If your kin are like mine, you probably have a skeleton or two hanging in the family closet.
Some of my relatives still lower their voices when they ponder the fate of a long-lost ancestor: he is my great-grandfather and resident family skeleton, George Thomas Jones.
Very little is known about George. His name was never spoken as my father grew up in Whistler, Alabama. As the lore goes, George made his way west in the early 1900’s, leaving his wife and baby daughter (my grandmother) behind in Mobile, Alabama. It’s not clear why he went west. George may have been searching for opportunity, part of the vanguard of Scots-Irish migration at the turn of the 20th century. The only thing we know is that George died in Texas, and never returned. His name does not appear in the family Bible.
Family silence shrouded the mystery of George’s fate. Eventually my dad tried to track down any mention of his grandfather in Smithville, Texas, the town where he’d died. There, in an old register in the Episcopal Church, he found George’s name. “George Thomas Jones, found decapitated on railroad track.” A handwritten note next to entry added, “Murdered?”
Ever since the discovery that old George was beheaded and possibly murdered, my father and I have been hungry for details about him.
Last week my father discovered a letter in a box of family mementos, plus two faded photographs. Using information from the letter and a bit of deduction, he believes he finally has a picture of George Thomas Jones. In the formal studio photograph, George appears to be a handsome, well-dressed man of the era. His light eyes gaze sternly at the viewer. George has my family’s jug ears and an unruly cowlick, which defied the pomade’s attempt to slick it down. He looks a bit like my father.
We still don’t know exactly how George died, or what the circumstances were. Did he abandon his home, only to meet a dark fate? Was he a bad guy, or a working man in search of a better life for his family? We may never know. But it’s nice to finally have a face to attach to my fantasies about the family’s mystery man. As I conjure up fictional characters, these in-house stories have always helped stoke my imagination.
Do you have a family skeleton you can share? Have they ever played a part in your story-telling?
Kathryn, I LOVE this story! And beheaded, no less! One question: how could he have been beheaded and NOT have been murdered?
I too, have a skeleton in my ancestral closet. In fact, I’m going to talk about him in a future blog, after I do a little more research. He was a very colorful, interesting guy. Not as interesting and as mysterious as your grandfather, however. Thanks for sharing.
I have a several times great grandfather who killed his wife with a dung fork. Does that count?
There was this uncle whom my father suspected was a member in good standing within the KKK in rural Mississippi. I think he was attempting to make a climb on the social ladder in his small community. It was never proven and I never saw a robe. Since my father had like 6 brothers, the law of averages makes it quite possible.
I had a great uncle I never knew or even saw a photograph of. He was the “black sheep” in the family. He reportedly was handsome, charming, fun loving, but a bit too rebellious for a proper East Coast clan. He had three sisters, the oldest of whom was the quintessential “mean” sister. The youngest sister was close to him.
Anyway, he left the family (kicked out?) and was gone for years. The young sister longed to see him again. So he shows up one day at the old family home. He’s lost an arm. And the only one home was the mean sister. She sent him away in no uncertain terms.
The young sister was livid when she found out. But attempts to track him down failed. No one knows what happened to him.
Mine isn’t a skeleton. It’s the family name.
Legally, my last name is Smith. It was my father’s last name and his father’s last name.
The mystery surrounds the birth of my paternal grandfather. His mother was a Mills and his biological father was a Wood but somehow the man his mother was with at my grandfather’s birth was a Smith. I don’t know if Mr. Wood died, moved on, or what. I only know that the doctor wrote “Sam Smith” on the birth certificate.
My grandfather’s first name is Gurson. 😉
Great post, Kathryn! And, oh, yes, my family ancestral tree on both sides is rife with bones. I think that’s one reason I write!
I always used to say that while my mother’s side of the family was plotting how to overthrow the other family members, my father’s side was climbing out the bedroom window with the family jewels!
It’s a book I will write one day. I’m thinking I’ll call it Cannibals. The cover will have picture of me as a 5 yr old girl with a black eye and a tooth missing. I’m just sayin’. . .
Kathryn, Great story. John, I found a metal bracelet in my grandmother’s keepsakes with the name of one of her brothers engraved on it along with the initials “KKK”. I also found a newspaper clipping reporting that this brother doied from a fall out of fourth story hotel window…
Kathryn, I’m studying to become a genealogist, so if you would privately email me at davidrw4911@yahoo.com with the details you do know about this man, I’d love to take a stab at finding more information about him for you. (no charge)
One reason I love genealogy so much is that it involves solving mysteries.
My Motto has always been: Embrace your flaws. Fixing them is too much work. I’ll add- Embrace your black sheep as well. Black sheep (especially those kept at a comfortable distance) make life more interesting. I’d much rather be related to Billy the Kid than George Washington.
Well, let’s see… I had a crazy great grandfather try to stab my great grandmother to death so the rest of the family got together and had him committed. Then he was mysteriously murdered. Seems kind of run of the mill to me.
My Dad’s Dad was a draft dodger, and I’ve always thought that was kind of fun. He grew up in Finland while it was run by the Russians. He was due to be conscripted into the Russian army when he turned 18, there was war in the air, and he didn’t fancy the idea of dying for the czar. He spent his 18th birthday on a boat to Boston.
But my personal favorite is the one I like to call How Getting the Mumps was the Best Luck my Dad Ever Had. Most of you might not see getting the mumps as auspicious, but at one strategic momemnt it was.
Interesting Kathryn. Perhaps he was trying to hop a train and missed? Or… hrm…
In my own family there are a couple skeletons. Paternally the name Sands, I’ve been told by more than one Northern Irishman, should not necessarily be bandied about Belfast unless one knows ones company and they know him.
Maternally my Great-Great Grandfather, whose job took him all over Northern Europe and Russia, and moved to the US from Denmark rather abruptly in the mid-1870s. Once here he went straight to the hills and wide prairies of North Dakota and started a wheat farm that made him rather wealthy near the end of his life in the early 1930’s. He also forbade his children from speaking Swedish or teaching their children the language. Wait, you say, they came from Denmark but spoke Swedish? Yup…except GGFr forbade any mention of either country, even though they lived among many from that part of the world.
It seems that the decision to move to America was executed rather instantly one day, and with GGFr in a bit of a rush to board a westward ship. The kids never understood, and any investigation was immediately rebuffed. After his death, the children found and opened a trunk he’d kept locked and discovered documents dated before the year they moved to America including multiple Passports, Birth Certificates, Citizenship papers, Business Credentials and various official government letters in Swedish, Danish, Finnish, Lithuanian and Russian.
Apparently GGFr was somewhat confused as to who he was, or preferred those he dealt with to be so.
according to my Grandfather Joe Balch, who was about 12 at the time of the opening of the trunk.
I love family skeletons they provide fabulous fodder for novels! We have one relative who was known for dressing up in a chicken suit to go watch cricket at the local cricket club (usually drunk – he was banned many times from attending). His wife murdered him with a kitchen knife…guess she got fed up with his humor…
Joe, I hate to suggest this regarding my grandfather, but there was a possibility he drank, fell asleep on the railroad tracks, and got decapitated by a train. It seems like someone would have noticed if that had been the case, however!
Dana, did I hear you right–dung fork? Is that what it sounds like it is? In any case, that would definitely count!
John, I have a similar story about another relative (even worse, because he’s suspected of murdering someone!), but I promised my mother I wouldn’t breathe a word in public! That one will have to be well fictionalized to disguise the guilty parties!
Dave, I may take you up on that offer of research–thanks! Clare, anyone who gets drunk in a chicken suit is just begging to get rudely plucked by an irate wife, in my opinion. lol!