The Mystery that Started It All (part 5)

 

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

On the evening of May 19, 2022, I was browsing the newly-released, newly-indexed 1950 census records on Ancestry.  I had already found all four of my grandparents, several of my great-aunts and uncles, two sets of great-grandparents, and one set of great-great-grandparents.  Because finding out more about my Grandma Eva and her first husband is always sitting somewhere in the back of my mind when I am doing family history research, I had a thought — I wonder if I can find G.W. Bryant in the 1950 census.  Maybe I could finally find out where he went after he left my grandmother and they divorced.

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.