Journey to the Robinson-West River Plantation: Archeology and History 1857–2016

By Bill D. West

The reader of this book will be taken on a fascinating journey featuring Bill and Barbara West from their high school days in the 1950s to their eventual historic destiny with the Robinson River Plantation in Point Blank Texas. Carved out of the wilderness 160 years ago, the Robinson family from Alabama built and thrived on this land for 120 years and then sold it to the West family in 1978. Destiny arrived when the West family began to discover a multitude of incredible artifacts beneath the plantation earth, and began to uncover the rich historic legacy of the Robinson family. On this beautiful plantation along the Trinity River in East Texas, the Robinsons would experience great happiness and tragic sorrow, as did the West family with the loss of Barbara, only recently, to cancer.
The book delivers eye-witness accounts of life changing events in the Robinson family, and lists many of the artifacts found, with follow-up research done by the author. From the days of General Sam Houston dancing in the foyer of the Victorian house, to the sounds of many children laughing and playing, to the designation of the plantation as a State Archeological Landmark, the reader will be captivated by this account of early Texas history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524614324

Bill D. West

A graduate of Sam Houston High School in Houston, Bill West spent most of his childhood summers playing baseball in the city, and hunting and fishing in the piney woods of east Texas. In 1959, he was granted a baseball scholarship to Grand Canyon University in Phoenix, Arizona. Bill is a retired educator and coach, teaching school for 45 years, both in Arizona and Texas. While employed as a United States forest ranger in the summers of northern Arizona, he authored the non-fiction book ‘’Battle at Oak Creek,’’ which reflected the struggles of the forest ranger in trying to preserve and protect the natural beauty of the Sedona, Oak Creek Canyon area. Bill and his wife of 53 years, Barbara, were selected as the 1976 ‘Sedona Man & Woman of the Year.’ In 1978, Bill moved his family home to Texas, where he bought the historic Robinson plantation. In 2000, he was honored as ‘Teacher of the Year’ at the Huntsville ISD. In 2011, Bill published his first book about the plantation entitled, ‘To Live Again’, to which this book is a sequel.

Book preview

Coat of Arms

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The Robinson’s

1. Major William Robinson -––––––––––1799-1882

2. Eliza Jane Ware Robinson -–––––––––—1807-1876

3. Tod Robinson -––––––––––––––-1812-1870

4. Robert Tod Robinson -–––––––––––-1826-1878

5. Henry Ware Robinson -–––––––––––1828-1897

6. Gilbert Du Motier Robinson -––––––––—1834-1885

7. Mary Eliza Robinson -–––––––––––—1843-1932

8. Tod, Sr. Robinson -–––––––––––––1856-1927

9. Cornelius Ware Robinson -––––––––––1863-1926

10. Tod Jr. (Little Tod) Robinson -––––––––—1885-1931

11. Aubrey Hugh Robinson -––––––––––—1891-1945

12. Mary D. Gordon Robinson -–––––––––-1895-1968

13. Bess Blythe Tyson Robinson -–––––––––1914-2011

14. Libby Hansen Robinson -––––––––––—1916-2007

15. Hugh Tod Robinson -––––––––––––1920-1936

16. William Blythe Robinson, Jr. -–––––––––1935-

17. Dennis Michael Breen Robinson -–––––––—1958-

The West’s

1. Hazel Andrews West -––––––––––1921-2011

2. Roy Gene West -––––––––––––1938-2012

3. Bill Doyle West -––––––––––––1940-

4. Barbara Jane West -–––––––––––1941-2014

5. Shirley Jane West -–––––––––––-1946-

6. Vincent Doyle West -––––––––––-1964-

7. Leah Christine West -––––––––––1966-

8. Gina Rene West -–––––––––––—1968-

9. Julie Annette West -––––––––––—1969-

10. Brian Koester West -––––––––––—1986-

11. Shannon Doyle West -––––––––––1986-

12. Kevin Whitley West -––––––––––1986-

13. Kelly Whitley West -––––––––––-1988-

14. Eric Koester West -–––––––––––1988-

15. Brandon Cory West -––––––––––1988-

16. Brett Whitley West -––––––––––-1992-

17. Justin Wareham West -–––––––––—1993-

18. John Koester West -–––––––––––1994-

19. Laura Whitley Conley West -–––––––-1994-

20. Joey Wareham West -––––––––––-1996-

Chapter One

Angry At God

I was bitter and I was angry at the Almighty for taking my beautiful and beloved Barbara Jane, in my opinion, far too soon. He was the only one who could step in and save her from the awful cancer. She had loved Him more than life, dedicated and wholly committed to Him. Yet, He allowed her to suffer in great pain and agony, day after day, week after week, and month after month. How could any loving God, who has the power to heal, allow such suffering, especially to one who loved Him as she did, and then to take her from her loving family. Proof of her love for God Almighty can be seen in one of her tender moments. These were her words from which I wrote this poem:

Barbara’s Prayer

Dear Father,

Please forgive me

Where I have failed Thee.

I love you so much,

And I want so much

To please you more

Than anyone or

Anything else.

As for myself

Father, I pray Thee

For your praise only;

Not for that of men

And the world I’m in.

When I cannot please

My loved ones, please

Let it not break my

Heart, because if I

Am doing you’re will,

I’ll know I’ve pleased you still;

And God, that is alone

The greatest joy I own.

Amen

When she passed away in June of 2014, a close friend of mine in care and concern, said Bill, she’s in a better place now, and if she had a choice, she would not come back. But I didn’t want to hear that. I thought to myself, You’ve got to be kidding. You think she wouldn’t want to see her children, be with her grandchildren, witness the birth of our soon to be great grandchildren. You think she wouldn’t like to hear once again her daughter Julie’s beautiful orchestral symphonies. You think she wouldn’t like to be working her garden, feeding her animals, and enjoying life on her beautiful plantation. If she were in a concentration camp in World War II, I could understand, but to take her in the midst of her happiness was difficult to accept and make any sense of. We prayed hard for her, hoping He would hear and place his all-powerful healing hand upon her. But our prayers evidently fell on deaf ears as though they were little more than shifting sand. There were times when I could stand anywhere in our two-story home and hear her moaning and crying. Believing she could cure herself through natural and organic remedies, and with the help of God Himself, she refused professional help, until finally, it was too late.

When my emotions get the best of me, either good or bad, I sometimes turn to poetry for some kind of consolation. In the days following her burial, I wrote this:

Where Were You Lord

Where were you, Lord

When she lay there dying?

Where were you Lord

When she lay there crying

Where were You when unbearable pain

Riveted her body again and again

Who am I to question thy awesome power?

I am the one who watched her suffer.

I am the one who begged for your healing hand,

Yet the prayers meant little more than the shifting sand.

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Senior Prom–1959

In our days of youth, I had one talent, she had many. Before Barbara, there was only one Iove in my life–—baseball. I could hit a baseball 400 feet, as the following poem reflects upon such an occasion. In 1961, our team, the GCU Antelopes, was playing Western New Mexico University at Silver City, when it came my turn at bat.

My Turn at Bat

What’s he gonna throw? I don’t know!

Curve ball, knuckler, slider, or smoke?

He’s the best there is, or so they say,

With blinding speed in the light of day.

Lord, help this Mantle meet the pitch–

My Louisville slugger 35 inch.

The crowd is silent, it’s 3 and 2,

Come on sucker, it’s me or you!

With ducks on the pond, I must not fail.

On a two strike count, I’m swingin’ like, Wellll,

Hold it up Blue, let me dig in.

It’s my chance to go for the win.

Look for the fastball, I can adjust.

I’m goin’ yard, the Mick I can trust.

Steady now, take a deep breath,

Strikin’ out would be worse than death.

Here it comes, a letter high heater!

Swing boy, swing–now pull that trigger!

Bam!! It’s a sweet, sweet, long fly ball.

It’s over the centerfield wall!

No greater thrill as the crowd cheers on,

Four hundred feet, and this one is Gone!!

Barbara, however, could dance as a ballerina, she could paint with oils beautiful landscapes and portraits. She could play the piano to brighten up our home, and she could play softball with the best of them. On ice, she could skate skillfully and whirl like an Olympic champion. She was a mermaid in the water who could swim with speed and grace. Her grandchildren were the beneficiaries of her talent as she taught each of them how to swim. She was also a master gardener. If it wasn’t organic, she wouldn’t grow it. She could cook the best of meals, and she could sew the finest garments. In later life she authored her own book, Paradox, which is a masterpiece on how to live life for the greatest fulfillment. There was literally nothing she couldn’t do that she set her mind to. During all of this, she raised four wonderful children, setting the example of what a mother and wife should be.

From Sam Houston High School in 1959, my baseball scholarship took us to the young and exciting state of Arizona where we would be married at North Phoenix Baptist Church. While I played college baseball at Grand Canyon University and Arizona State University, she worked hard at Motorola in Phoenix to help sustain an income. Somehow, three of our four children were born before I graduated. I remember shortly after our marriage, I felt so special and blessed that God had given her to me that I wrote this:

How Do I Love Thee

How do I love thee o wonderful wife?

I love thee for what thou art—My life

I love you as the seed does love the rains

You are the blood that nourishes my veins

You truly make this life worth living

And for the next, this life worth giving

Your touch, your voice, your very presence

Makes me thankful for my existence

O I love thee, I love thee, I love thee

With the eternal kind of love God taught me

Deeper than thy flesh, stronger than this world

Able to withstand all that Satan hurls

That is how I love thee.

I remember discussing with Barb on many occasions the behavior of children, and not necessarily our own. We both observed that sometimes when some children would receive many gifts for Christmas, but did not receive the one item they wanted, they would hang their heads disappointed, frustrated, some even to the point of tantrums. They did not appreciate what they did have, and focused only on what they did not have.

It has been most difficult to reach this conclusion, but is it possible that I am acting as one of those unappreciative children? We were given 53 years of wonderful togetherness. We were given four wonderful children who have been close by our sides all of their lives. We have lived in beautiful places which any family would love to call home. We were blessed with eleven healthy and beautiful grandchildren who grew up close to us. Until Barb’s sickness, we have all lived healthy and active lives. There are many, many families and individuals who have not experienced such blessings as we have. Maybe that’s why it is so hard to let go. The greater the blessings, the more difficult it is to accept that it is over. Thank you Lord for what we did have.

Chapter Two

The Wilderness Family

One day, in 1962, in a Humanities class at Arizona State University, the professor shared with us a story of an exotic and beautiful place at the bottom of the Grand Canyon called Havasupai. The name means ‘People of the blue-green waters’. It referred to an ancient Indian tribe who still live there in their village known as ‘Supai’. They are one of the few native American tribes allowed to live on their original homeland. The professor showed us a slide show which revealed that the water there was just as turquoise as swimming pool water, and there Havasu Canyon glittered with magnificent blue-green waterfalls. He said the small tribe of about 300 Indians still lived like they did hundreds of years ago, in mud wikiups and hogans. When I got home that day, I told Barb of this place and said, We must go there. We bought a couple of backpacks and one canteen each and began the 200 mile trip in our little Volkswagon. Thirty miles the other side of Seligman, Arizona on Highway 66, we turned onto a dirt road and then drove 65 miles to Hualapai Hilltop, the edge of the Grand Canyon. This was the point from which hikers and horseback riders begin their eight mile trek into the village. It was late in the evening, later than we had planned, and we really had no idea how far it was to the village. There was no one there at the hilltop, just a few cars parked. I noticed at the trail head an old timey wind up type telephone on a pole. I thought, Maybe I can call the village and let them know we are coming. It’s probably only a short distance. I wound the lever on the phone and someone answered on the other end. Surprised, I said, Hello! We want to come down to the Indian village. An Indian voice answered, No! You come tomorrow, and then hung up. I said to Barb, We certainly can’t spend the night on this wind blown mountain top. Let’s hike down, and we can camp just outside the village. It’s probably not very far."

We began a journey that would forever linger in our memories. We hiked in the hot sand of the canyon floor as the sun began to retire. We zig-zagged around one canyon wall and then another following horse manure to keep us on the trail. Soon we were hiking in pitch darkness, not knowing where we were or whether we were heading in the right direction. In other words, we were lost in the bottom of the Grand Canyon in the middle of the night. To make matters worse, our canteens were empty, and Barb’s brand new cowboy boots were causing blisters. We heard the scream of a mountain lion and thought we saw its silhouette along the mountain ridge on the moonlit night. From time to time we knew that we heard rattlers along the trail. About midnight we crossed a stream, and then heard a dog bark and a cowbell tinkle. I knew we were getting close. Suddenly, we walked upon a wikiup, a mud and stick Indian home. The family was sleeping outside the wikiup in a cool breeze under the stars. The crackling embers from a dying campfire was close by. The father woke up and welcomed us to the village with the shake of his hand. He could not speak a word of English, but he knew what we needed. He took us into the wikiup and gave us a drink of water from his dipper and pale. He also gave Barb a pair of moccasins to soothe her blistered feet. We spent the rest of the night there with his family on the canyon floor in our sleeping bags. When we woke up the next morning, we were in a virtual paradise, complete with waterfalls and blue-green water. Havasu Creek meandered along the canyon floor through gardens and cornfields, with wild grapevines and flowers hanging like drapery on the red rock canyon walls.

This was such an unforgettable experience for Barb and I that shortly after the trip I wrote this narrative poem:

Havasupai%20full%20set%20043.JPG

Havasu Falls

Havasu Adventure

Down that dry, dusty, desert trail

We two set foot upon the tale

That miles across that burning floor

Lay some enchanted Indian shore

Where thundering falls of blue-green hue

The ancient ones call Havasu

Makes a paradise of that land

A jewel in the Canyon Grand.

But youth was in our blood that day

And unprepared nor sure the way

With one canteen and brand new boots,

A flashlight, and a little fruit,

We dared into that vast unknown,

And reaped the seeds that we had sown.

We hiked and walked and hiked some more

Enjoying nature’s desert store.

We dillyed here and dallyed there

Eating, drinking without a care,

Expecting now at any time

To reach our destiny sublime.

Twas then I gazed toward the sky–

Fear fell quickly into my eye.

The sun was ready to retire,

And crimson as a blazing fire,

The great walls were growing higher–

Time was beginning to expire.

Around the crooked canyon bends,

With blistered feet set to the winds,

Our food and water completely gone,

We searched, struggled, and stumbled on,

And soon with doubts of such a place,

Found our foolish selves face to face

With the deep dark wilds of the night–-

With hunger, with thirst, and with fright.

So we prayed that the path we trod

Would be led by the hand of God.

PART II

As we wandered now we wondered

What wild, creeping creatures pondered,

While lurking through the canyon still,

That we should be their evening meal.

Then, a vast quietness gripped the deep,

Like death, deeper, darker than sleep.

Suddenly, a shrieking scream shattered our spines–

The blood curdling cry of a lion

Shook the chasm from side to side

And left our souls electrified.

But just that moment did I see

A gentle light beyond a tree.

Is it, O could it be at last

The village of the ancient past?

So through the woods we went dashing

And were, in a moment splashing

Through some sweet, icy, babbling brook

Which echoed off the canyon crook.

A dog barked, a cow bell tinkled,

And soft Indian lights twinkled,

As we escaped the Raven’s hand

Into strange Havasupai land.

A crackling fire, barely breathing,

Warm red faces, unbelieving,

Warmed our hearts, made us honored guests,

And gave us water, food, and rest.

PART III

Soon the sun revealed the glory

Of the