Kinfolk: A Historical Look at the Flanery Family of Floyd County

By Parley Bryan Flanery Jr.

Although Kinfolk is primarily about the Flanery family of Floyd County, Kentucky, it also offers an insightful look at a way of life unique to Appalachian America. Kinfolk is certain to make you laugh, cry, and marvel at the bond that unites this intriguing family. It describes in great detail what it was like to farm steep hillsides and mountaintops without the aid of mechanized equipment; it illustrates the sport of foxhunting as was performed by mountain men during the middle of the twentieth century; it provides a historical look at significant gun battles between feuding families; but perhaps most importantly, it provides a genealogical chart showing how the Flanery/Flannery family is related to the Dinguses, the Salisburys, the Halberts, the Crisps, the Hicks, the Stephenses and just about every other family in southeastern Kentucky.
The author has meshed prose, poetry, and pictures into an informational and entertaining book chronicling his family's history. It is a must read for anyone who is related to the Flanerys or who is from Floyd County, Kentucky. It is also recommended to anyone who is interested in learning what it was like growing up in that part of Appalachia before the advent of four-lane highways and modern communication systems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452075365

Parley Bryan Flanery Jr.

Parley Bryan Flanery, Jr. was born and raised in the hills of southeastern Kentucky where he absorbed the culture, collected stories of his family, and learned to appreciate the way of life of a proud and protective class of people. Although his first love had always been writing, he had never pursued his interest in the field until after retiring from a career in the life insurance industry where he had won several sales awards, achieved both the CLU and LUTCF designations, and ascended to the level of President-Elect of the Kentucky Association of Insurance and Financial Advisors. Having retired from the business, he now teaches writing classes at the Ashland Community and Technical College. With a hobby in photography, he has included dozens of photographs in this book that he either took himself or rescued from the pile of faded and crumpled pictures that his mother had stored away in shoeboxes. Adept at using Photoshop CS3, he has brought many of the old photos to life, restoring their luster and brilliance to their original status. In his spare time, when he is not golfing or dabbling in photography, he is reconnecting with old friends and family members who provide him with a storehouse full of tales and anecdotes related to his ancestors and other predecessors. In Kinfolk, he has attempted to compile some of the more memorable, important, humorous and touching stories of his family, making it a volume his quite extensive family will surely cherish. Parley Bryan and his wife Joan celebrated their fortieth anniversary in 2010. They are the parents of two lovely daughters, Kimberly and Sara.

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© 2010 Parley B. Flanery, Jr.. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/1/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7537-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7538-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7536-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010913315

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

INTRODUCTION

Until I started this project, writing a book was the furthest thing from my mind. In fact, I am about like the comedian, whose name escapes me, who appeared on the Johnny Carson show bragging about the book he had just finished. When Johnny asked what he was going to do next, he said he planned to start reading another book soon.

Some recent happenings made me want to put down on paper a lot of things: things I remember, things I have been told, and things that will be lost forever unless somebody records them for our posterity.

The first event that gave me the idea of writing a book was another book about my hometown of Martin, Kentucky, entitled The Town on Beaver Creek by Michelle Slatalla (Random House). This delightful read came out in 2006 and was full of names and places I recognized but also had a few errors and embellishments that made me want to send a correction to all who read it. The subtitle of Slatalla’s book, The Story of a Lost Kentucky Community, and the hype that accompanied its release made anyone unaware of the facts think that the town of Martin no longer exists. Despite the inaccuracies of some of the events depicted in The Town on Beaver Creek (i.e. People didn’t seek refuge from the floods in the high school gym; it was practically the first thing to flood.), I discovered that a sleepy little village like Martin and its citizens could make for a compelling story, and while I don’t have the credentials of a New York Times columnist like Slatalla, I did grow up in the area, know and love the people and have a burning desire to record the history of my family and friends (and some enemies) and the story of their lives.

The second and third events that spurred my interest in becoming an author were the recent deaths of my oldest sister, Eunice Hall, and my dear mother, Grace Flanery. With their passing went a storehouse of knowledge and history, lost forever. Luckily, Mom had related a wealth of events to me that she had experienced during her ninety-four years on earth, many of which I hope to share with the thousands of relatives who waited patiently in line to buy this book (or, more likely, the dozens of family members who felt sorry for me, bought a few copies and passed them among each other).

The final deciding factor that allowed me to tackle this undertaking is the fact that I now have the time, having just retired after twenty-six years of selling insurance and/or recruiting and training others to become insurance agents. Add to that the urging of certain relatives who have given me the encouragement and confidence needed to accomplish such a task. After hearing the phrase somebody ought to write a book about that one too many times, I decided I would do it.

Most people want to know why the spelling of my last name differs from that of some of my ancestors and cousins. Some spell it with one n, some with two, and some with an ending of ary instead of ery. Despite my best efforts to determine why there is a disparity in the spelling, I was not able to come up with a definitive answer. Some suspect it has to do with the way the doctor or midwife filled out the paperwork for the birth certificate. Others have told me that when they started school, the teacher corrected the spelling from one n to two, and that they kept it that way the rest of their lives.

I have discovered that my grandfather spelled his name Flanery, and nearly all of his children from his first marriage, along with his first wife, did likewise. The children of his second marriage, his second wife and even his third wife all used the two n spelling; at least that is the spelling on their grave markers. The variety of spelling of my family name is a dilemma I may never understand. When one researches the genealogy of my family, he or she will often find the two n spelling throughout. I have seen my own name spelled that way on some genealogical websites, despite the fact that my birth certificate says otherwise. In this book, I have tried to keep the spelling as accurate as possible, but in some cases I had to rely on the relatively unreliable source of the Internet.

Another confusing aspect of any book of this nature is trying to figure out exactly how the characters are related to each other. To help remedy that situation, I have ended this book with a detailed genealogy of my family, starting with someone’s best guess of our first ancestral immigrant from Ireland (Thomas Elkannah Flanary, born about 1670).

To further simplify matters, I have attempted to identify each new character by tracing his or her lineage back to my great grandfather, William Singleton Flannery, who I will refer to as Sink, his nickname. For example, if I were to mention my daughter, Kimberly, I would include (Sink-Bill-Parley-Bryan-Kimberly) immediately after her name. My other daughter, Sara, (Sink-Bill-Parley-Bryan-Sara) would get equal treatment. (I know that was a sneaky way to get my children’s names in print, but they are special.) For those readers who find this method of identifying characters disruptive to the flow of the story, they may notice that the lineage is in a smaller font making it easier to ignore.

Some of the stories I relate in this book had been told to me by family members long since gone on to their heavenly reward. I have tried to be as accurate as my memory allows, but I realize that there are other versions of events that may be more detailed, entertaining, truthful and complete. Just as I wanted to make corrections to Michelle Slatalla’s book, I am sure there will be readers of this work who will want to offer the real story of something I have written about. I apologize in advance if I have offended anyone, and I eagerly invite corrections and additions from those who know more truthful versions of any happening that I have erroneously described. Having said all that, I truly hope everyone enjoys reading about my kinfolk, the Flanery family of Floyd County.

FOREWORD

In 2006, my brother John called me and said, I have a book that you won’t believe! It’s about Martin, and Aunt Alafair is mentioned in it.

I said, You’ve got to be kidding me. What’s the name of it, and where did you find it?

John had been on a flight, reading one of the magazines, and in it was a book review of The Town on Beaver Creek by Michelle Slatella. It chronicled her family’s life in Martin, Kentucky. I couldn’t wait to read the book.

I had not been to Martin since 1960 when I was a young girl, and memories of my visits there had become hazy. I didn’t even remember exactly where Martin was—yet I had spent a week there every summer. I devoured Slatella’s book. It filled me with a sense of longing and a desire to go down home, a term given to the south by those who had migrated north.

As I read the book and looked at the pictures, I thought about my father Charlie who was born and raised in Martin, up Buck’s Branch, and my Grandpa, known as Preacher Bill, who had lived farther up the mountain. However, what I remembered most was staying at Uncle Parley and Aunt Grace’s. I had worshiped my Uncle Parley and Aunt Grace and their children. I adored my cousin Mavis and had such a crush on my cousin Dickie that I couldn’t look at him.

Memories began to come back into focus, and I remembered being at their house and looking at the mountain across the road, sitting on the front porch with Mavis, who taught me how to hand-hem a pair of pants. I ran wild with all of my cousins up and down Buck’s Branch. I recalled their huge vegetable garden and colorful gladiolas. In my mind, it was a magnificent place. However, my favorite memory was of something very mundane. At the front gate was a slab of concrete with the name Flanery spelled out in marbles, all different, and I loved sitting on the ground rubbing my hands over that concrete. I would wonder why the name was spelled wrong. Our name was spelled Flannery. I assumed it was the equivalent of an architectural typo. In time, of course, I learned it was not. My father and his brother spelled their name differently. No matter; I loved those marbles.

Reading the book brought back these and even more memories, and I found myself longing to see Martin again. John and I decided we would take a road trip together. At about this time, Facebook was becoming more popular, and although I don’t remember how it happened, I began corresponding with my cousin Dickie, who was now using his given middle name, Bryan. When he learned John and I were coming to Martin, he and his beautiful wife Joan invited us to stay with them in Ashland, Kentucky. Bryan would be our guide back to Martin. Bryan began posting pictures of the family on Facebook, and as I read the comments of our relatives, many of whom I had never met, I was astonished at how many of my generation were enamored with the concrete slab with marbles. Something so simple had touched so many of us.

John and I took our trip, and it was one of the most special trips of my life. We reconnected with Bryan, and we went back to Martin. During our trip, we visited with relatives, both living and gone. We took pictures, and I found myself wishing that just for one day, it would be the way it had been, and that I could be running up and down Buck’s Branch, or going to the swimming hole. In some ways, the beauty was still there, but with a wild, haunted quality. When we got to Grace and Parley’s house, all that remained were remnants of what I remembered. Their house had recently been razed, which made me cry. I wanted it to be the way I remembered it.

As I walked the property, I was astonished at how small their property was. When I was young, it had seemed like a giant, magical place. From the rubble, I was able to retrieve a brick from the fireplace. However, I was disappointed that the marbles in concrete were nowhere to be seen, and I mentioned it to Bryan. When we returned to Ashland, he gave me a piece of that marbled slab that I had always loved so much, and it is one of my most cherished possessions. Both the brick and marble piece reside in one of my gardens. I am happy to have them. When I look at those two sweet, simple relics, I am transported back to the Martin of my childhood.

I can share my memories with my children and grandchildren, but there is so much more to tell. Because Bryan has written this book, our family’s stories are preserved, and the generations to come will know where they are from. They will know that they are from a family who spelled its name two ways, from a sweet, simple people who welcomed everyone with open arms—but would fight to the death for what they felt was right. They are from hard-working, poor people who were happy with what they had, and shared it willingly. They are from being told to do your best and do what’s right; from marbles, mountains, and faith in God; from coal mines, blue grass music, and dancing to it by the light of the moon. And it is all worth remembering.

Clarinda Rae Flannery

CHAPTER 1

My Grandpa Uncle Bill

I had just turned sixteen years old when my grandpa, Bill Flanery (Sink-Bill) died. I remember it like it was yesterday. The rain was falling in torrents on the leaky tarpaper roof of my mountain home when Mom woke me and gave me the news that morning. The date was Monday, March 11, 1963, the day after my sixteenth birthday. I lay there in bed reminiscing about the many fond memories of that dear old man and how blessed I was to have known him. How I would miss seeing him in his big black hat riding to town on his mule, Old Bob, and how he would stop and speak to every person in view on his way to town. I had often wondered how he could have so many nieces and nephews, for everyone both young and old called him Uncle Bill.

I would miss seeing that old mule hitched to Uncle Bill’s hitching post near the depot at Martin while Grandpa made his rounds in town, either visiting the sick from his church or doing a little shopping for the few things he couldn’t raise on the farm. I don’t know how that hitching post got to be designated as Uncle Bill’s, but legend has it that the city commissioners voted to have it installed there just for him. As I recall, it even had a couple of concrete steps strategically placed so he could easily mount and dismount Old Bob.

My mind then wandered back further, much further—to the first time I can remember visiting the hillside farm where Grandpa had lived. Again it was right after my birthday (my fifth) and again it had to do with a death. Grandpa’s third wife, Diana, was lying in state at the old log house where they had lived for the eight years of their marriage.

Just getting to the house was an adventure. Dad (Sink-Bill-Parley) could drive the family car, a 1930 Ford Model A, up much of the road, part of which was nothing but a creek bed. Then we had to park and walk the rest of the way. The footpath followed a fence straight up a steep embankment through a deeply wooded area, then along a garden path lined with gooseberry bushes and grapevines. The house was a large structure made of hewn logs neatly fitted together and fortified with what appeared to be hardened mud. In one corner of the yard stood a smokehouse similarly constructed. On beyond the house and down the hill near the creek stood a barn, also made of logs, where Old Bob could seek shelter.

I suppose I had been to that home many times as a baby, but this was the first time I can actually remember visiting there. It was a sad day for my Grandpa, because for the third time, he had the bittersweet experience of outliving a wife.

His first wife (my grandmother), Flora Stephens, was 13 1/2 years old when she married Grandpa, who was nearly twenty at the time. They started having children soon after she reached puberty (age 15) and continued until nine children were born (Alafair, Faire Ellen, Parley Bryan, Rhoda Ethel, Amos Arnold, Sarah Alvine, Sonia Bell, Roy Lindsey, and Willie Raymond.) There probably would have been more, but the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918-1920 claimed her at the early age of only thirty-seven.

The same flu epidemic that had taken his first wife provided Grandpa with the opportunity to meet and marry his second bride. Clarinda Jane Johnson had lost her husband, William Parrot, to the flu after they had started a family with two daughters, Della Marie and Birdie. Within seven months of Flora’s passing, Grandpa and Clarinda were saying their vows, a union that lasted twenty-three years and produced five more children: Charles Ellis, Aaron Burr, Johnson (who died in infancy), Susannie, and Sidney Lou. It must have gotten a little crowded in that old log house because Clarinda eventually brought Della and Birdie into the fold after an attempt to have their grandmother raise them had failed.

Even though Birdie was not related to me, she was as close as any of my aunts, partly because she babysat me whenever Mom was at work and partly because she was married to my uncle, Amos. Yes, that is right, Amos from Grandpa’s first marriage was married to Birdie from Clarinda’s first marriage. They were both step-siblings and husband and wife. (It was as if Greg and Marsha Brady, from the Brady Bunch, were to get married.) Before too many eyebrows are raised at this revelation, I must point out that Amos was some seven years older than Birdie and had regarded her as a pesky little sister during their years of living under the same roof. Only after Amos had left the nest did their romance blossom. He was twenty-five, and she was nineteen when they became husband and wife.

One may wonder how a family that large survived in the