This will be my last post for awhile, maybe a month. I have to prepare for prison life, then I've got a short stint to do at Pine Bluff Prison. (Prison Ministry, if you haven't been reading.) And, I'm just now getting a handle on historical fiction, and my next book is underway. This fiction stuff is hard for me. My mother taught me not to lie, and my Gillum Do-Right Mechanism is totally against it. But somebody smarter than me told me that possibly, not all of Jesus' teaching parables were totally true, and if that's true, He's a man I wouldn't mind being in the same boat with. My problem seems to be, reconciling fiction with downright lying. Fictional writing is good, Lying is not. OK, I can do this. In fact, I'm really beginning to enjoy it. Already got ten pages full of lies er, I mean, fiction. All in all, it's a story that I'm beginning to really like.. At worst, maybe my stint of Prison Ministry will balance out a few tiny little white lies/fictions. What do you think? Take care, my friends, and God bless.
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My two sets of great-great grandparents traveled from Georgia to Arkansas on this wagon train. The man who scouted for it, probably a distant kin, wrote a daily diary as they went. The Blackburns and Robinsons were my ancestors. I'm including a few of these true daily posts that I thought you might like. Thanks for Reading, see you when the weather's warm!
November 11,
1858.
We had on
our train a very entertaining couple. We came to a place where people were
raising a log cabin, the very sickliest crowd I ever saw. Our man asked the crowd, “How long have you
people been dead?” Right there we were almost in a fight; but our man apologized
by begging pardon telling the cause of his mistake was they buried people where
he came from long before they looked half as bad as that crowd did. Then we had
to retreat, double time, and beg off.
November 23,
1858.
Four inches
of snow on the ground this morning. We leave Thomasville, pass through very
thinly settled hills and valleys, water very scarce. I must tell you that we
had been living on Irish potatoes for several days and still doing so. These we had to dig out of the snow; no bread
stuff to be had. They would all tell us, “Our folks are all gone into
Ar-can-saw, about fifty miles away, to mill with wheat. Looking back tonight, I
found some flour for sale in Thomasville.
But it being in the night, we had to chase the chickens out of their
roost in the flour bin. I concluded to wait until morning, then stick to our
potato digging which was not so bad with fat quail, squirrel and pigeon.
Meeting nothing of note, we camp in Howells' Valley after a day's travel of
twenty miles.
November 24,
1858.
I must state here that I was sort of a
handy boy to look up something to eat, and tramped ahead with my gun.
Frequently, I would be requested to look out for various things to eat, this
time it was butter. I soon found a place I could get all I wanted if I could wait
for the housewife to churn, which I agreed to do. I heard the lady chasing the
pigs back of the house. I looked around there and saw her chasing the pigs out
of a large wooden churn. Had it been a stone one I think I could have stomached
it, but not a wooden one. I told her I was in a hurry, and if she got it ready
maybe she could sell it to the train when it came by, and I would move on
knowing well that my folks would not buy as they left that to me. In camp that
night one of our ladies bawled out that if anyone wanted butter she would
divide out her stock. She described the place to me and I knew at once she
bought the butter where the pigs were chased out of the churn. But I would take
none of it which they all thought strange, because I was fond of butter. I gave
no reason that I would not take any of it, only that there would not be enough
to go around if I did. After the butter had all disappeared, I let out my
secret. If you have ever saw a mad crowd of women, that was the maddest. One of
my aunts said she would never forgive me. We go into camp having traveled
eighteen miles.
December 15,
1858.
Four of us,
viz. John H. Blackburn, Alfred S. Robinson, John Coon and the writer started
for White county, but changed our course and headed for the Arkansas River
Valley. Our object to look out for a satisfactory location. We traveled on
horseback, leaving the balance of our troops in camp near Huntsville. Our trip
led us over rough lofty mountains. We came to the white river, and traced it to
its source. We passed over other high mountains, struck branches of the
Mulberry river, then descending the mountains into Johnson county, took up
lodging with one, Mr. Jones, a good distance from Huntsville.(This foursome
traveled on to the Arkansas River Valley to Galley Rock, in Pope County. The
Blackburns and the Robinsons, my ancestors, found their promised land, and
settled there.)
Mr. Darr tells of
seeing a three hundred pound catfish on
the ferry while crossing the Mississippi River. Members of the wagon train were
advised to shave their heads before the trip, to make themselves less
attractive to Indians. He tells a cute little story about a mess he found
himself in, before the trip even got started.
"Must tell
how I got in a tight place at our first camp.
Many of the neighbors came to our camp and amongst them was a pretty and
attractive young lady with the good name of Prudence, who made many remarks of
regret because she could not accompany us as she had kinfolks amongst us. The
writer, not looking for anything more serious than a joke remarked, “Why not go
with me?” Oh Jerusalem! But she answered, “This is so sudden, but I will answer
you in the morning before you leave camp.” Now, what was I to do? No trouble if
her answer was “no,” but if “yes” the devil I would have to pay as I could not
even care for myself, of course I would have to back down if yes, and treat it
as a joke. But I done better. I hit the road and was several miles on my way at
sunup. This taught me never to joke with a young lady on this subject unless
prepared to foot the bill."
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