Where I Come From

 

I don’t remember much about my great grandmother, Kizzie Frazier Shouse.  We lived in same house until I was around 8 years old and she died when I was in the fourth grade.  My memories of her are vague, and her health was not good in those memories.  But I owe her a great debt because she was the one who gave me so much of my history.  Thanks to her, I was able to get a good sense of where I come from.  In the south, when we introduce someone, we tend to give a synopsis of that person's ancestry.  I read once that the reason for that is that we like to know WHO they are.

Miss Kizzie, as we called her, saved everything.  Letters, cards, calendars, pictures, mementos of all kinds – all were stored in her rooms, waiting discovery after she was gone.  I wasn’t so much interested as a child, but by the time I was a teen, I was fascinated by my history.  And, thanks to her, it was there, waiting for me.  Pictures, letters, clippings, family Bibles, handwritten notes about various ancestors – a treasure trove for a history lover.  I read about her courtship with my great grandfather, her life as a farm wife, caring for her chickens and selling the eggs, and, with tears in my eyes, her beloved husband’s final days and his death.  It was strange to think of the frail old lady I remembered as a beautiful young wife and then as a grieving widow.   She was 70 when her Jimmy died, and she received at least three proposals of marriage afterward.  I know that because she kept the letters, with the names of her suitors carefully torn off!

Kizzie’s mother, Millie, is one of my heroes.  She first married Joseph Garrett, and early in their marriage, they moved from Hickman County to Arkansas. It was an arduous journey of almost two months to unsettled country.  No railroad, no telegraph, only the crudest roads and many rivers, including two major ones, to cross.  After only being there a short time, Joseph died.  She was left in a strange area with a baby.  Now, I might have been tempted to sit down and spend the next year crying and listening to my baby cry.  Not Millie.  She found a family traveling back to Tennessee, mounted her horse, took her baby up on her lap and made the perilous trip back to her family in Hickman County, riding by day and camping with the family at night.  After the Civil War, she married my great-great grandfather, William Frazier, who was, I expect, quite a dashing figure.  At least his pictures as an older man showed a handsome erect man with a full beard.  Together they raised, not only the baby from her unfortunate first husband, but their own three girls and two boys.  I have often pondered her life and her courage.  If she had been less brave, I wouldn’t be here.

I continue to make discoveries about William.  One of the treasures my great grandmother preserved is a battered little diary from his time in Camp Cheatham during the early days of his service in 11^th infantry.  It begins with these words: “On Thursday the 25^th of April, I said my last paragraph in Caesar and retiring from my studies on Friday the 26^th I enlisted as a private in Captain Bateman’s company of light infantry. “ After a bout with fever and a recovery at home, he joined the cavalry and served until the end of the war.  His horse was shot and killed under him during the Battle of Nashville.  Just before the Battle of Franklin, a bullet shattered the hilt of his sword, injuring neither his horse nor him.  Another incident that took place involved a near disaster during a ferry crossing on the Tennessee River near Perryville.  When the ferry sank, everyone except one man managed to make it to the bank.  When William realized that the man could not swim, he swam out to him and pulled him to the bank using a cedar rail.  The two men met by coincidence many years later at a meeting at Liberty Church and recalled the incident. 

The handwriting is beautiful, but cramped and hard to read.  The book is only about the size of a pack of cigarettes and half as thick.  A couple years ago, I finally decided to transcribe the diary.  I discovered, not only a dashing soldier, but a young man with a poet’s soul.  I like to think my writer’s ability came from him and from his daughter Kizzie.  Reading this tiny book gave me a sense of who William was, and it also changed my view of the Civil War.  Even in the first months of his enlistment, before he saw an enemy soldier, he watched several friends die of disease, waded mud that threatened tents and kept clothing wet for days at a time.  He writes about missing his family and tells of a heart wrenching moment when friends in the camp hospital gave him their possessions for safekeeping in case they did not survive their illness.  But he also wrote about the beauty of a spot by the river, shade trees and blue skies and the music of the birds.  Did he have any idea what was ahead as he described the sight of uniformed soldiers drilling?  “The sun was shining brilliantly, their Minnie rifles and bayonets as bright as a dollar glittered in the sunshine as they advanced to and fro.”  I hope not.  I wonder if he re-read his words later in life and realized what a senseless tragedy it was.

Recently, a new chapter, for me, was discovered in the life of William Frazier.  As I said, I have had his diary in my possession since the death of my great grandmother.  Imagine my surprise when the president of the historical society, where I am a volunteer, called me and said that a friend had sent him a transcribed copy of William Frazier’s Civil War diary, which he had obtained from the University of Memphis.  “It’s never been out of our house to my knowledge,” I told him.  “Well,” he said, “maybe it’s another diary.”  Turns out it is another diary, which picks up right where mine leaves off, with his regiment boarding the train in Nashville in July, 1861.  I have no idea how it ended up at the University of Memphis.  Is there another one out there somewhere?  I wish I knew.

William, Millie and Kizzie Frazier

 

 

Garden Delight

 

There is a special delight in getting up early and taking a basket to the garden.  Yesterday I searched out enough green beans for a cooking, picked through the corn rows for a few barely ripe ears and found a ripe tomato.  There is always squash and zucchini – how on earth does it grow so fast?

As I sit on the porch breaking beans, I always think about how many people have done the same thing in the 130 odd years this porch has been here.  As far as I know, the garden has always been in the same spot – just steps away.  So my path is the same path followed by a long line of feet and my hands follow the motions of four previous generations that have enjoyed the bounty of this garden.  I wonder sometimes if my great-great grandmother ever thought about the descendants that would sit on this porch and break beans.

I imagine Lucinda, my great-great grandmother, telling her children and grandchildren how she hid her horse from the Yankees during the Civil War, while her husband was away.  I can remember my great grandmother Kizzie, who lived here when I was a young child, breaking beans and telling about her family growing up in Whitfield.  My grandmother broke beans and shelled peas in the swing on the porch and told me of growing up with four sisters in Centerville and how they used to have parties, rolling up the rugs so they could dance.  And my mother carried on the tradition, shucking corn and breaking beans as she talked about her childhood in Leatherwood and how they used to ride in a horse drawn wagon to church.

Those first few meals from the garden are a delight.  The first tomato, dripping juice down your chin.  The first corn, covered with butter.  The first mess of beans, simmered in bacon drippings.  Then comes the deluge.  Tubs of corn pulled in the morning and shucked under the shade tree, then prepared for the freezer.  It takes about 60 ears of corn to make 6 quarts of creamed corn.  I know that because I counted the ears as I cut the corn off!  Where do all those green peppers come from?  And always the squash, with the warning to lock your car doors in town because someone is trying to get rid of their surplus.  The okra grows faster than you can eat it, and the corn matures overnight.  Did I mention the squash overload?  I only put out two plants, but I knew a man once who planted an entire row.  I’m glad I didn’t live close to him!  Everyone who lived in his town knew to lock their doors.

Nothing beats a fresh cooked dinner straight from the garden.  Green beans with potatoes cooked on top, steamed squash and zucchini, corn on the cob and the first homegrown tomato.  Add some purple hull peas and what else do you need?  Every time I think about a meal straight from the garden, I think about a lady in the county years ago who was having “the club” for dinner (lunch to the city folks).  They drove up to her house and found her in the yard killing the chicken.  Now that might be a little fresher than I want!  Then there was the time I cooked a garden dinner for a group of friends.  Squash (of course), cream peas, fried okra, corn on the cob and tomatoes, with home raised pork chops.  We were joined unexpectedly by college friends of one of the guests.  They were from New York and they didn’t recognize any of the food.  What do people in New York eat?  I thought everybody ate corn.    My good friend Allen tried to help by explaining that all the food came from my farm.  “She even grew the pigs that the pork chops came from,” she explained.  I think they ate a roll and some fruit salad, which were the only things that didn’t come from the farm.  At least they didn’t have to watch me kill the pig.