Family Ties

Correction

This photo was mislabeled and the children were previously identified as belonging to Opal Alexander Blakney. On closer examination and after conferring with some other relatives, we have determined that the dark-haired child in the middle is Betty Jo Simmons. We are working on identifying the others. 

Mollie Alexander

Born May 31, 1913

Married Roy McCoy Hammons, February 8, 1936; divorced March 2, 1943

Children: Chloe, Royce Ann

Married Ira Eugene Willis, January 25, 1947

Children: Barbara and Frankie (twin girls)

Died April 1, 2002

 

Falling behind...

As usual I find myself behind schedule on several projects. However, I AM happy to report that I made a photo book of my homes album and I'm quite pleased with it. If you want a quality photo book I highly recommend Shutterfly. I can't even tell you how many books and calendars and other items I've made using their services. 

This week I'm going to be concentrating on my grandmother's Alexander siblings. I realized last week that I had met all of them except Thomas, who died in 1966, yet I know very little about most of them. I spent the most time with Aunt Mollie. Visited with Opal and Lois a few times. I vaguely remember Frank and James. I have very fond memories of Jame's wife, Ann. She was also my sister-in-law's aunt. 

So...I'm going to try to fill in some blanks and provide brief bios for each sibling.

Lois Alexander (Frank's wife), Beatrice Alexander Simmons, Mollie Alexander Willis, Opal Alexander Blakney

But first I have to share some recently acquired photos. These were in an album that belonged to Beatrice. My daughter had the album and recently she dismantled it. You should do the same if you have an older album with adhesive pages or glue tabs. The photos she shared with me are companions to some I already had. My aunt informed me that these were taken at a family gathering in 1955 after Edna Alexander had a heart attack. All of her children came to visit her. My grandmother, Bea, and her daughter Betty Jo, drove from Fresno, CA to Caddo, Ok in the car shown in these photos. The family later gathered at Mollie's house in nearby Sadler, Texas where these photos were taken.

Beatrice and Betty Jo

  

 

Drudgery

Another Photo

I've always enjoyed looking at these photos of my cousin Evelyn and me enjoying some time at the lake. However, it wasn't until recently that I discovered that I had this photo of my parents taken on the same day. I love that Mom is wearing high heels. (I'll add the photo to their album.)

Heubert Simmons

I’ve been scanning some photocopies that were in Beatrice Alexander’s things. I came across this one of Lee’s brother, Heubert Simmons. I don’t know much about him. Gran told me once that he had been kicked in the head by a mule when he was a child. According to her notes, he died when he was twenty.

Banta 1913

The Caddo Herald

May 30, 1913

Liberty Hill News

J.H. Wilkerson went to Caddo Saturday.

H.T. Faudree is suffering with rheumatism.

John Horton went to Caddo on business Saturday.

C.W. Banta made a running trip to Caddo Saturday morning.

Willis McKay and family spent the day with C. W. Banta and family Sunday.

C.C. Smith sent a bushel of potatoes to market Saturday. They were the first of the season from this section and were good size and brought him $1.50.

The church going people of Liberty Hill have remodeled the brush arbor and will have church and prayer meeting under the arbor hereafter. There was preaching last Sunday and next Sunday is Elder Taylor’s day.

L. B. Simmons

Lee's brother.

Speech

This is Mom’s speech for the Woman’s Literary and Music Club meeting. I’m not sure when it was written, but she mentions Lucille Coats’ funeral and Lucille died in 1986. I find it valuable as a family document because it says so much about the feelings and beliefs treasured and passed on by my ancestors.

Writing

by Colleen Simmons

In an article from Woman’s Day, titled “The Power of the Open Heart”, Ardis Whitman tells us about the old farmer who sat long and silently on the porch one spring evening with his wife of 50 years, then suddenly blurted, “Sometimes when I think what you have meant to me all these years, it’s all I can do to keep from telling you.”

And as funny as it may sound, it’s really sad and too often true. Sometimes it’s hard for us to talk to each other. Mrs. Whitman goes on to say that the reason we don’t communicate well is because we’re often defensive and afraid. “We are afraid of having our hearts touched, our sensitivity revealed,” she writes. “What will the other person think of us? What if we give away our inner flaws? What if we are rejected?”

Of course the lesson she has woven throughout her excellent article is that we should open our hearts to other people…listen to others and when we do express ourselves we should try to say what we mean. And she quotes this advice, “Don’t let anyone else write your lines for you. Be honest, be genuine, and be fair.”

And if a young writer were to ask me how to write, I’d tell him or her to “Write your own lines. Try to be honest, try to be genuine, and try to be fair.”

Thinking back through the years, I know I first became interested in writing about 50 years ago. My Grandpa Banta had a small country store and a little office where he kept this ancient, clackety-clackety typewriter and although I was still very young, I knew his typewriter represented a lot of good things. He was “the man of letters” at Liberty Hill and he wrote letters to the government for the neighbors. This was right after World War II and many needed help with their pension checks. And the Indians who lived near us in the woods, many couldn’t speak English so he wrote letters for them. And Grandpa wrote a weekly newspaper column for the Caddo Herald. Rufe Bolts was his pen name. He wrote of the births and deaths and cakewalks and revivals in the community and sometimes he even managed to sneak in a little preachin’ of his own.

I know you’ve read more of Della Springer’s columns than mine. I tried to figure it up once and I estimated that Mother had written about 4,160 articles and stories and newspaper columns in her lifetime. As you know, Mama had her own special style and searching through a scrap book of her columns, I found this one that seemed just right for today…the opening of deer season. It’s titled “Hanky-Panky in the Piney Woods”.

I’m sure there were times when English teachers may have winced while reading Mama’s columns. Her grammar, her word usage may not have always fit their textbooks, but this one aspect of writing is my biggest, biggest pet peeve.  And many of you may disagree with me. I don’t think every word we say or write has to be grammatically correct. I’d rather hear someone say “Ain’t it a beautiful day?” and mean it, than “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” and not mean it. There was a letter to the Editor recently from a lady who had criticized some children’s’ letters that were published in the Durant paper. And she was complaining because these little ones had made so many errors, but I thought their letters were priceless because they were so honest.

Rules of grammar change, even punctuation rules change, meanings of words change, but the feelings we need to express remain the same. I’m more concerned with what we say than how we say it. I mean…I can’t even spell. Only my editor, Lyn Fene, knows what a lousy speller I am.

But back to Mother’s writing style. I know that what impressed me the most about her writing was her spark of life, the enthusiasm for living she maintained despite almost total blindness and many other health problems. And then her audacity. She always stuck with her guns and wrote what she truly believed was right, regardless.

As for my own writing, when I was in high school the Lion’s Club had a writing contest and the subject was patriotism, the flag, and country. I won the $2.00 prize. Later I began to write True Confessions and True Stories because most young girls back then thought they had learned all about life from those magazines. I remember having three or four stories published in True Experience and True Confessions, but today I’m sure those magazines are quite different. I don’t think I’ll try to write any more of those.

During the 70’s I was very lucky because I found a Sunday supplement that published country stories and the editor seemed to like my work. So I had several stories published there about Grandpa Banta and farm life and my childhood on Liberty Hill. They published this article, “Does Your Child Have Trouble with His ABCs?” and the American Optometric Association gave me a national journalism award and $500. Of course I’m proud of the award, but six years later, in 1980, a grandmother in Seattle, Washington read my article and wrote telling me that because of her reading about my son’s Lazy Eye, she had discovered that her grandson had similar vision problems and after he had had surgery his vision was saved. The important thing to me is that a newspaper article in Oklahoma can reach across the miles and touch another life. We never know what our words will do. Just as they sometimes hurt so much, they can also help others.

And I wanted to tell you that of all my writing, this little story about “Annie” brought the most response. It was published in the Bryan County Star and people called me from Durant, Caddo, Calera, and Atoka, not because of my writing, but because of Annie Hartman’s courageous life. She lost five members of her family in the space of a few weeks and still she managed to survive, alone most of the time. And she remained the same sweet Annie.

I never intended to write newspaper columns. I always thought I would write novels and be rich and famous. But now I really appreciate having inherited my column space. I think we have so many unsung heroes today. I don’t know whether any of you attended Lucille Coats’ funeral. She taught school here for many years. But anyway, just before she had died she had written a letter to be read at her funeral and in the letter Lucille said, “I wish someone would write about the good students we have here at Caddo and all the good teachers.” I agree with her, don’t you?

I know I haven’t said anything about the art of writing, the mechanics of writing. If I stared talking about that we might be here all day. Or you might just get up and leave. I’ll just say that putting words on paper is very hard work, not very much fun. Most of the time it’s just a blank piece of paper and me. But unlike other fields of endeavor, there are no age limits, nor barriers to working. And we all have our stories to tell, don’t we?

Now in my remaining few minutes, I just happen to have brought my little notebook and I thought some of you might like to give me some ideas for my “Gentle Touch”.

Birds- A Family Affair

I wrote this for my niece and then decided to share it here. 

 

I suppose when I look back and give it even a moment’s consideration, it seems clear that my passion for our feathered friends was inevitable, built into my genes by generations of bird lovers before me.  This article written by my great-grandfather indicates that he began caring for the birds at least two years before my mother was even born and he had a little more than ten years to influence her love for them before he died.

 

The Caddo Herald

Friday, October 18, 1940

Liberty News, Save the Birds

For the past ten years this scribe has labored to make our place a bird refuge, and began to think we would accomplish our aim, but the nimrods have raided our pets until it looks like they are in danger of extermination. Too bad, for our farms will be desolate indeed if the bird life is taken away, but boys will be boys and we can do nothing about it. The worst part is some men who should put away such childish and cruel sports are worse than the boys because they are the better marksmen. We wonder if it would be possible to persuade these nimrods to desist their ruthless slaughter, and help us to make this community lively with the song birds. Last spring we had 13 mocking birds nesting on and near our premises, also bluebirds and wrens galore, but now we rarely ever see one of the feathered tribe. Paul said: “When I was a child I thought as a child and acted as a child, but when I became a man I put away the childish things.” Neighbors, won’t you join me in protecting the bird life of our community? Birds are our friends and but for them the insects would despoil us. Such conduct by grown men reminds me of Hitler sending his army of destruction in a defenseless nation like Poland or Denmark and dropping bombs on defenseless children. Our pets are as defenseless as they, and have no way of resistance. They cannot fight back and it is a heartless cruelty to murder the little things. Rufe Bolts (Calvin Banta)

 

Mother never mentioned birds much when talking about her childhood, but she often spoke of and wrote about chickens and the many life lessons she learned while helping her grandfather raise them. Her parents also had chickens and when I was a child we always kept chickens if we had a place for them.

When I was about nine Mom had a parakeet that she was quite fond of and it often rode on her shoulder. One day Dad was working on a car in the yard and she came out of the door to ask him something, not realizing the bird was still clinging to her. Remarkably, it stayed put as she eased back inside. I don’t recall how long we kept the bird, but we didn’t have it later when we moved to town. However, when we lived at the ranch on Polk Street we kept a dozen parakeets in a cage about four feet wide by six feet tall that Dad built on the back porch.

When we moved again, farther down Polk Street, we acquired Louie and Dewey, large geese who soon blessed us with baby Huey. It was at that same house where I first attempted to hand-feed a baby bird I’d found under a tree. I think it lived about twenty-four hours.

I suppose if that had been the extent of my family influence I might have been just a casual bird lover or even abandoned the hobby as I got older. However, Dad’s family was even more strongly attached to birds, and to one in particular.

But before I tell you about Tweetie, I should mention that my great-grandmother, Edna Alexander, kept a plastic parrot hanging on her front porch. I don’t remember if she ever told me why she had the beautiful thing, but I can imagine that her answer would have been, “Because I like it.” That was her approach to most things in life. Anyway, I don’t know how Dad felt about it, but I loved to gaze at it and I imagined having a real one when I grew up.

Dad’s love of all things feathered obviously began at home. Granny Simmons raised chickens, his parents raised chickens, and Dad showed poultry all through high school. He won several awards. He continued to raise birds- parakeets, doves, quails, pheasants, turkeys, and “novelty” chickens throughout his lifetime. We also had a few ducks and geese from time to time, but they required living conditions we couldn’t always provide. I kept homing pigeons when my eighth grade teacher moved and left his with me. Dad built them a cage.

Grandad kept a pet crow who only tolerated the rest of us while perched on Grandad’s shoulder. He “talked” in a scolding voice if we got too close. Thank goodness Grandad kept him in a cage outside next to the guinea pigs. (Yes, he also kept about a dozen guinea pigs and a dog. Never a cat.)

One of my first memories of the Forestiere house on Polk Street where Gran lived and where we later lived, was of Uncle Don dancing in the living room with his girlfriend, Marie. He carried a bird on his shoulder- a green parakeet named Tweetie. He was the spoiled rotten “fourth child” of the Simmons family.

Tweetie slept in his cage at night and when Gran entertained or when she thought too many people were smoking, but he generally had the run of the house when she was home. He bathed in the big farmhouse sink in the kitchen, sat on the shade of his favorite lamp, and ate at the table, sometimes from Gran’s plate. He “wolf-whistled” whenever Aunt Betty or Mom walked in the room and appropriately called out “Pretty Baby”. He could be loving and affectionate or give you a peck on the hand that would ache for the rest of the day. Tweetie lived for twelve years and there was a void left that Gran never attempted to fill.

For a short time I thought I might keep parakeets. I bought two and we’d had had them for less than a year when we went on vacation for a few days. I forgot to turn off the coffee pot and called Gran, who lived next door, to tell her so. Instead of going over to turn it off, she sent Grandad, who was never quite sober. He left the door open.  Later our dogs got into the house. When we returned, the cage was on its side, the birds were gone, the house was a wreck, and our Doberman and Airedale were eager to greet us.

There were other birds after that, but never another parakeet. I raised finches for a while, and then white doves. Gradually though, our transient lifestyle made cats and dogs much more practical pets. I had to satisfy my affection for birds by watching, feeding, and photographing wild ones, just as I still do today.