The City of Paris

A short update. I did something to my keyboard, making typing a bit funky. So let me just say I was in Paris... 

 I visited my first coffee house since leaving Kansas... 

Java Jack's in Paris

And last night I met family members from Tennessee... 

Jackie, Ray, and Carol

 I will try and write more when my keyboard is behaving. I will also try to add the pictures later.

June 30, 2012
     Back in touch with my lost Internet self.  These three pictures happened on Tuesday night (when I met Jackie, Ray, and Carol at a meeting of the Stewart County Historical Society) and Wednesday morning when I ventured over to Paris Tennessee, where my great grandfather and his father were both born.  These were some of the UP moments I've experienced on this trip of discovery.
 

I Found my Kentucky Family

It's an odd matter how things play out.  When one begins a day, where that day will lead remains completely unknown.  Hopefully, it will lead down a prosperous road of experiences that will enrich the individual, that will guide him along his journey, and aid him in learning new truths he seeks.

For myself, today was one of quiet success.  I thought it necessary to attend - or try to attend - a church in Kuttawa where my ancestors may have attended' a century earlier.  While I was never certain as to the particular denomination, my own family springs from the Baptist tradition.  I speculated it would either be a Baptist or Methodist church, and I presumed the church would be the one moved from the flooded area of old Kuttawa.  I decided to take a wild shot in the dark, a logical assumption that "First" would mean first, the first Baptist Church, meaning the earliest.

I was wrong.  The church that was moved was the Methodist church a few blocks away; and the Baptist church my ancestors attended, it was also off the mark as well.  They attended the Macedonia Baptist Church of Kuttawa.  How I know that, I will explain in a few moments.  First I would like to comment on my attendance for the morning services at the First Baptist Church of Kuttawa.

My church going history is varied.  Growing up, like my family, I attended Baptist churches when a child.  As I grew a little older, I began attending a Methodist church in town - simply because it was the only church in town.  I fell away from any church attendance through my high school years, and then began attending an Assembly of God church once my college experiment ended.  It was my home church for a number years until I decided to move to Florida.  In Florida is where I began my foray into non-denominational churches, which is where I ended my church involvement in January of 2006, volleying back and forth between them and the original Assembly of God church I once attended with a vigor.

I had not attended a church service since that time up to when I attended with my aunt in Missouri the Sunday before today.  Why?  A myriad of answers exist.  The most prominent would undoubtedly be my lack of feeling like I belonged.

There is a need to approach this topic with tender and careful gloves, as the people I met were good, solid people.  I do not wish to disparage anyone with complaints of bitterness and hurt.  The people I knew were good people made better through their involvement in these churches.  I believe as much without any doubt.  Yet for myself, there was always something missing, something I needed to exist to connect me with any of these people in a meaningful way.

I would read the Bible.  I would believe unswervingly what I read.  I would not see it within the congregation, within the services.  One example I still remember today is moving to Florida.  When I opened the phone book, searching for a church, twelve pages of church listings confronted me.  Twelve pages!  That community should have been the most righteous and God-fearing group of believers around!  The devil should have had his red tail between his legs and scampering out of town with a whine.

And yet, that community was not that all different from any other.

So I grew in my questions, I wondered about things; I lost interest when the curiosities became more curios; and I dropped out.  Who needs religion when one is searching to find faith on the earth?

I attended church with my aunt last Sunday because she is family - and I remember not attending things with my mother when I was a stupid teenager.  I sat down in a chair at First Baptist in Kuttawa.  My mind was on nothing more than trying to record the experience as best as I could for my documentation of my travels.  I expected nothing more than a typical church service of three-songs, a-sermon, and out-the-door for the best seats at the restaurants.

I was greeted by more people; I was welcomed by more friendly faces; I was helped by more interested souls simply because I mentioned who I was and why I was there in casual conversation.

To me, my visit to First Baptist of Kuttawa this morning was a present to me of what a church should be.  It was precisely how Jesus would behave.  It is how all of His followers should respond to the stranger within their midst.  These people didn't know me; they didn't owe me a thing - and yet they could not have been better examples of mankind, the hope God sees in us, the potential He knows is within.

Now, back to the other church, the church my ancestors attended.  How did I learn it was their church?  Simple, one of the First Baptist church members drove me to it - and there before me was William Henry Sexton, the brother to James Sexton, who brought his family west into Kansas.

I have no idea how the events of the day may have changed if I had chosen the Macedonia Church to attend rather than the First Baptist.  I could choose to speculate one way or the other.  Yet it is faith which tells me, First Baptist is precisely where God sought for me to attend.  The day was His gift, and I am thankful.

Kuttawa

A short note here of something fascinating I just now learn: the town where the majority of my ancestors, those Sextons who migrated into this area from Tennessee some one hundred and fifty years ago, the Kuttawa Kentucky they knew was moved and submerged under water.

Yeah, I was a bit taken with that news.  Move a whole town?!  Who ever heard of moving an entire town?!

How this came about - how I came to learn of this astounding news - I stepped into the offices here, and I asked the woman running (an elderly woman and run operate this KOA campgrounds) if there might be a simple manner for locating cemeteries in the area.  She thought about it for a moment and then asked me what the area would be.  I told her my main focus would be Kuttawa, as that is the name of the town most prominent in my research, but I would probably also be venturing into Livingston County.

I was going to add the communities of Dexter (where I found my 4th great grandfather buried), as well as a few other places in the area I cannot recall at the moment; but before I could attempt to add anything, she told me the cemetery at Kuttawa was moved.  In fact, the town itself was moved somewhere back in the 1940s - even an old church building.

When I inquired further, I discovered this unusual 'moving of a town' took place due to the flooding of the Cumberland River to build the Barkley Dam.  The same dam I passed along highway 62 when driving to Eddyville these last two days, it came about by a flooding of the river (as did its sister dam, the Kentucky Dam, blocking the Tennessee River).  The problem for Kutttawa was someone founded the community in the wrong place.

Thus, there in lies the reasoning behind 'Kuttawa' and 'old Kuttawa'.  Old Kuttawa is, undoubtedly, where I lost myself yesterday morning when I wandered this direction from Metropolis Illinois.  It would account for the cemetery built into the hillside, as well as the streets leading nowhere - except to the next neighbor's house.

One last comment before I close: it surprised, though not all that much, to hear from the campground mother of how the enormous amounts of hydro-electric power the Barclay and the Kentucky Dams produce in this area - how its being shipped off to Illinois!

Did she mention Illinois or Indiana?  That I am not certain of.  Either way, it is stunning to me the people of this area, if not the people of Kentucky themselves, are not primary beneficiaries to this effort.  A Kentucky town is moved so that Illinois, or Indiana, can have electric power.  It makes me wonder where all the power that is produced by the wind turbines back in Kansas goes.  To Kansans needing the power; or elsewhere?

Day One Searching in Kentucky

Actually, to be completely honest, I have passed through Kentucky before now: once when I was traveling from Great Bend back to Orlando to retrieve my things from storage, and the second time just a year and a half back when engaged in my trip back east.  Neither time did I stop to see anything (a nice restaurant for a meal on my way back from Florida; and driving through Daniel Boone Forest on my way to Virginia).

I had better watch myself, or I'll start seeing myself as some kind of 'world traveler' before long.

Well, this visit saw me crossing into Kentucky shortly after departing from Illinois (Metropolis is situated on the Ohio River, and the Ohio River serves as the boundary between the two states).  The travel was startling easy.  I cannot claim the traffic moved any slower than what I am used to driving the roads of Kansas.  Everyone kept up to speed.  There was simply what I would call a more relaxed approach.  I do not know how else to explain it.

Somewhere around eleven is when I made it to the Lyon Court House.  Originally, I followed the GPS on my Garmin, and it led me to 'old' Kuttawa.  I drove down one way, and then back the other, without ever discovering a main street that would lead to a downtown where the courthouse and the library would stand.

Yet no street did there exist.

As the community rested on a lake - Lake Brantly, I believe - it caused me to evaluate these surroundings a bit differently as where I needed to be.  Perhaps, it was a vacation spot - being situated on a beautiful lake as it was; perhaps, it was a ritzy area where the "rich & famous" of Kentucky resided ala Beverly Hills in California or Bissells Point back in good ole Great Bend.

Kuttawa Cemetery in old Kuttawa Kentucky

I stopped in at a place to ask for directions.  I didn't know what precisely it was, but I presumed it to be either a retirement home or a health care center.  Oddly, at least in my mind, it was set directly across the road from the Kuttawa Cemetery.

The cemetery, I personally had never seen a cemetery laid out like this one.  Rather than across flat land, with all the headstones' foundations on equal foundation, it was laid out on a hill.  A fetching sight, it draws your attention immediately, but across the road from a retirement village?

When I received the directions from one of the women inside, I made my way back along highway 62 (all lies along highway 62 for me) and found the courthouse in a small building behind the Judicial Center.  What is a "judicial center"?  I asked that question myself, and what the lady in the clerk's office explained was the city and county activities were separated from the state.  All court-related activities occur in the Judicial Center; all else took place in the court house.

My search for family members was either hampered or expanded here - it all depends on one's own interpretation of events.  The Lyon County Courthouse held only marriage records and land deeds.  There were no birth or death records.  Those were found in Frankfort, three-and-a-half hours away.

I considered making the trip, but three-and-half hours was a good jaunt out of my way.

In a way, such was a good thing, because with only one set of records to focus upon (I'm not certain what I might find in any land records) I seemed to make more progress than I managed at Johnson County Illinois.  Over the course of the next three-and-a-half hours, I searched through twenty-two books and recorded eighteen Sexton marriages - a few names I was familiar with, most I was not.

Two interesting aspects of this search resonate within my thoughts.  A number of 'notes' accompanied some of the marriage records, notes from parents permitting the marriage to take place - such as one of my ancestors permitting his daughter to be married.  What is puzzling, at least to me, is the girl was listed, on the license, at an age of twenty. Why would a woman of twenty need the permission of her parents?
The clerk commented it had something to do with the "bond" nature of the marriage.


I am not exactly certain how a marriage 'bond' differs from a regular marriage.  It seems one person was to provide surety for a groom being ready for marriage.  Apparently, it was a practice which died out somewhere in the 1900s, as the "marriage bond" side of the marriage license, during those years was left blank.


One of item of interest in the mix of things today: when searching through these marriage records, often the witness to the marriage would also be listed.  For one of my ancestors, one of the witnesses to his marriage was a man named Clyde Barrow.

Same guy?  Most likely not.  But still, it's interesting.

My Last Day in Vienna

It surprised to arise early this morning.  I failed to follow the "early-to-bed, early-to-rise" wisdom when I failed to lay my head to rest the night before no earlier than midnight.  So when I awoke on my own, and the hour rang out as 6:00AM, I was pleasantly surprised.

An early start meant more of a day.

Never having succeeded in tracking down that elusive coffee shop for my morning cup of java and a touch of reading to spark the mind life, I jaunted from the hotel a bit after 7:30 and began to make my along highway 45 towards Vienna.  There is one thing I can certainly say about driving the roads here, the pleasantness of engaging in an non-rushed trip is something else.  I cannot say people are not in a hurry to reach wherever their individual roads are leading them.  I'm sure they are.  There just seems to be a more cavalier approach to accomplishing the task.  This is not to label any of the people with an irresponsible "we'll get there, when we get there" attitude.  That's not it.  It is merely life without the pressure - at least, in my estimation.

I drove highway 45 so as to capture a picture of myself in front of the Vienna town sign adorning the highway.  This was an interesting experience, as the road I turned onto, so as to park and step out of my car, was a dead end.  The first - and apparently only - house on this dead end road sported half a dozen pickup trucks and a very clear sign that read, something to the effect:

     TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT, AND SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN.

For some reason, I didn't think the owner of that particular house was joking; so I took my picture and existed the scene as inconspicuously as possible

When I reach the county clerk's office at shortly past 8:30, I immediately ask the two women at the front (two I recall from my previous two visits) whether there is any way I could locate records for where my ancestors may lived.  One of the ladies answers me with language I do not understand - something about a "guarantee" and a "guarantor" - though at the time, I failed to even understand those words properly as most people I have encountered carry a Southern accent, even a thick Southern accent.

Fortunately, I managed to understand enough of what the woman told me so as to begin on my land grant search.

The experience in this clerk's office set me a bit sideways.  The women were polite.  They answered whatever questions I posed to them.  But they never went out of their way to help.  It left me in a bit of a tizzy, realizing that if I found myself presented with a problem when searching through the records, I either figured the thing out on my own, or I disregarded it.  This is so different to my experiences in Kansas, oddly enough, where 'going the extra mile' is tantamount - at least amongst natural born mid-Westerners (friends and associates might know to what I refer).

Whenever I visit a new area, I enjoy experiencing some of the natural flavor to the community.  One of the ways one can manage this is through patronizing the local businesses.  When lunch time arrived (the clerk's office - and practically everything else - closed for lunch), though hungry, I was not, I chose to search out a place to eat.

The day before, I opted for a Subway; but the thing about the national chains is one can try those meals anywhere in the country.  I wished to find a place unique to Vienna.  I spotted it along the road, and I was most impressed.

It takes a lot to impress me, as I have always been a rather particular individual in regards to food.  I have eaten in a number of establishments where the food is good, but the ambiance is poor.  Tables and chairs are crowded together.  The interior of the room is dimly lit.  There is a feel of old and unclean that creeps from the kitchen, the waitress station, the floors and the walls.  While such is tolerated, such is never welcomed.

Dolly's Restaurant, along highway 45, in Vienna had none of that.  I had nothing at all to complain about.  The food was good (I tried, for the first time, gyros).  The waitress was friendly.  The tables were clean.  The ambiance was open.  I could easily relax and enjoy my meal.  They even had WiFi.  If I ever return to Vienna again, I will definitely stop in for another enjoyable meal.

Learning a Thing or Two

It is the start to a new morning, the start to a new day.  For someone not well versed in the art of genealogy, I believe I am progressing into the realm of 'gatherer-of-family-history'.  I discovered information on land owned by three people with the surname, 'Sexton', one being a verifiable ancestor; I confirmed what I earlier speculated, that people moved into this area to escape the Civil War.

Actually, I merely speculated this being the reason for my ancestors in moving this direction.  It was confirmed to me the area was graced by an influx of souls due to the war, as well as the opportunity for land.

As far as the war goes, I was told only one battle actually took place in this area; and it involved a Confederate soldier being shot off his horse by a fourteen-year-old girl - not exactly a war wound to boast about around the family hearth reliving old war stories.

One interesting matter I was told was this area, because there was such an influx of Southerns, and since it is buttressed by two Southern states (Tennessee and Kentucky), the former Southerns now in Southern Illinois would be used to infiltrate the Confederate lines as spies because of their still retained Southern accents.

Not 'Civil War', but rather Revolutionary War

On a non-Civil War front, I found a historical marker that documents a campsite for a Revolutionary War colonel, George Rogers Clark, who fought in Illinois against the Indians.  Apparently, if I recall the story on the marker over my shoulder, well... actually I don't recall the story.  I thought I would take a picture and then reread the story from the picture.  BUT the words failed to produce.  I want to say he fought a battle with the Indians who were stirred up by the British.  Not sure if that's accurate.  I do recall it said he was responsible for insuring this territory would remain in the America's control.

Driviing with My Dad

Aunt Rosalie at her home in Lowry City Missouri

The interesting thing about traveling about the country, at least in this technological age, is the absence of Internet access wherever and whenever one needs.  After departing from the Motel 6 in Salina Kansas, my dad and I drove to my Uncle Jim's in Paola (he and my Aunt Alma carry no Internet in their home - nor do they need it with the volume of stories they tell from their vast years of experiences to share) and then my Aunt Rosalie's in Lowry City Missouri (who has also seen many things and knows much to share.)  Thus, now here in Metropolis Illinois, seated in another  Motel 6, which I can recommend for its basic simplicity and ease of cost, I can return to these words of mine.

Driving with my Dad is an experience.  First of all, he's in his eighties.  All his faculties are not as sharp as they used to be, so the driving would proceed at a snail's pace.

My personal reaction to this intrigued me.  I knew, after our departure from Great Bend Kansas to strike out on highway 156 that led to Interstate 70, Dad would not be able to keep up with a regular speed.  Anytime I made the attempt to drive faster, he would fall further behind.  If I allowed too much of a distance between us, other cars would fill in the gap and I would lose sight of where he was.  Leaving the McDonald's in Topeka Kansas, I even lost him altogether.

Thanks to the technology of the cellphones, we were able to reconnect.

There were moments during these excursions down the road - driving 45mph down the Interstate - I would become irritated at this constant lag.  I just wanted to see my dad progress at a little faster speed.  But as I spent time around him and and his brother, and then around him and his sister, and I saw how he was restored to life, I realized just how much the trip took out of him and how easily the vigor of youth manages to escape us.  His mind is still sharp as a tack.  When he is in his element, he can still engage in conversation.  It's just when his body wears down, as it is now more prone to do, a little more time is required to return him to full strength.

End of First Day of Travel

Not much to report for this first foray into my swing east.  My dad is accompanying as far as Paola Kansas, where my Uncle Jim lives, followed by Lawry City Missouri, where my Aunt Rosalie lives.  I would have preferred leaving tomorrow morning, Friday morning; but Dad, due to his advanced age, cannot travel for extensive periods of time.  He needs the rest.

We, fortunately, hit the Motel 6 in Salina before the storm struck the area.  Glad to see the rain, but I loathe driving in it.  Either way, I'm 90 miles into my 1600 miles trek to my family's origin.

Hopefully, it will all go well.  I have not had any luck, thus far, uploading my first video to YouTube. It is taking forever.  And my car?  Something is amiss with my car.  Ever since my dad saw to the installing of a new compressor for my air conditioner (it hadn't worked for me since buying the car in January of 2010) there has been a problem with the car's acceleration.  Though I set my cruise control on 65mph, cruising down highway 156 to Ellsworth, the car's speed would intermittently increase - even sans the cruise control or foot on the gas pedal.  

Who knows?  Maybe the car will carry me all the way to Elizabeth City North Carolina, fall apart, marooning me in the home of my ancestors two centuries removed.  What an adventurous turn that would make.  A little 'Pulp Fiction' across the centuries.

The Challenge of Building Something New

There is always a challenge to building something new - a reality especially met when facing the seemingly infinite nature of the Internet and its ever-expanding base.  

Where is one to begin?  

How should this thing appear?  

Why ever make the attempt?  Is there a purpose?  And, if so, what?

My purpose in beginning my own YouTube channel (or maybe only "famous" people can actually start a channel; perhaps what I upload will merely exist as videos attached to my YouTube account.) is to document my travels as thoroughly and as completely as is possible.  This blog is meant to document the events in words; pictures I upload to my Facebook account will keep my friends in touch with the sights I see; and whatever I record via video completes the circle with the visual and auditory in one, to permit those interested to follow me in my journey.


Now, the question I still need to answer for myself was precisely how - how to create something I knew little to nothing more of than any other Internet surfer seeking enlightenment and entertainment.


The only way to learn is to step forth with the size 13 Wides and begin.


In March, I purchased the new iPad.  It sported the still camera and the video camera I would require for these adventurous tasks.  In April and May, I began making recordings, initially seeing it as an easy matter: my standing before the video camera and relaying the story of retracing my ancestors' pathway west.


I add two months to this process due to my 'perfectionist' nature.  No single recording I attempted sufficed; it all looked horribly bad.


Enter iMovie.


I purchased this app for my iPad and immediately put it to use in editing together the cornucopia of videos into something a bit more interesting.  With myself, settled comfortably into various locales, presenting different appearances for some variety and color, I created a first video.

Then I fouled up.

Once this first video on iMovie was done, I decided I needed to free space on my iPad for the future pictures and videos I anticipated once my trip was underway.  As one who ardently follows the cardinal rules of backing everything up, I transferred all the videos recorded onto my laptop, where storage was not a problem.  I then deleted the same videos from the iPad (some I maintained); and suddenly I had a problem.  


Holes, Holes, Holes...


Though the iMovie project was finished, it still borrowed from the complete videos I edited clips out of.  Some of those videos were no longer on the iPad, thus the problem: holes, holes holes...


Okay.  No problem.  Just reverse everything.  Right?  I transferred all the videos to my laptop; just transfer everything back to my iPad.  Easy as pie, right?

Not quite.  Following an evening of failure, I spent an hour and a half on the phone with Apple, spread over two separate calls, to slowly piece together how to restore the videos deleted.  

What a headache. 

Such should end the story; but, sadly, it does not.  The restored videos to my iPad restored the videos I deleted, the videos I needed for a complete iMovie project, while creating repeated versions of videos I kept, thus evaporating the storage space my original intent meant to free.


The problem I now face is deleting videos and photos to free up space without deleting the same videos I need for the first iMovie project.


 I am hoping, once the first video  - I am calling it "Searching For My Family: Purpose and Place" - is uploaded to YouTube, I can start deleting again, freeing up that space I need.  As I write this, it appears only halfway complete in the process.  Can I wait around another couple of hours?  Will the battery die before the upload is finished?  The mysteries of life...

The First Day of a New Month; the First Entry to a New Blog

This is going to be rather off-the-cuff, as I'm not sure just how to begin this new foray into blogdom.  Should I open with a joke?
    
     "Hey sailor!  Do you know how to make anti-freeze?"
     "Sure!  Hide her nightgown."

Do I try and wax philosophical about the mysteries of the universe?

Being that I am not a scientist - nor did I ever take any science classes back in the forgone years of high school - such would not present itself as a viable option.

Maybe a bland observation of my immediate surroundings would prove of some measurable interest: I find myself in one of my favorite haunts: a coffee shop in my small burg of a town.  One barrister is behind the bar preparing a drink for a customer; the other is busy about decorating the window for the expectant crowds of tomorrow.  Overhead, the music is "Sentimental Journey" - though prior to my own  epoch of history, it stands as familiar to my senses nonetheless.

The coffee shop will be closing in an hour, so I had been kick my act into gear and finish this thing.

So, what should I write?  How should I begin?  What words should I place on this electronic sheet of paper?  Well, how about purpose?  Why am I doing this?  There stands a purpose to everything under the sun.  What is mine for this?

I suppose it has something to do with my planned trip I am "planning" - though 'horrible' is the best adjective I can come up with for my planning talents.

Such is far from my forte in skills.

Since early February of this year, when I drove my dad to the ancestral homelands for a meeting with his brother, my uncle; and since I began digging my persistent and curious nose into the family history from whence I sprung, I saw a trip retracing my ancestors steps in reaching where I am now (where I drove my dad to meet his brother that early day in February) was in order.  Hence, this forum to work at organizing my thoughts (as well as my plans) in pushing forward.  How do I thrust myself out of my complacency - and my utter fear for falling flat faced (how that for alliteration - every blog needs a measure of it) - when every move, every step, every thought forebodes doom and utter devastation?

Or maybe, I just need a swift kick in the head to knock some sense into me and expel the paranoia.

So, if interested, follow along and see what happens as I tread this winding road of perplexing life experiences.  See you along the journey.