Pieced Together: Lucy Belle Friddle Davis and George Washington Davis

There is a photograph on my wall, taken from an airplane sometime in the last century: a white-roofed brick farmhouse, a dark stand of oaks, plowed fields running off in every direction, and a dirt road going by. It was the home George and Lucy Davis built, and it reached my wall the way nearly everything of theirs has reached me — hand to hand, mother to daughter, down through the women of my family until it eventually made its way to me.

I never met them. George died in 1963 and Lucy in 1974, both before I was born. What I have of them is a stack of documents, a handful of photographs, two long remembrances their daughter Martha wrote, the memories of my grandmother and my mother, and some photos of quilts. So this is not a story I remember. It is one I pieced together — which, given how these two spent their lives, feels like the only honest way to tell it.

The home George and Lucy built near Piedmont — the photograph that hangs on my wall.

Let me start where they started.

The Mystery that Started It All (part 4)

James, Annie, and Eva Parham

Note:  This is a continuation from previous posts.  To start back at part 1, click here.

It has been almost four years since I wrote my last blog post about my Grandma Eva's mystery life before she married my grandfather.  So for those of us (myself included) who need a brief recap, here goes...

The family story, and the starting point for my research, was that at a young age Grandma Eva was sent away from her home in Hartwell, Georgia to live with her grandmother Parham and work at the boarding house that Grandma Parham owned and ran in Elberton, Georgia.  While she was in Elberton, Eva met and married a young man and they had a baby together.  My parents thought the baby's name was Bonnie.  No one knew the name of Bonnie's father.  Eva's husband left her at some point, and afterward Bonnie got very sick.  Eva had no one to help her with getting medical care for Bonnie, and Bonnie eventually died and was buried in Elberton.

Well, that's part of the family story.  I will now share... (in my best Paul Harvey voice) the rest of the story.

Grandma Betty

Grandma Betty and me
Christmas 1977

I have struggled a lot with how to start this blog post.  First, I realize it has been over two years since I have written a post.  Since my last post about my maternal grandfather's death, the world has completely turned upside down - in more ways than one.  Because of the pandemic, I am now primarily working from home, and I have been relocated by the law firm where I work from their Spartanburg office to their Greenville office.  This means that on days when I do have to go into the office, my commute is now about 20-25 minutes versus the 35-40 minutes that it was for almost nine years.  That extra 10-15 minutes makes a huge difference!

But even more recently, the life of every single member of the Foster side of my family was rocked to the core when we - somewhat suddenly - lost our matriarch, my Grandma Betty, on March 9, 2022.  My last living grandparent is now gone.

Pa-Pa Vealon

Elbert Vealon Foster
June 16, 1930 - January 14, 2020

This past Tuesday, January 21, my family and I celebrated the life and mourned the death of my maternal grandfather, Elbert Vealon Foster (or Elbert Veland Foster, or Vealon Elbert Foster, depending on which document you are looking at).  He had fought cancer successfully twice before, but this most recent diagnosis (sadly and ironically delivered to him on his last birthday - June 16, 2019) took him from us.

The Tragic Story of the Storays

In my recent research on the Garrett family, I came across a family situation that quite literally brought me to tears.  It is truly one of the saddest family stories I have run across in ten years of research.  It all started with my research on the descendants of my 2nd great-grandparents, Nelson Alvis Garrett and Mamie Elizabeth Henderson.  This includes my great-grandfather, Luther Earl ("L.E.") Garrett, his siblings and each of their families.  Grandpa Garrett had a younger brother named William Rufus Garrett.  "Uncle Rufus" died at age 59 on September 20, 1973, four years to the day before I was born.  From what I have heard from several family members, he was a rather - ahem - unsavory character.  Apparently Uncle Rufus was quite a drinker, which contributed to several amusing (and some not-so-amusing) family stories.  We'll talk about Uncle Rufus later, but this particular post isn't about him - it is about his daughter and grandchildren.

What happened to John Powell? Part 3 - GUEST BLOG!

South Carolina State Archives

Note:  This is a continuation from a previous post.  To start back at part 1, click here.

Long overdue...

You know, when I started this blog a year ago, I had the best of intentions.  First, I planned to write a post every week.  Then, after the first few posts, I realized that the level of research involved wouldn't allow for that.  I needed more time to be able to do the proper amount of research to develop a good story - you know, one that people might actually want to read.  I don't want to bore you folks to death with a bunch of dry, boring lists of names and dates, after all.  So then I thought maybe I could do a post once per month.  But alas - life got in the way, as it often does, and my genealogy research, which I consider to be my "me" time, all too often got shoved to the back burner.

What happened to John Powell? Part 2

Note:  This is a continuation from a previous post.  To start back at part 1, click here.

On Tuesday, February 5, 2019, I had taken the day off work to take my husband for some medical tests.  When the tests were finished, we were at CVS waiting for a prescription to be filled when my Apple Watch buzzed to alert me to a new e-mail.  The first thing I saw on the screen was a name - John Powell.  JOHN POWELL??  I immediately pulled my phone out of my purse to read the full e-mail: