Posts filed under ‘Misc: The Family Quilt’
Perry County, Alabama, near Marion and Old Town
Reubin Oliver b. 1845, farmer (Father from AL, Mother from GA) married Edith “Edie” b. 1830 (both parents from TN)
Clarisy b. 1830
Jessie (son) b. 1851
Dennis b. Jan. 1857
Scott b. May 1863
Alferd/Alfred b. June 1866
Scott Oliver lived in Old Town, farmer dies May 5, 1915
wife Lou T b. Jan 1875
daughter, Francis b. 1897
son, Tom b, March 1899
son, Clifton, b. 1908
son (not named at time of census) b. 1910
1880 Census Old Town
Eady Oliver (widow) b. 1830, farmer
son, Dennis b. 1858, farmer
daughter-in-law, Emma, b. 1860
son, Scott b. 1865
son, Alferd b. 1866
Dennis Oliver married Margaret/Muggie b. Dec. 1860
Farmer, Marion (Off Mail Route 5)
Lula b. Dec 1896
Hattie b. 1902
Bertha b. 1903
Dennis Oliver died Feb. 17, 1937
He is buried in Camolite Cemetary
My nephew was playing with his Iron Man truck that he got for Christmas..on an important mission to stop the “bad guy” from destroying the world.
He tells me the truck has “Mistletoe”.
I give him a funny look and ask what is that. He says “Missile Toe is what you use to blow up the bad guy.”
In Our Hearts, December 2011.
My kids are excited to welcome their new Baby sibling into the world this December, what a blessing for our family.
My son, now 10, has all sorts of questions:
“If the Baby gets any bigger, Mom, will you explode?” (Then he tries to feed me candy and junk food just to see what will happen!)
“When the Baby goes potty, where does it go?” My kids love this question, it sends them into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Sometimes I wonder if children are to train adults to be “potty trained”–not the other way around. Meaning that children show us that we need to stop taking life so serious and just to laugh! For a child, silliness is the best way to release burdens and worries, making the heart so light that it bobs in the chest like a balloon caught by the wind.
“Mom, if the Baby kicks hard enough, can he poke through your belly?”
My daughter, has a better strategy–when she wants something, she simply leans next to my belly, pauses for a moment and then with absolute seriousness informs me “The Baby said…” I know my daughter will adjust well to a new sibling because the Baby always agrees with her!
And then, there is this: I had just finished eating dinner when my stomach began to bubble loudly.
My daughter stares and her mouth drops in amazement. She says, “Mom, the Baby is burping!”
My son, a scientist by nature, came over to investigate. His small hands pressed against my rounded belly..anticipating…then gurgle, gurgle!
“He is burping!” My son says in wonder, “Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much pop.”
I thank God every day for my precious children, and look forward to the many adventures we will share.
Love you Kiddos ❤
xoxoxo Mommy xoxoxox
Source: 1920 Census, Marion, Perry County Alabama
Name: Donnis (Dennis) Oliver
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.
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/
By In Our Hearts, 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.