John & Louvenia Perry Family 1910

1910 United States Federal Census John Perry Family

Name: John Perry (Farmer)
Age: 42
Estimated birth year: abt 1868
Birthplace: Alabama
Relation to Head of House: Head
Father’s Birth Place: Alabama
Mother’s Birth Place: Alabama
Spouse’s name: Louvenia (Laborer)
Home in 1910: Marion, Perry, Alabama (Uniontown Road)
Marital Status: Married
Race: Black
Gender: Male

Household Members: Name Age
John Perry
42
Louvenia Perry

Ludie J Perry
5
Emma Perry
3
Alonzo Perry
2
Lizzie King (Hired Woman)
42

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John Perry “Big Poppa” and Louvenia (Lula) Perry are my great-grandparents.

The Perrys are Cherokee and Black. Their Cherokee ancestors came from the land near the Warrior and Cohabee (Cahaba) Rivers, and were farmers and basket makers.

Their daughter, Ora Dee Perry, married Robert (Bud, Spicey) Ford (also called by “Martin”), these are my grandparents.

LOLA AND THE SWEET POTATO PIE (A Villanelle)

When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl
Across a cold floor is the click-clack of four spotted feet
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

Morsel dropped on the floor, a sticky trail Lola will follow
Turkey, pie, stuffing and other tasty treat….
When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl

Begging for just one bite, Lola will howl
Yummm… Thanksgiving dinner is almost complete
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

Drool forms at her fuzzy jowl
The sweet potato pie never looked more sweet
When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl

Lola jumps on the counter, Mommy’s face is crumpled in a scowl
Slurp slurp, Lola lunges for pie and meat
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

The moon rose in the dark sky, in a lonely tree sits an owl
We are all hungry, there is not a bite left to eat
When early morning cooking begins, Lola’s on the prowl
Sniff, sniff…Lola’s tummy begins to growl

Lynn Mari, © 2009

Happy Thanksgiving from Our Family to Yours!

This is based on a favorite family story, when our Dalmatian, Lola, ate the sweet potato pie that I baked for Thanksgiving. I spent hours baking the pie, and sweetened it with chai only to have it completely destroyed when Lola jumped on the counter, both paws around the pie, and slurped it all up!!!

Dennis & Mary Oliver (Marion, AL) 1920

Source: 1920 Census, Marion, Perry County Alabama

Name: Donnis (Dennis) Oliver
DOB: 1855
Race: Black
Occupation:Farm Laborer
Homestead: Rent

Spouse: Mary
DOB: 1878
Race: Black

Children:

Hattie b. 1902
Bertha b. 1903

Note: Mary is also called Margaret and Muggie. She was a cook and worked with a family in Mississippi.

They had another daughter, Lula or Louvenia, who is my great-grandmother born in 1897.

Please post any information you have on the Olivers.

Curled Up with a Family Story:A Review of “Momma. Where Are You From?” by Marie Bradby

Title: “Momma, Where Are You From?”
Genre: Children’s (Ages 5-12), Afro-American Fiction
Author: Marie Bradby
Illustrator: Chris K. Soentpiet
Publisher: Orchard Books, New York: New York. 2000.

“We can travel roads in my memory…”

I absolutely love “Momma, Where Are You From?”. This book gives life and color to Black history, its rich traditions in American life and beckons the reader to remember their own stories…and pass them down.

“Momma. Where Are You From?” is not read like a book—it quickly envelopes you until you forget the pages beneath your fingers, and feel like you are curled up on “Momma’s” lap, hearing the family stories.

Momma’s stories circle the events of her life—growing up in a small town, shelling beans for dinner, facing discrimination during the Jim Crow era, and finally sitting on the porch with her daughter, sharing memories. “Momma, Where Are Your From?” is particularilly powerful in that it gives the message that our stories are worth telling, and that our children will cherish and grow from our memories.

Combined with the stories, the illustrations are beautiful, no detail is missed; each picture in itself imparts a story. There is history within these pictures—the segregated schoolhouse, the children doing domestic labor to help make ends meet, the family gathering to listen to music and share a meal. These are stories we can all relate to—the wondering “Where are you from?” and how the answer inevitably connects the past to the paths of our own lives.

I highly recommend “Momma, Where Are You From?” It is a dignified retelling of Black history and also a vivid portrayal of the struggles, joys and faces of family.

Lynn Mari, 2009.

LINKS:

Marie Bradby’s Site: http://www.mariebradby.com/

Chirs Soentpiet: “Momma, Where Are You From?” Include Activities to do with your children when reading this book.
http://www.soentpiet.com/mama.htm

Looking for Dragonflies

A story for the family scrapbook…

I took my children to the Marina to see an antique boat show, and participate in a community festival. A few minutes after we stepped onto the boardwalk, it began to rain. So we took shelter under a small canvas overhang.

Always adventurous, my daughter, Norrie, spied a dragonfly, also taking shelter from the storm under the canvas. She held her small hands out to the dragonfly and waited…holding her breath in anticipation. Will it land? Will one wing, clear and thin as mica, brush against her chubby fingers? As the storm thundered above, the dragonfly drew closer…and landed on the warm plane of Norrie’s hand. She was absolutely delighted. Norrie called to her brother, who was just as excited to try to catch his own dragonfly! Antique boats with their rumbling motors, face painting, ice-cream and live music…none of it mattered. My children were enchanted by dragonflies.

When the storm cleared, a rainbow stretched over the Marina. I could see the rainbow’s tail, diving into into violet-gray waters. Rainbow ribbons of red, violet, yellow and blue braided into the colors earth and water, creating hues that color our world.

My children scampered off…in persuit of dragonflies…

Lynn Mari, ⓒ 2009

Anderson & Mallie Robbins: 1900 Census

Source: 1900 Census, Dallas County Alabama

Name: Anderson Robbins, Age 60
Birth Year: March 1840, AL
Occupation: Farm Laborer

Spouse: Mallie, 55
Birth Year: Dec. 1844, AL

Boarder: Maude Harville
Birth Year: July 1876, AL
Occupation: Farm Laborer

Anderson Robbins is the paternal uncle of my great-grandmother, Mary Ella (“Mel”) Martin. I have an Aunt who remembers visiting the Robbins family on their farm as a child.

If you have any additional information, please post below.

“We are linked by blood, and blood is memory without language…” Joyce Carol Oates , author

Robbins Family Genealogy Forum: >http://genforum.genealogy.com/robbins/

Linkpendium Robbins Family: Surname Genealogy, Family History, Family Tree, Family Cresthttp://www.linkpendium.com/genealogy/USA/sur/surc-R/surc-Rob/sur-Robbins/

Herbert Martin, Summerfield, Alabama 1917-1918

HERBERT MARTIN

Source: WWI Draft Registration Card
Dallas County, Alabama; Roll: 1509379; Draft Board: 0.
County: Dallas
State: Alabama
Birth Date: Apr 1900
Race: Black
Roll: 1509379

Address: Summerfield, AL
Occupation: Farm Laborer
Employer: Sol (Solomon) Green(e)
Nearest Relative: Lucy (Callens) Green(e), She is the wife of Sol
Height: Medium
Color of Eyes: Black
Color of Hair: Black
Signed By: R.J. Moore, 9/12/1918

Luke & Melyena Martin 1920, Valley Creek AL

Source: 1920 Census
Location: Valley Creek, Dallas County, Alabama
Rangeline Road

Luke Martin, Farm Laborer
Born 1883, Alabama

Melyena Martin, Spouse
Born 1893, Alabama

Children:

Julia Martin, Born 1913
Laman Martin, Born 1914

The Lively Circus: A Day in the Life of a Single Mom

By Lynn Mari, ⓒ 2008.

“God can jumpstart any battery!”—Pastor Moore

As a single mom, I have learned that an ordinary day can quickly become a lively circus.

I begin the morning tripping over Norrie’s toys; DP’s shirt is growing moldy on the bathroom floor… Cheetah Girls are bumpin’ in the CD player. As I reach for my cup of coffee on the counter I unexpectedly slip across the kitchen floor. A shimmering pink surface of Wonder Bubbles was invisible until I am ice-skating across ceramic tile! DP and Norrie are laughing at my wild antics, arms and legs flailing. Both children are pouring Wonder Bubbles into a toy with a built-in fan that was made to shoot plastic balls into the air. My kitchen is boogie wonderland, with bubbles flying in all directions.

I sigh, add maple syrup to my coffee. Raooow! DP and Norrie are squaring off at the table. Norrie is bouncing in her chair, squealing, “Jelly face! Jelly face!” DP crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at his little sister. DP ate a croissant with blackberry jam that is now smeared on both sides of his face like sideburns. I do my best to regain my composure, while holding my sides, “DP, honey, you have jam all over your face—go look in the mirror. You really are a jelly face. And I’m a jelly belly all full of these rolls!” Tension is released as quickly as it comes, in peals of laughter. DP runs to the mirror to inspect his new look. He “shaves” blackberry sideburns with one finger, running it across his face then licking it clean. Just as I am about to relax, I glance at the clock—we have to move if we want to be on time for church!

Coffee half gone, better top it off. I ask DP to hand me the syrup and next thing I know he is dumping the bottle in my cup! I breathe a sigh of relief when both kids are finally out the door. As I am locking the door, Norrie is running down the hall, waddling like a duck. She has decided to wear the too big sandals that no longer fit DP, proudly asking her beloved big brother, “Am I cool?” With each step Norrie is loudly flopping against the pavement. Not even halfway down the block, we see our bus pass by. I grit my teeth…then look across the street at my neighbor’s beautiful yard. Pastel flowers greet my eye from afar. Thick bushes in radiant shades of emerald shine in the sun. Marigolds gather beneath the bushes, lining a cobbled path. DP, Norrie and I stop over to say “hi”. The beautiful Himalyan cat with ice blue eyes purrs at our feet then rolls on the sidewalk, begging to have his back scratched. The children are fond of the cat and dash to the ground, ready to indulge. When we leave, both children resemble the Abomidible Snowman of the Himalayas, shaggy with cat hair and neat church clothes now worn. They couldn’t be happier, racing down the sidewalk towards the bus.

DP, Norrie and I arrive at church and are greeted with hugs. When Pastor Moore begins to sing, DP is excited to play the “shaker” he made in school—two Styrofoam plates decorated with banners made of crepe paper. Inside the plates is dry rice. Norrie accompanies DP, shaking a penguin shaped tambourine. Pastor’s bellowing voice fills the chapel, “…You’ve got to move, But when the good Lord gets ready, you’ve got to move…” It takes but a moment for Norrie to dash from the pew, to the front of the chapel. Once reaching the front, Norrie begins to dance. Pastor, an imposing man standing well over 6 feet tall, with hands the size of bear paws, gently takes Norrie’s small hands in his. Together they dance. Norrie stands barely the height of Pastor’s knees but excitement keeps her steps in time. DP raises his shaker, cheering loudly. This is a memory I will always cherish.

As a single mom, I have learned that an ordinary day can quickly become a lively circus. I have learned how to be the juggling bear—balancing work, children and long bus rides. The ringmaster keeping everything in order. The clown indulging my children in stories or play. And my favorite—the magician, awaiting a surprise.

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DP and Norrie, I thank God everyday that he blessed me to be your “Mommy”. I love you from the top of your head to the tips of your toes… (you finish the rest)…
xoxoxo Mommy xoxoxo

The Heart Speaks: Lessons from my Grandmothers

By Lynn Mari, 2008

In a memory, my family is enjoying my son’s Christmas program at school. The theme of the program was “Christmas Around the World”. The program began with the children circling the room, waving flags that represent various countries. I made cornbread for the potluck—using a recipe that had remained in my family for generations. The children celebrated by dressing in costumes that represent their heritage. My son was dressed as a farmer. He wore a straw hat, overalls and a plaid shirt with a boll of cotton in the front pocket. Designing the costume became a time to reflect on family stories, passed down through generations of women.

I closed my eyes to imagine the life of Momma Judge, the earliest ancestor I had traced in my family. Momma Judge was the daughter of slaves, who were bought at auction in Virginia, then shipped to a plantation in rural Alabama. The first and last impression in the life of Momma Judge was of brittle stalks of cotton, the red earth staining the hem of her skirt. Amid the familiar line of her family, she hummed spirituals as she stooped over the prickly bolls. She’d live in a cabin heated by a pot-bellied stove with rags stuffed in the cracks to keep out the cold. Meals cooked over that stove would become recipes passed between generations of women, sharing a connection in the food that brought our family together at mealtime.

I thought of Big Momma, the granddaughter of Momma Judge. Shortly after Big Momma gave birth to my grandpa, she returned to the same fields her ancestors worked, her baby snug in a burlap sack slung at the hip. Big Momma had her first child, Grandpa Bud, when still young and raised him alone after her husband disappeared. Disappearance was a way of life back then. The threats of violence against Blacks, the migratory seasons of sharecropping, the poverty and debt perpetuated by cropping and the hope for something better fluctuated between leaving and coming back–or not being seen again. Big Momma raised six children on her own. She saved up for a house in the city and managed to get a job out of the fields. Faith and determination saw her through.

My thoughts turn to Grandma Dee, the wife of Grandpa Bud. She was a beautiful woman who was devoted to her family. Grandma Dee met Grandpa Bud at a juke joint in the hollows of Bibb County. Together, my grandparents made a dazzling couple; twirling to a rhythm only they shared. Grandpa Bud was a handsome man with a honey colored complexion and wavy hair. He was quiet, and when he spoke he was known to be nobody to fool with. My grandparents were passionately in love, even when they fought there was a spark between them. At my age Grandma Dee would have three children and was preparing to move up North, where Grandpa Bud landed a good job. She was proud to give her children a better life, where they wouldn’t have to work the fields and could go to school. The lives of my grandparents would end in tragedy; they died before I was born.

When I remember stories of my ancestry, I am grateful to the grandmothers whose determination and faith provide a well of strength to draw from. My grandmothers were born into a world where their bodies were worth only a few coins. They gave birth to children whose lives were limited by slavery and racism. My grandmothers were denied an education; they knew only a life in the fields. In deprivation, they gave birth to new life—they prayed until the church shook, they fought for change even if it meant they had to do a man’s work or move to a distant city, and they reminded their children that they are loved, precious and worth so much more. In hardship my grandmothers not only persisted but also thrived. One day I will stand among my grandmothers, and my children will know that I never stopped fighting to provide something better for them, that I never stopped loving them.

I am blessed to be a daughter of a lineage of such intelligent, determined and spiritual women. Women whose ability to love was not diminished by loss. Women who infused their faith, creativity and love into the little they had to create a better future for their children. Women of deep faith in God. Women, who, despite all challenges, impressed a sense of hope that was passed down to the next generations, to me.