God, Ghosts, and Grannies: Guiding Me Through the Generations

By Shirley Booth-Byerly

Shirley Booth-Byerly has been addicted to the study of genealogy since childhood; she loves the never-ending battle of discovering subtle links, possibilities, impossibilities, and misconceptions. In God, Ghosts, and Grannies, she tells the story of her family—where they came from and how they settled in South Alabama and Northwest Florida.

 

Telling the events as literary nonfiction and taking genealogy to a new level, her story shares insights from six generations, six unique individuals, each viewing life from slightly skewed, rose-colored glasses. Shirley melds humor, drama, and a living experience with research, resources, and revelations.

 

Gods, Ghosts, and Grannies narrates a story of people’s lives, their hopes, their dreams, and the realities they faced while struggling, working, and tending their homes; the same homes that convey tranquil memories, laughter, sunshine, and contentment—memories forever gone when no one is left to tell the stories or no one cares to listen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Oct 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781458220714

Shirley Booth-Byerly

A retired librarian, Shirley Booth-Byerly has specialized in research most of her life, acquiring in the process master’s degrees in American history and continuing education. But her passion has always been and continues to be puzzle solving, particularly those involving genealogical brick walls.   Shirley’s insatiable interest, perseverance and skill has aided in finding many ‘needles in the haystack’ of family history. She loves to share her passion and considerable knowledge and experience by helping others discover their stories. Shirley can be reached at [e-mail].

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Copyright © 2018 Shirley Booth-Byerly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2073-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2072-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2071-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016920724

Abbott Press rev. date: 10/08/2018

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Cast of Characters in Part 1

Part One

A Curiously Confusing Childhood

Chapter 1 I guess that would be me

Chapter 2 The Hex

Chapter 3 A Sorting of Grandparents

Chapter 4 Summers in Alabama

Chapter 5 Flower Power

Chapter 6 Aaaahhhhh—Yeah

Part Two

Figuring Out My Family

Chapter 7 My Mother’s Generation

Chapter 8 My New Daddy, David Elvon Hall

Chapter 9 The Greatest Generation: Granddaddy and Uncle Hunter

Chapter 10 A Generation of Saints: Big Mama and Big Daddy

Chapter 11 Alfred Eisenstaedt Comes to Town

Chapter 12 The Steele Women: Six Generations without a Gap

Chapter 13 Mama Booth’s Explanation

Chapter 14 Fear: 1963

Chapter 15 My Worlds Collide

Chapter 16 The Beginning of a Quest

Chapter 17 Broken Pieces

Part Three

Research and Stupid Mistakes: Searching for Ancestors

Chapter 18 Finding my John Posey Booth

Chapter 19 Paternally Maternal: Grandpa Booth’s Connection With historical author, Timothy Horton Ball

Chapter 20 Hirum Creighton and Family

Chapter 21 The Jordan Family

Chapter 22 Another talk with Granddaddy My Maternal Side

Chapter 23 The Tarvin Family and Fort Mims

Chapter 24 Benjamin Jernigan

Chapter 25 William Godwin

Chapter 26 Henry Kennedy & the Chavers Family

Chapter 27 Jesse Baggett

Chapter 28 The Malphrus Family

Chapter 29 David Steele & Sarah Malphrus

Chapter 30 William Emmons & Elizabeth Malphrus

Chapter 31 Coming Full-Circle

Chapter 32 War! & Rumors of War

Chapter 33 Clarifying the Obvious

Epilogue

Bibliography and Suggested Readings

About the Author

For Bill and my children

… It is a historical truth. No man can know where he is going unless he knows exactly where he has been and exactly how he arrived at his present place.

—Maya Angelou

When in this world vain man appears tis unknown where he’ll die. Or in what clime he’ll spend his years, or where his dust must lie.

—Jesse Moore Malpass, headstone epitaph

Acknowledgments

My tee-shirt is printed with: You haven’t lived until you’ve died at Fort Mims, and every August, I do just that. Sweating up a storm and smelling like a rotten egg, I perform my annual, swooning fake-death. Often collapsing into anthills and tree sap, and frequently beset with wasp-stings, and heat exhaustion, I am always thoroughly moved by the experience of reliving someone else’s tragic death. My discomfort is miniscule compared to the misery, terror and heated mob hysteria of that truly horrible summer day in 1813 that birthed the saying, Good Lord Willing and the Creek don’t rise; referring not to a stream or river, but to the Native American Red Stick Creeks.

Humbled and grateful beyond measure, I have and owe much respectful appreciation to the deserving and dedicated Fort Mims Restoration Association. I include all the members of the board, as well as the entire community, who allow our reenactment of the tragic first Southern war between brothers. To Claudia, Marilyn, and the late Ms. June, you made us feel like members of your family and we love you.

A very special thank you is particularly deserved by each of my friends who graciously supported and encouraged me throughout this process; Pat Beatty; the late David Bowen; Wesley and Frances Bridges; Ann Briggs; Joey and Kim Browder; Carol Court; Sehoya Jordan; Dan and Susan Koier; Kim Mumbower; Susan Norrie; Marsha Owens and Bill Key; Cherry Peek; Tonya Pinson; Fred and Lisa Sakon; Richard Schellhammer; Troy and Kathy Strickland; the late Gene Thompson Glisson; and Theresa Wood. May God bless each of you. The Supreme Being and a guiding nudge from each of my ancestors brought you into my life, and I am exceptionally grateful.

Naturally, I must also give a great big hug to each committee member at Abbott Press and FamilyTree Magazine for selecting my essay as the grand prize winner. A special thanks to Steve Baxter, Caleb VanDeman, and Diane Haddad, who each encouraged me beyond belief. I also give a special mention to Madison Lux, Cheri Tolley, Audrey Wray, and Kevin Foran, wonderful folks who answered each of my questions with patience and smiles. Thank you all.

Finally, to the most important people in my life, a huge thank you and I love you to my children, Trina, Trisha and Blake, and to each and every member of my family, immediate and extended, who continues to love this weirdly demented genealogy nut (a.k.a. Nanny Fruit-Loop, thank you George!), most especially, my sisters, and my adorable husband; the man who deserves the moon, the stars, and all the planets, but he settled for me. I love you Bill.

Introduction

I was the epitome of the 60’s generation, make love, not war, flower power, Kent State, assassinations, black and white, no shades of gray. Dropping acid, smoking dope, peace, love, and comfort—I searched for them all. I knew more than anyone, I was smarter than everyone and, in the summer of my sixteenth birthday I ran away from home. I could have dropped acid, smoked dope, and disappeared forever. I now see the hazards of it all. I could have died. Instead, I met Bill.

Bill Byerly took me home, announced to my Mom that we were getting married (he never asked me), and, three days later, we were legally hitched. When our first daughter was born, Alfred Eisenstaedt, the LIFE photographer, came to photograph our family of six living generations.

Eisenstaedt was the first famous person I ever met; he came to South Alabama when my daughter was 10 months old, expressly to photograph Trina, me, and her grandmothers. That early summer day not only gave us our fifteen minutes of Andy Warhol fame, it changed our lives forever.

There we were, six generations, six individuals, each viewing the world through uniquely skewed rose-colored glasses. A curious Eisenstaedt asked my great-great grandmother when her birthday was. She replied, I was born November 18, 1871.

Astonished, Eisenstaedt asked, You were born only six years after the end of the Civil War?

That’s right, she answered, and I fed Jesse James biscuits on my back porch.

I suddenly realized there was so much I didn’t know about my family. It occurred to me that if I didn’t know much about the women who sat near me, I knew nothing about my paternal side.

I knew my father was lost at sea from the USS Princeton during the Korean Conflict. My mother was pregnant at the time. I knew his mother, Mama Booth, wanted me to absorb the vast genealogical knowledge that flowed from her lips during our numerous fishing escapades. She taught me Irish superstitions, how to milk a cow, and how to keep baby quail alive when their mother disappeared.

Yet, when I asked about my father, she always answered with, Let’s not talk about that, abruptly ending any conversation.

My vivid imagination concluded that somehow our family was connected to the infamous John Wilkes Booth. No one would tell me anything, except that my father’s grandfather was named John Posey Booth, and he was murdered when my grandfather was only two years old.

That day, sitting in the hot Alabama sun, with all my grandmothers surrounding me, my addiction to finding our family history was born. I had to know more; especially after I discovered that not only was my grandfather murdered, but also my maternal and paternal families were interwoven with marriages and love through seven major conflicts, all the way back to the Revolutionary War, when my paternal fourth great-grandmother and my maternal fourth great-grandmother were growing up as siblings in the Carolinas.

This essay was the winning entry in the "FamilyTree Magazine/Abbott Press Family History Contest." I entered the contest on a whim; I read the announcement online, noticing that only the first two-hundred entries would be considered, and that essays must be five-hundred words, or less. I started writing. Two hours later, I had my essay, but it contained six hundred and forty-two words. So, I did what every editor does. I cut, and cut, until the number at the bottom of the word document read 500. Then I hit the send button!

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Writing a family history is exceptionally difficult. The writer must be honest, while also respecting and honoring both ancestors and descendants. Besides, one’s family history cannot be fiction; it would then become a novel. But writing pure truth often becomes boring; or worse, it could damage relationships beyond repair. So, a book about family history is often perceived as walking a tightrope without a net—dangerous, if not impossible. Yet, that is what I am attempting to do.

I’m trying to tell the story of our family—where we came from, how we came to be here in South Alabama and Northwest Florida, and be honest, while also attempting to treat with dignity and honor the lives of my ancestors. Primary sources are used whenever possible, so newspaper reports are inserted to simply report a contemporary scenario of events. One caveat—I am dealing specifically with direct ancestors and their lives. If you happen to be a 3rd cousin of Benjamin Jernigan, you will find information on him. But if you are looking for information on one of his brothers or nephews, due to time and page length restraints this book may simply give you a starting point for your research.

I have, quite literally been addicted to genealogy since childhood. If you happen to know me personally, do not instinctively create a preconceived notion of what this book must be like. You may also be curious as to how and why I settled on this title. Genealogy is a never-ending battle of discovering subtle links, possibilities, impossibilities, and misconceptions. Many times, I have witnessed folks use the internet, see a link, jump on it and copy the information as if it is pure truth. I want to explain the other end of the spectrum: to suspect everything until it is verified with more than one primary source.

My perceptions of my family’s history may appear skewed at first, but I assure you I have conducted intense and extensive research. However, I also have a unique view of the opinions within this manuscript and will be the first to acknowledge the inimitable spin I have inserted here and there. Part One is unique and stand-alone, Part Two pertains to ancestors I knew personally, Part Three is my own research based on primary sources as well as the conclusions I came to and why I reached these conclusions.

By the way, the Squattley family is a figment of my imagination (my grandson would call them Nanny’s Fig Newton’s of imagination), modeled after numerous people I grew up with, or heard stories of, but they are not of any direct relation and, therefore, are used only as continuity to the story of my true family history. Another caveat to remember, errors are unintentional but do occur. I accept all responsibility and encourage other researchers to contact me with any questions.

Cast of Characters in Part 1

Mama: Rita Moye Booth Hall

Father: Ples Farrish Booth

Daddy: David Hall

Granddaddy: Rayburn Moye

Grannymama: Geneva Godwin

Moye

Big Daddy: John B. Godwin

Big Mama: Stella Steele Godwin

Granny Steele: Roxanne Kennedy Steele

Grandpa Godwin: John A. Godwin

Mama Booth: Nettie Jordan Booth

Grandpa Booth: Gordon C. Booth

Great-Grandfather: J. P. Booth

John Posey Booth

Johnny: My Uncle, Johnny Moye

The Squattley Family Our neighbors made up of a composite of acquaintances in South Alabama

Folks say, Home is where the heart is. Perhaps for some that is true. But on a larger scale, home must be roots. Home is a place for which not only you have struggled and worked, but also those before you. It is a place where trees have been planted, felled, and again replanted not for one’s self, but for the next generation. It is a place that patiently waits for your return and appears lonely until the sound of children playing returns to its hills.

That is what life is all about—home—an area of land that fades into non-existence when those who once loved it are all gone. This is a story of people’s lives, their hopes, their dreams, and the realities they faced while struggling, working, and tending their homes; the same homes that convey tranquil memories, laughter, sunshine, and contentment; memories forever gone when no one is left to tell the stories, or no one cares to listen.

Part One

A Curiously Confusing Childhood

Chapter One

I guess that would be me

The first time I was accused of lying involved a school assignment concerning family trees. I was seven years old, yet it feels as if it occurred just yesterday. When I completed the assignment, my tree looked exceptionally lopsided as I knew very little of the paternal side of my family (with only Mama Booth and Grandpa listed), but my maternal side showed many roots, numerous grandmothers, and three grandfathers.

My second-grade teacher patiently explained the concept of a child, two parents, four grandparents, and possibly one or two surviving great-grandparents. When I attempted to explain that I had Grannymama, Big Mama, Granny Steele, Mama Booth, Granny Hanks, and Granny Hall, the teacher looked at me, sighed, and simply stated, That’s impossible. Then she walked to the front of the classroom and announced that Shirley apparently has an overactive imagination.

I started crying, elephant tears tracking down my cheeks, and I didn’t speak aloud to anyone at school for two years. Looking back at the episode now, I’m amazed how something so silly can be so exceptionally traumatic to my seven-year-old psyche and would quite literally guide my footsteps for the rest of my life.

My earliest memories are of living with my maternal grandparents. The household was made up of Granddaddy and Grannymama; Uncle Johnny; the twins, and their sister Rita (my mother) and me. Mama was rarely at home—she worked shift work at the local nylon plant where she met my stepfather, David E. Hall. When Mama wasn’t at work she was sleeping; but, even then, Grannymama never told me I had to stay quiet.

I sat in front of the big floor fan watching the spinning blades, singing Ahhhhh to the sound of the blades humming. Johnny would scoot up close to me and we would spend hours watching the blades spin and listening to the differences in sound and tone between Johnny’s voice and mine.

Sometimes I danced in dust bunnies that flurried in the sunshine while Grannymama swept the dusty floor of the Gonzalez Community House or beat the throw rugs hanging on the clothesline while Johnny asked if we could drive the logging truck when Granddaddy got home from work.

Our house was built originally as a meeting place for community activities in Gonzalez, Florida. There weren’t any walls, just one huge room with beds partitioned off with hanging quilts and a kitchen sink stationed in the far-right corner of the oversized room with flour-sack curtains hiding the few pots and pans stored under the sink cabinet. Granddaddy somehow managed to rent the house, and Mama moved back in with her parents while she was pregnant with me and my father was away in the Navy.

Grannymama was the official babysitter since she was watching over me as well as her own child, Johnny. The twins were twelve when I was born, and Johnny was ten, but because he had cerebral palsy, his tiny frame looked more like that of a six-year-old. Johnny’s crutches assisted his walking, but he could maneuver those crutches and swing his body in just such a way that he always outran me.

Uncle Johnny was named after Big Daddy, John B. Godwin. Johnny was more like an older brother than an uncle and he loved to tell me secrets. We often climbed into Granddaddy’s log truck, Johnny driving and me set up as look-out, and, in our imaginations, we travelled all over both Escambia Counties, Florida and Alabama.

As Johnny pretended to clutch and shift gears he’d ask, Have we come up on the crossroads yet?

I would lean forward, peer out the window, and reply, Nope, we ain’t at the crossroads, we’re just now coming up on Palafox, we ain’t made it to the diner yet.

We would travel on, Johnny pretend gear-shifting and me giving directions, past St. Regis Paper Mill, where we would hold our noses from the pretend stink of the pulp-mill. Then we continued up Highway 29, with mile after mile of never-ending pine forests. Finally, we pretended to drive all the way into Century and over the viaduct into Flomaton, leaving northwest Florida and entering southern Alabama, both states sharing the same county name of Escambia.

One afternoon as we pretend drove north, Johnny teased me about my last name. He explained how we were related, and how everyone in the house had the last name of Moye except Mama and me. Johnny told me about my Daddy and how much he loved my Daddy but that we had to keep it secret because my Daddy was on a secret mission for the United States Government. He was working undercover to prove a conspiracy and clear the Booth name with the Lincoln assassination. Johnny whispered that we had to keep it a big secret, and he stressed the word, BIG.

Your Daddy is going to be famous, Johnny whispered. Him and Rita took me to the drive-in, and Ples bought me a foot-long hotdog, but it kind of tasted a little funny and I think it’s because the bad people were watching us, even then.

When was that, Johnny? I asked with amazement.

It was when Ples came home from the Navy. It was the Navy that gave him undercover duties and that’s why he can’t tell us where he is. Johnny replied, nodding seriously.

We journeyed on, in our minds, turning right onto Highway 31, then left onto Upper Creek Road passing our Aunt Johnnie Mae’s house across the road from their pallet plant. We often giggled about the company being named White’s Pallets after Uncle Pete’s last name, while Uncle Pete’s house was also always painted white. White for the Whites, Johnny would chuckle. Eventually we passed Traveler’s Rest Cemetery, then Johnny pretended to down-shift, and we slowed down as the road turned to clay, inched our way through the graveled creek-bed, and swiftly sped back up to climb the steep hill into Moyeville, Alabama. Johnny would show me Uncle Hunter’s house and Aunt Thelma and Uncle Tem’s place, and then he would point over to where my mother and father lived as sharecroppers until my daddy joined the Navy. We passed the turn to Moyeville Baptist Church, with the churchyard all clean and pristine next to the sagging, rotten, and overgrown house on the corner. It was such a sad house. The house always sat empty for as long as I could remember. Kudzu and wisteria vines intertwined the roof to the point that the roof beams were splitting, allowing sunshine to cast shadows among the dust and cobwebs, creating surreal, dancing images of movement.

Johnny pretended to slow again to round the zigzag curves cutting through Grandpa Booth’s place before travelling on to Stanley Crossroads, turning right and finally driving toward Pineview, where we would pretend visit with Big Daddy and Big Mama. Johnny and I pretend visited with Grandpa Godwin who was in his bed in Big Daddy’s front bedroom, and during our travels, we would take a break and visit with all the Godwin’s. Sometimes, Johnny would pretend that Suzie and Sharon were with us on our trips, and we would pretend talk, all together, Johnny pretend acting himself as well as Suzie, me playing myself and Sharon. Cousins all together, the way it’s supposed to be, Johnny would pronounce gleefully.

On the way home, (if Grannymama hadn’t yelled at us to get out of Granddaddy’s truck yet), we would pretend stop by the cemeteries. We drove up Wildfork Road first, then stopped by the Pineview Cemetery, and on our pretend trip back to Cantonment, we stopped and visited Traveler’s Rest. Johnny would tell me which headstones we should pretend to decorate with flowers. We described the fragrant wisteria, roses, or whichever flower was in season, and we made certain that everybody in heaven knew we stopped by to see them by waving to the sky.

Another one of our favorite pastimes—real, not pretend—was playing chase near the train-tracks half a block from the Community House. I would take off, running as fast as possible. Johnny would count to three, then take off, swing his body in several great strides, and out-run me in a heartbeat. Then we would fall into the grass, giggling, as I grabbed his crutches, trying to learn how to be as fast as Johnny. He would laugh at the sight of me, trying to hold onto extra-long handles while putting the crutches under my much—too—short armpits, and we would giggle even more as I attempted to walk, only to trip and tumble into the grass alongside Johnny. We were happy.

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Then, one day, our little world of make-believe came crashing down around us, quite literally. It was dark, and I remember Mama shouting and Granddaddy cursing while a strange man was arguing with him. The man was drinking, but Granddaddy was too, so I think that was part of the disagreement. Granddaddy was saying that the man could take Rita but he couldn’t take me and the man was saying that the child belonged with her mother. I remember the sound of the coffee table crashing against the wall, tiny pieces scattering throughout the room as it crumbled like dry cornbread.

Johnny and I huddled together on the double bed we shared across the room from the living room couch and the coffee table. Since we were just little children, we didn’t need a quilt wall hanging around our bed, besides, being part of the living room and kitchen area allowed Grannymama to keep an eye on us even while we were napping.

That night, Grannymama was crying as she gathered up the pieces of wood that were once our coffee table and carried the wood out the back door to the burn barrel. Out front, we could still hear yelling and screaming, then the sounds of a car getting stuck in mud. There were tires spinning and Granddaddy cursing, then, at some point, Johnny and I went to sleep.

The next morning it was obvious in the markings on the yard how badly the car had gotten stuck. The mangled pieces of my tricycle lay buried in the mud where Daddy, as I came to know David Hall, had used the tricycle as traction to get out of the mud.

Granddaddy was the epitome of the Frank Sinatra I Did It My Way type of guy. Some folks loved him, some folks hated him; my mother viewed him as a saint and other people saw him as only a sinner. He never cared what people thought. He could charm anyone, and he charmed freely and contentedly. Ironically, I now think Daddy and Granddaddy were quite alike, but at that time, I loved my Granddaddy; David Hall was the man who crushed my tricycle.

Chapter Two

The Hex

It was the summer I turned five when Mama Booth put the hex on me. Try as I might, I cannot remember the exact day or time that it occurred. Perhaps my total lapse of memory was part of the hex itself. I do remember the events leading up to it, or at least I think I do, but I just can’t be sure. It had to be the summer of 1958.