VINA

By Amanda S Hardick and Russell Shuler

"VINA" is the story of a woman born in a red dirt Soddy in Indian Territory in 1890. Kidnapped and lost to her family for fourteen years, it follows her journey to find herself amid an age of great change for women. Vina's strength, courage, and self-respect were the foundations of her life, leading to Houston society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: OMEGA BAY PUBLISHING
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869304896

Book preview

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CONTENT

This book is mostly fiction, the characters being my relatives who lived in the times depicted. However, actual incidents are also included, based on word-of-mouth stories handed down through the generations, such as family Bibles, journals, postcards, photos, and other memorabilia. The conversations, thoughts, and events portrayed in this work are entirely a product of the author’s imagination in an attempt to bring to life my ancestors’ experiences for future generations.

Copyright © 2024 Amanda Struben Hardick

All rights reserved. Published in the United States.

Book Design and Layout by Russell Shuler.

(pronounced vīn ä)

FOREWORD

By Author

History can only be understood by understanding the times in which incidents occurred. I inherited over 200 Victorian Post Cards in beautiful ornate albums saved by my maternal grandmother. By the time I received them, over a hundred years later, the albums had deteriorated into dust, but the cards were well preserved. Short, quick notes written in pencil to and from family and friends that she held close, can still be read. Each post card is a work of art and a sentiment of caring: good news, bad news, lighthearted jokes, admonishments and declarations of love. I rescued the cards from the dust and preserved them and tucked them away. I cherish the post cards and in recent years, I have come to think of them as the texts of a past generation.

I thought about them occasionally and even knowing much about my mother’s family, I had a few questions. While visiting my mother’s sister, Rosemary McBride, then in her nineties in a nursing home, and as sharp as ever, I asked her why my grandmother, Nana, had so many last names. You don’t know about the kidnapping?, she answered. I was speechless, never having known of such an event. She added that things like that just weren’t talked about back then. She relayed the few details she knew, and I jotted them down when I arrived home. That was in 2013, over eleven years ago. I occasionally told the story as cocktail conversation, but it stayed in my mind. I found it difficult to reconcile the Nana that I knew as a child of twelve with a woman who had such a unique history. The women in my family have always been strong, but I never thought about the source of that strength and tenacity, until recently.

My mother was a writer and has left many histories and family stories for future generations to read. In all of her many writings, there is nothing to hint at the kidnapping or the missing 14 years of her mother Vina’s life. Having known my grandmother and even as a child feeling her strength, I felt compelled to make sure her story was told. My intention was to write a quick essay to tuck in one of my mother’s many volumes. This grew from a Saturday afternoon project to an intense four months. I have loved every minute of research, rediscovered photographs, and getting to know Vina, and I hope readers will also.

PART ONE

Amanda Melvina Nichols Knight, 1859-1892

Chapter One

Amanda Melvina Nichols Knight

One hundred seventy-nine miles to travel from my home as I had known it. One hundred and seventy-nine miles from those I have loved and those I have buried there. My sweet baby, Benjamin, barely two years old and recently left in the ground that I loved but wouldn’t sustain us. His older brother Moody buried nearby. I felt every rut, every rock, every pebble, and every mile while sitting on a wooden plank in our cramped covered wagon. I was surrounded by the damp mildew smell of old stained canvas ,and the creaking sound of wood straining to hold the wagon together with all of the possessions we owned. Crowded with sacks of staples we had brought for food, tools to build a home, a few blankets, my prized iron stove, three sons ten, eight, and five, and a multitude of prayers for a better life. My beloved, headstrong husband and fourteen-year-old son, Risdon, sat up front to steer the horses. I held my Bible in my lap to protect it and receive its strength. I tried to entertain my boys with songs and stories to help the time pass. I told them about my father, their grandfather, who was named Risdon Daniel Nichols. He fought in the infantry in the Civil War, and I concocted stories about his bravery. He was captured and died in a POW camp, but I left that part out. Our possessions shifted constantly in the tight space battering me and taking away what optimism I had.

It was early April 1889, and the weather was still mild as we headed North. It was welcome because we had survived the past winter with failed crops and much sadness. I was still grieving Benjamin, and the bit of sunshine on my face was healing and gave me hope. Our last crops had finally yielded enough to get a little bit ahead. There were lots of families like ours. We were blessed to still have two horses and an old covered wagon. James even made several extra wheels to carry with us. Many were on foot and carrying or dragging their belongings. Some travelers looked more desperate than we were. With every mile, there were more men or families or even a few single women all with the same purpose—to own their own land. No one seemed to care that it was land that had been ceded by the Indians to the government after the Civil War, only that the government was making it available to homesteaders like us.

James was sure that with lots of prayers, healthy sons, hard work, ingenuity, and a lot of luck that we could meet the requirements to homestead. In only five years, we would own one hundred and sixty acres, but I thought to myself that for every gruesome mile of this trip, we would own an acre of land, and still, I wasn’t convinced that it was going to be a good trade for me. If the weather held out, we would make almost ten miles a day. We would make camp and settle in for the night. Usually, we were joined by other families who felt as we did, that it was safer for us to be in groups. The Indians were still very unknown to us, and we had heard fearsome stories, but most agreed it was worth the risk.

The women cooked and got acquainted while the children ran around playing and hollering. The men had made campfires and were taking care of animals, sharing stories, and a few had brought whiskey. Fear of the unknown was palatable. This was considered a last chance by many, and nerves led to tempers that erupted unexpectedly. Occasionally a fight broke out among both strangers and friends. The possibility of Indian encounters tended to sober the crowd before the men became too rowdy. Several of the men offered to stand watch over our camp at night. I suppose that gave comfort to many of us. We were told that the Creek and Seminole Indians, whose former land we were headed for, had been paid for that land that now was made available to folks like us. But we also heard that some of the tribes were not happy with that Federal Treaty, and it was possible that they would make trouble for us. Thankfully, we were blessed with only friendly encounters even though the threat of the Indians’ possible resistance was intimidating.

The