Letters from the Past

Many things have been going on in my life lately.

In the past few weeks, I have been in a whirlwind of getting my book ready to be sent to the printer's. No one, unless they have published a book, has any idea what goes on after the satisfying words, "The End". I will blog about this soon. It will change your mind that "everyone has a book in them just waiting to be published". Hogwash. More on that later.

My Texas cousins visited for a week, and brought with them a plethora of old photographs they had collected from their mother's collection.

The most emotional thing they brought with them, for me, was two letters written by our great-grandmother, Henrietta Drennon James. 

She was my paternal grandmother's mother. When I was a child, all the "old maid" aunts (that's what they were called, all you single girls, don't throw rocks at me!) said I looked much like Henrietta did as a child. 

Her nickname was Etta. Even her obituary calls her Etta. She was nineteen years old when she died of the Red Measles.

Which, by the way, I almost died of when I was nine years old.

My grandmother was a six month old baby. She had a two year old brother, Herbert.

Oddly enough, the letters are written to Etta's husband's sister, Arminda (or Aunt Mindy as we called her when I was a child. Yes, she lived for almost ever.) 

It is clear Etta is lonesome and pining for some company or an opportunity to visit the family. 

She is educated, writes well, and is articulate.

Here is her picture: 

And, yes, she is part Cherokee. 

Here are photo copies of her letters:

She was about six months pregnant with my grandmother when she penned this letter.

and here is the other one, written fourteen months before my grandmother was born:

page one

and :

Page two

I also have her hat, which you can see on the cover of my  novel, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree"

Daughter is the model for the cover photo, and she wore the hat with other clothing that has meaning for our family.

Sometimes history just feels like some dusty page you have to memorize in a poorly ventilated classroom in seventh grade after recess when you are hot and sleepy.

But this history is still alive - through me, all my cousins and our children, and their children...

Family.