around his mouth. A stranger to this man might mistakenly guess this to be a handsome man with a good joke to tell. Those who knew him and his life knew the cocked angle hid a secret. And the not quite smiling eyes spoke of pain rather than joy.
His name Walter Greek Daniel, my paternal grandfather. I loved to examine his picture as a child. His violent death occurred about ten months before I was born. I learned his story slowly and secretly over the years. My grandmother loved him and never allowed a negative word about him to pass her lips. She also did not tolerate it from others. The very first story I heard led to my fascination with his photo.

I was about five when I overheard my dad tell someone, “The best thing that ever happened was when my father got pushed down some stairs in a bar fight where he lay dead drunk  They got him to the hospital too late. My old man managed to survive but not for long, he died a few days later in the hospital. I knew Mother would be safe.”
This little snippet of information grew in my mind to legend with a more romantic flair. You see my dad was somewhat of drunk also. Handsome and charming but a drunk none the less. So I took the secret words, considered the source and reinvented it as I gazed at my grandfather’s photo.
“Dashing family man risks his own life in the effort to save a mysterious stranger from the perils of a dimly lit stairwell after a night of dancing and drinking. Sadly, our hero survived only hours after his fall. Wife and daughter were beside his bed as he passed into glory.” This would be the headline story if my musings came true.

I needed a hero. Even a generation old hero was better than the non-hero dad I thought I had. Turns out my dad would be a hero, but I would not know that until his death nearly thirty-five years after my early fascination with the photo on the bureau. As a child, I lived varying miles from grandmother’s house but every summer we visited. Every summer included a meditation-like visit with my grandfather’s photo.

As the years passed I heard more secret stories. My grandfather did drink to excess and laid very rough hands on my grandmother, my dad, and my aunt. Two younger children, both boys, my uncles escaped most of the abuse. At a young age, he was involved in a serious car accident, this would have been in early 1930’s. The accident left him with a crushed check bone that left his face sunken under one eye. It caused him a lot of pain and he was known to grimace quite often with the sharpness of the pain.

Now I look at that same photo and know that he hated the crushed side of his face and always tilted his head to minimize the effect. His slight smile more of a sneer. I also know that my aunt forgave him and looks forward to being reunited with him in heaven. She prays every day that he found a way back to God in those last hours of his life. I know that if it weren’t for him there would be no me. One more thing, sometimes a slight tilt of the head is just that but sometimes it hides a secret.

My grandfather really was found at the bottom of the stairs in a popular bar. He did drink. He did abuse. He also taught school. He told good stories. He was not happy. He loved my grandmother a lot. She loved him. This is all I know for sure.

Phoebe Jane

My Darling Daughter-in-Law,
By now you will have heard that I have took ill. Many come up to my porch to see the contrary old lady finally getting her justice. Just last week I had to toss biled water on a few of them. Gave me a laugh and did feel some better for a piece. I count myself lucky to make it out to my ol rocker and take the air for a good spell. However, I do find the breath in me comes harder at night and believe my time to be nigh.

I write to you now dear one some advice as I can’t be assured of seeing your sweet face again.

As you know my “dear” son’s father was reported dead of fever soon after leaving with his regiment. That rank smelling excuse for a commander came by not too long ago to chaw a bit with me. He again recollected how that May of 1861 my husband took sick at the first camp they set to. Fearing a spread of disease, he was forced to set him up on some folks eager to help our loyal sons. The commander tells me again the queerness of it being just the one fella to up and die and having left those at home in a state of well being. That first-rate raskal’s eye gleamed with knowledge, but for now he ain’t told my secret.

I have ever regretted that my son took so much after his daddy and their people. The devil does hide behind all that charm. If I had knowed it sooner I believe I would have warned you off. I reckon the devilment comes too late to be seen or we both would have turned out differn. The truth of it is, even the war came too late for me else I would not be setting here about to tell you the thing I did.

I woke up one bleak winter day just knowing it was him or me. I was much wearied of the pain that would split my head as the great ignorant hand would strike it. The laudanum dulled my caring but not my pain. Misery was no longer welcome in my house. Even the good Lord must see a thing must be done. Fasting from gravy on my plate I spilled it generously over your father-in-law’s meat. He was happy enough to eat it night after night, too greedy to figure it the source of pains that gripped him of a night. I stopped for awhile, guilt giving me a gripping.

War news was spreading and the 45th Infantry from our county was formed up. They were set to head east towards Richmond. I thanked the sweet Lord and his blessed Mama that I would be waving goodbye to my torment. His last night he come in, liquor on his breath. He left me with a shut up eye that stayed swolled up for weeks after he left out. I made him a heaping plate of his favorite biscuits and gravy.

I know you will find in my words some of your own plight. This is my advice to you…take yourself to church, pray some. Love up on your girls, praise God you ain’t got no boys. Then go out on the porch and call up all the sorrow you have in your heart, weigh it out. Toss that grief to the wind. Go on in the house and make you all some supper. I have enclosed my recipe for gravy.

Your ever loving and not long for this world mother-in-law,
Phoebe Jane

It is true that my great-great grandmother was Phoebe Jane Ward, born Dec. 10, 1838 and died on Christmas day 1916. Her first husband Mr. Cox died of fever soon after heading off with his regiment. She later married my great-great grandfather Mr. Sheppard Lee Daniel, civil war veteran. The photo is the home of my great – grandfather Benjamin Ward Daniel, the son of Phoebe and Sheppard, Phoebe died in this home. I made the rest up.

Walter Benjamin Daniel

My daughter and her family are visiting Washington DC this spring break. They will be visiting the usual must sees in DC and the surrounding area. I am excited for them, my grand-girls are ten, seven and four. I think even the four-year old will be impressed by the things she is about to see. I remember going to the 1965 World’s Fair in New York city and I was only four. I wish I could go with them…

One of their stops will be Arlington National Cemetery. It will be the first time my daughter and her family will visit the grave of my father.

He died eighteen years ago on March 22, he was buried March 31, 1997.

My Dad, Colonel Walter Benjamin Daniel United States Army, Silver Star recipient, Vietnam War Veteran passed away in his 57th year on my youngest daughter’s birthday. Nine days of progress style memorials beginning in Georgia took place before he finally reached the Chapel at Arlington. He was honored at each stop by the many brothers at arms gathered during his 31 years in the Army. He left behind a small family, his wife, a step-daughter, me and three granddaughters. All three granddaughters belong to me. His funeral family entourage consisted of me, my step-mother and step-sister. We were exhausted. We had done a good job of listening to countless “hero” stories that needed to be told by those who were there. Each tale found us hanging by a thread as the embarrassing and unseemly tide of tears threatened.

We rode in a black sedan behind the caisson carrying my dad’s casket. We passed tourists as we processed to the grave site. Many stopped and saluted. My step-mother, the hardest hit by the nine days of mourning rituals that demanded stoic patriotism, began to tell us that we could all be buried in Arlington if we wanted. Apparently there is a tradition of burying spouses and children with the veteran. One on top of the other. Nearing hysteria after the heart wrenching ceremonies we began to laugh. Grateful for tinted windows of our sedan we laughed at the image of each of us stacked on top of my dad in death. We laughed until we finally cried.

Walter Greek Daniel

Walter Greek Daniel, my grandfather. He died the year before I was born. My only memories are other people’s memories of him. Once he was young and innocent, wanting what every other young man wanted. Honest work, a little fun, the love of a good woman, and enough food to fill his belly.
He came of age during the Great Depression, so honest work was hard to come by in rural Virginia. He had enough education to become a school teacher in nearby Tennessee. I never knew how it was that he was educated and no one is around who seems to remember. I do know that he taught school and married my grandmother, Rowena Ethel Conkin. There are some photos of the young couple, they were a handsome pair. Both tall and somewhat stoic looking. The stoic face of my grandmother staring out from those early years belies the laughing good natured person I knew her to be.
They began to have their family in 1938 with the birth of my Father, Walter Benjamin Daniel. He was followed a few years later by a sister, Sandra. My dad and his sister were 10 and 8 years older than two little brothers that came later a few years apart,James and William Joseph. During this time Greek as he was called began to drink heavily. What dreams had been dashed? What pains and memories were haunting him? No one talks about this. I do know that he physically abused my grandmother. He was cruelly ruthless to his older children. My father tried to protect his younger siblings and mother. When my dad was 16 years old he raised his hand against his father in order to protect his mother. His mother, my grandmother, seem like two different people to me. His mother took up defense of his father. Young Walter left the house that day and enlisted in the United States Army.
Four years later, Greek is found unconscious in a stairwell in a local watering hole. He died a few hours later in a hospital. The speculation was a drunken brawl ending in Greek being pushed down the stairs. Tragic end to a life gone wrong somewhere between the dreams and the reality.
I often wonder if a great burden was lifted from my grandmother’s shoulders the day Greek died. Did she make some agreement with herself to atone for the abandonment of her son? Did she ever think of it? I knew my grandmother until her death when I was in my thirties. She was loving, funny, pious, and mostly a terrible cook.