Atoning for the Sins of My Slave-Owning Ancestors by C. Burr

Illustration taken from "The American Anti-Slavery Almanac, 1838."

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice."--Martin Luther King, Jr.

My maternal ancestors arrived in the Albemarle colony in the 1600s. Their grandchildren witnessed the birth of a new country and the establishment of the state of North Carolina in the 1700s, and their great-grandchildren emigrated to Tennessee around 1810.  They were primarily upper, middle-class landowners who never joined the ranks of large plantation owners.  Some served in the War for Independence, and their descendants fought on both sides of the Civil War.  They were mostly honest, hard-working citizens and, like many people today, provided for their children’s futures.  

Today, we invest in college funds; our ancestors invested in property: land, horses, and, in some cases, a slave for each of their children.  

Late one night, I became fascinated with two-hundred-year-old microfilmed documents I found on a genealogical site. As I read the names of my ancestors on a Tennessee census, I could almost feel my patriarchs looking over my shoulder, pointing to this fact and that — the number of children, their ages, and at the far end of the sheet, tallies for slaves.  

I sat back in my chair, staring at the tallies and wondering, "What were their slave names?"  Deeper, horrific questions followed:  Did my ancestors beat and neglect the enslaved families? Were women raped? Were their children sold?" With each question, the room darkened as if I were descending into a deep cave with only a candle for light.  In front of me on a glowing screen was an official document linking my ancestors with the sin of slavery, staining their legacy.  

As my research continued over the years, I concentrated on the names of the slaves mentioned in my ancestors' wills. I shuddered when a will divided up slaves for the family members and emphasized that female slaves AND all children they might bear would belong to a certain white child. When I stumbled upon a court settlement in Tennessee in which two toddlers were taken from their mother and auctioned off to pay debts, I could not hold back the tears.  

No matter how I tried to explain away my ancestor's participation in slavery --that it was the culture or "everyone did it"--I was haunted with guilt and sorrow.  I began making a list of recorded slave names that I planned to include in a genealogical book.  Perhaps naming these 117 enslaved souls would validate their existence and be a step toward atoning my ancestors’ sins.  

I don't mean "atonement" in the Christian sense of praying my ancestors out of hell, but rather making reparations for the injuries inflicted on generations of Black people.  Perhaps I can make amends for the wrongs they inflicted on others by recognizing the history of slavery, supporting organizations focused on equality, and joining the arc of morality that bends toward social justice.  I think my preacher grandpa had the same idea.

Mom's dad, J.C., a Methodist preacher, began his career in Tennessee in the early 1930s.  He was a wonderful storyteller.   When the pastor of a local Black church invited him to preach for his congregation on a Sunday night,  J.C. enthusiastically agreed and brought his wife and children to the event.  The next day, the Methodist Tennessee Conference summoned J.C. to Nashville, admonished him for preaching at a "colored" church, and warned him to never do it again. Grandpa was furious.  (No doubt, "Black" was not the word used by Southern white folks during World War II. The "n-word, Mom says, was used all the time.) 

A few years later, in 1949, J.C. relocated his family from Tennessee to join the Kansas Conference.  In the 1960s, he and Grandma often invited an African American woman to stay at their home and sing at his all-white church.  In 1970, when I was a young teen,  the conversation turned to interracial marriage. Grandpa looked me in the eye and said, “Cindy, your grandma and I wouldn’t care if you dated a young colored man.” He said he would perform the ceremony if we desired to get married. These were shocking statements at the time, coming from a man of his generation—especially one raised in the South —but I knew he meant them. 

In some ways,  Grandpa was atoning for the sins of his slave-owning great-grandfathers by raising  African Americans up from the depths of slavery and Jim Crow to be on equal status with any white man who might marry his granddaughter. 

My empathy for African Americans and civil rights began in 1963 when I was nine years old, sitting in the basement of my all-white church, anxiously imagining a bomb exploding --killing me—like the young girls in Birmingham.   For the next fifty years, while insulated in my white privileged life,  I  occasionally wrote letters to representatives when I heard stories of injustice, I politely asked those forwarding racist jokes via email to stop sending them, and I gave my teenage children keys to cars with no worries that they might be pulled over and terrorized for the color of their skin.   

I thought racism had nearly vanished and hid in a few “hollers” of the deep south.  Then, camera videos began educating me.  When I watched the video of George Floyd being tortured to death while his murderer (a police officer) stared defiantly at witnesses with no worry of being held accountable, I understood that the dark cave I had wandered into while reading slaves’ names was called “racism” – and its presence is more expansive and deeply entrenched than I had ever imagined. 

During news coverage of protests following Mr. Floyd’s murder, I witnessed white men asking forgiveness while kneeling before a group of African Americans.  I join them in apologizing for my ancestors' participation in slavery and for my years of ignorance and complacency.  

To atone for the sins of my ancestors and myself, I am supporting social justice organizations and candidates who promise equal rights.   I will attend community events focused on race relations.  I will listen.  I will pray.  And as I discover victims of the 18^th and  19th-century slave trade among the records of my ancestors, I will publish their names. . . because their lives mattered.

Slaves of My Southern Ancestors

North Carolina 1736 Will of Robert Rogers 1.       Child Called Nan” 2.       Jack 3.       Moll & her future children 4.       boy named Crimson.” 1751 Will of George Wynns 5.       Gessaname [sic] 6.       Toby 7.       Pompey 8.       Peter 9.       Bell 10.    Harry 11.    Jemima 12.    Cotton (girl) 13.    Hagar 14.    Jimmy 15.    Cezar 16.    Hannah 17.    Cate 18.    Issac 1754 Will of John Wynns 19.     Charles 20.    Moll 21.    Tom 22.    Priscilla 23.    Caesar, 24.    Codar [sic] 25.    Mingo 26.    Anna 27.    Rachael 28.    Arthur 29.    Robin 30.    Jesseminia [sic] 1763 Will of James Swain 31.    Mingo

1786 Will of Robert Daniel 32.    Ginne 33.    Ginne’s  future 1st child 34.    Ginne’s future 2nd child 35.    Sam (boy) 36.    Old woman Bev 1795 Will of Richard Tayloe #1 37.    Vilet [sic] 38.    George 39.    Boco (boy) 40.    Moll 41.    Tiller (girl) 42.    Bridget 43.    Barby [sic] 1801 Will of Abraham Tayloe 44.    Boof or Coof ? 45.    Cherry 46.    Bett 47.    Elisha (boy) 48.    “little Hanner” (girl) 49.    Hanner (woman) 50.    Lucy (girl) 1811 Will of Watkin Wm Wynns 51.    Meading [sic] (boy) 52.    Glosent  [sic] (boy} 53.    Betty “and all that may proceed from her body” 54.    Jack 55.    Simon 56.    Cherry

Tennessee 1828 Division of Property -- Thomas Wynn’s heirs Name of slave & value 57.    Solomon $500 58.    Betty & child $350 59.    Dave $450 60.    Joe $550; 61.    Esther $350 62.    Grace $350 63.    Miriam $150        64.    Alfred $325 65.    Drury $250 66.    Mireny [sic] $200 67.    Boatswain $320 1833 - 42  Deeds for slave property --  Hyman Tayloe 68.    Anthony 3 yrs old 69.    George (child) 70.    Henry 71.    Phyllis 72.    Luke “a man slave for life” 1838 Will of Rich.Tayloe #2 73.    Antony 74.    Clabourn [sic] 75.    Ginny 76.    Venus 77.    Ebeline 1839 Deed for slaves—Hardison  Daniel 78.    Lucy  $250 (child) 79.    Ebeline $250 (Child) 1843 Rental of Slaves—Benjamin Tayloe 80.    Nat $35/yr 81.    George $42/yr 82.    Letty Ann $52/yr 1852 Inventory of Slaves & Ages -Elizabeth (Tayloe) Mockbee 83.    Randle (50 yrs) 84.    Henry (40 yrs) 85.    John Ross (30 yrs) 86.     Little Henry (19 yrs) 87.    George ( 17 yrs)

88.    Peter (13 yrs) 89.    Lucy (20 yrs) 90.    Polly (40 yrs) 91.    Jenny Ann (40 yrs) 92.    Almarenda (20 yrs) 93.    Venus (20yrs) 94.    Eveline (18 yrs) 95.    Hester (16 yrs) 96.    Josephine (14 yrs) 97.    William 11 (yrs) 98.    Washington (8 yrs) 99.    Randle (6 yrs) 100. Robert (6yrs) 101. Betsy Cherry (6 yrs) 102. Luisa (4 yrs) 103. Allie (4 yrs) 104. Emma (2 yrs) 105. Tom (2 yrs) 106. Lot (one yr) 107.  boy Rise? (one yr) 108. Cora (9 mo.) 1859  Collateral for a Loan Hardison Daniel 109. Mary (45 yrs) 110. Claborne (20 yrs) 111. Lucy (19 yrs) 112. Hicks (15) 113. Henry (14) 114. Simon 13) 115. Adaline (13) 1861  Auction for Debts –Hardison Daniel 116. John (2  yrs old) 117. Martha (toddler) Hardison Daniel was a first cousin to my 4x great-grandfather David Daniel, who also owned at least two slaves (names unknown at this time).

Note:  Since slaves often took the surnames of their masters, it is helpful to know that my ancestors’ surnames might have multiple spellings (sometimes on the same document):  Daniel (Daniell); Tayloe (Taylor): Swain (Swann or Swane); and Wynns (Wynne or Winn).    

--submitted by C. Burr

Sources:

Illustration

Child, Lydia Maria (1802-1880); Child, David Lee (1794-1874); Gay, S. Howard, Inscriber; Southard, Nathaniel, Ed. "The American Anti-Slavery Almanac, for 1838." Vol. I. No. 3, p. 21.  American Almanac Collection (Library of Congress) DLC; American Anti-Slavery Society. 

Documents

·       1736 Will of Robert Rogers of Chowan Co NC: (North Carolina, Wills and Probate Records, 1665-1998 for Robert Rogers, Original Wills, County “not stated.”)

·       1751 Will of George Wynns  of Chowan/Bertie Co NC: (North Carolina, Wills and Probate Records, 1665-1998 for Geoge [sic] Wynns, [county]Not Stated, Secretary of State Original Wills, Tomes, Joshua – Zimmerman, Jno)

·       1754 Will of John Wynns  of Bertie Co NC :  (North Carolina, Wills and Probate Records, 1665-1998 for John Wynns [county]Not Stated, Secretary of State Original Wills, Tomes, Joshua – Zimmerman, Jno )

·       1763 Will of James Swain  of Tyrrell Co NC :  (North Carolina, Wills and Probate Records, 1665-1998 for James Swain, Tyrrell, (Original record.)

·       1786 Will of Robert Daniel of Tyrrell/Martin Co NC:  (North Carolina, Probate Martin Co., Wills Vol I and II, p. 127-8   – Robert Daniel p. 527).

·       1795 Will of Richard Tayloe #1  of Bertie Co NC: (North Carolina, Wills and Probate Records, 1665-1998 for Richard Tayloe, Bertie County, Wills and Estate Papers, 1663-1978, image 68460-68462. Found on Ancestry.com.)

·       1801 Will of Abraham Tayloe  of Bertie Co NC:  (North Carolina, Superior Court, Bertie County, Wills, bk E, pp. 135-139)  (Abraham Tayloe)

·       1811 Will of Watkin Wm Wynns of Martin Co NC:  (North Carolina, Wills and Probate Records, 1665-1998 for Watkin W Wynns, Martin, Wills, Vol 1-2, 1774-1868.)

·       1828 Division of Property -- Thomas Wynn’s heirs of Stewart Co TN:  (Tennessee. Stewart County Court House, Probate Records, Bonds & Settlements, Vol B.  pp. 225.)  

·       1833 -45  Deeds for slaves --  Hyman Tayloe of Stewart Co TN: (Stewart County Court House, Register of Deeds, Library Deed Books, Vol 10, p 532; ibid. Vol.11, p 116; ibid. Vol 13, p. 466; ibid. Vol. 14, p 308; ibid. Vol 15, p 49.)

·       1838 Will of Richard Tayloe #2 of Stewart Co TN:  Tennessee, Stewart County Court House, Register of Deeds, Library Deed Books, Vol. 10, pp.  255-6.)

·       1839 Deed for slaves—Hardison Daniel of Stewart Co TN:  (Tennessee. Stewart County Court House, Register of Deeds, Library Deed Books, Vol. 13, p. 217.) 

·       1843 Rental of Slaves—Benjamin Tayloe of Stewart Co TN: (Long, Jim. Stewart County, Tennessee Guardian Records, 1806-1842. p. 378.)

·       1852 Inventory of Slaves & Ages --Elizabeth (Tayloe) Mockbee of Stewart Co TN:   (Tennessee. Stewart County Court House, Probate Records, Bonds & Settlements vol xx, pp. 142-44 & 146-150.) 

        1859  Collateral for a Loan Hardison Daniel of Stewart Co TN:  (Tennessee. Stewart County Court House, Register of Deeds, Library Deed Books, Vol. 21, p. 55.) 

·       1861  Auction for Debts –Hardison Daniel of Stewart Co TN:  (Tennessee. Stewart County Court House, Register of Deeds, Library Deed Books, Vol. 22, p. 69.) 

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"You Are Gone," An Elder (Nature Lover) expresses grief through a poem

Father and Daughter 

You Are Gone

You are gone.

And yet you come to me in the smiles

     and laughter of friends and family.

I hear your encouragement as I struggle with a task

     and your praise in a job well done.

You are gone.

And yet I feel your joy and passion when I stare out from a mountain top,

     smell a spruce forest or walk in snow.

Your creativity lives on in TV trays, stained glass pieces,

     Christmas trees and so much more.

You are gone.

And yet I am reminded of our cellular connection daily;

     my blue eyes, flat hair and skinny feet are undeniably you.

Reading maps, watching westerns, eating pie,

     all scream “Dad” to me.

You are gone.

And yet I find your silliness and youthful spirit every time I buy shoes

     and am compelled to do “the dance."

And even in my grief, tears, and sadness,

     I find your never-ending love and a lifetime of hugs.

You are gone, and yet…

 submitted by Elder "Nature Lover"

11-21-2018

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"Holiday Gifts: Spinning a Thread" Family Peanut Brittle Recipe... Elder Rosewalk

Rosewalk's Nephews Making Peanut Brittle 

          One family ritual that epitomized the way my mom’s various roles came together was making peanut brittle. Each year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my mom would make over twenty batches of peanut brittle—mostly to give away to family, friends, and her children’s teachers. How much patience it must have taken to make so much candy, especially when you consider that she was also demonstrating the process to children while she made it.

          Generally, she also made the candy with her grade school students; it would be tough to estimate how many children observed Mom’s peanut brittle making process at school. In those days before extreme peanut allergies and lawsuit fears, children helped stir the hot syrupy mixture as it bubbled in an electric skillet.

          Mom practiced these activities first with her own children, allowing us to stir while she gave us instructions at each stage of the process.  At first, the stirring was all we were allowed to do; the period while waiting for the sugar syrup concoction to “spin a thread” before adding the peanuts seemed to last for hours.

          To detect whether or not the syrup mixture is “spinning a thread,” it is necessary to hold up the spoon over the pot and watch the mixture drip down. After the sugar and corn syrup has reached a syrupy consistency, it still takes several minutes before it attains the proper consistency to spin a thread. It is important not to add the peanuts to the syrup mixture until the mixture has spun a thread. For the first several minutes of attempts, a watery flow descends from the spoon. For the next couple of minutes, the mixture seems to flow a little more easily, so novice cooks may be tempted to call it done. It requires an experienced candy maker there to say, “That’s not it yet. You’ll recognize it when you see it. It looks like thread.” When the mixture does spin a thread, the thread is quite thin, lightweight enough to blow off to the side. When young children see this stage, some of them usually saw, “Ooh! It has a hair in it!”

          Once the mixture spins a thread, the candy maker’s patience is tested further while waiting for the syrup and peanut mixture to turn a golden brown. The stirring stage while waiting for the mixture to turn a golden brown can take ten or fifteen minutes, and Mom had more patience during this stage than we children did. We children took turns stirring, while Mom took care of other kitchen chores, keeping an ear cocked for another significant signal; all at once, Mom would say, “Listen! Do you hear the peanuts popping?” At this point, she would take a turn stirring a time or two to determine whether or not the mixture was golden brown or “not quite brown enough.”

          For the final stage, we children had to stand back away from the pot while Mom added the baking soda, margarine, and vanilla. While adding these ingredients, she would stir the mixture quickly with a wooden spoon. The way the mixture foamed up, then quickly spread out when poured onto the cookie sheet, seemed like some kind of miracle.

          As an adult, I now realize that the real miracle was that Mom had the energy to engage in this month-long process of making one or two batches of peanut brittle a night. She taught school to young children five days a week; along with Dad, she shepherded her family to church three times a week; also, along with Dad, she transported us to various athletic events and music lessons after school. Also, as a college dean’s wife, Mom accompanied Dad to at least one school function per week; during basketball season, our family went to two to three games a week.

          Each batch took nearly an hour to make, so no wonder she left all the ingredients out on the cabinet, ready for use when she found a free hour. Mom bought the ingredients in bulk:  five to ten pounds of raw shelled peanuts from a shelling business, bottles and bottles of cheap white corn syrup (“the cheaper the better”), and pounds and pounds of white sugar.

          Most people are only familiar with the chewy, overpriced peanut brittle sold in small boxes during the holidays. My mom’s candy is a completely different sort, generally provoking a comment such as, “This isn’t like any peanut brittle I’ve ever eaten.” The trick to the recipe isn’t a candy thermometer or a timer. Instead, the recipe requires the ability to recognize certain significant stages in the candy-making process. Though I’m including the recipe below, successful peanut brittle requires years of observation of the process, preferably while stirring the syrupy concoction with a wooden spoon while an experienced cook patiently watches over one’s shoulder.

Peanut Brittle

Choose a dry day for candy making. Humidity is not your friend.

Supplies:  large soup pot, wooden spoon, dry & wet measuring cups, measuring spoons, large cookie sheet

Ingredients: water, sugar, white corn syrup, peanuts (or pecans), butter, baking soda, vanilla, cooking spray (Pam)

• Heat ½ cup water to a boil in a large pot.
• Add 2 cups sugar, 1 cup white corn syrup.
• Heat over med-medium high heat until mixture spins a thread. Stir frequently with a wooden spoon.
• Add 2 cups peanuts (or pecans).
• Heat over medium low-medium heat until golden brown (stir frequently, if not constantly).
• Remove pan from heat.
• Add 2 T. butter (or margarine), 1 t. vanilla, 2 t. baking soda (fresh & dry—use a dry measuring spoon)
• Stir quickly & thoroughly. Pour out mixture quickly onto a greased cookie sheet. Do not spread. Let the mixture spread out on its own.

          Elder Rosewalk

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Politics and Old-Time Religion by Elder C. Burr

Sunday morning about 1960

            As a young child, I had no problem imagining God as “Father.” Every Sunday my mild-mannered dad preached about a loving God from a Methodist pulpit.  In the early days when I was in kindergarten (1959), he led a sing-along on Sunday nights in a beautiful brick church in Burr Oak, Kansas.  People of all ages attended.  We would raise our hands and request our favorites: “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder,” “Love Lifted Me,” “Give Me that Old Time Religion.” My weekly request was “Heavenly Sunshine.”  The songs were usually up-tempo and men, women, and children sang with gusto.  I rarely hear that type of congregational singing anymore.

            Another part of my religious upbringing seems to be missing, especially in politics—a regard for decent, respectable behavior toward others, even those with whom we disagree.  

            My parents and church taught me to respect the Ten Commandments, including do not kill, cheat, lie, covet, and steal, and to honor the Golden Rule: “Do to others as you would have them do to you.” If we kids got caught cheating, lying, or bullying, we were scolded, spanked, and sent to our rooms.  As a child, I naively thought all adults learned these lessons and they would never surrender to bad behavior.  But, of course, I was wrong and now I get daily reminders of how wrong I was.   

            None of us is perfect, even if we sit in a church pew on Sunday morning, but I'd like to see our leaders try harder to respectfully disagree with their political opponents without name-calling, without shouting over one another.

          Lately (October 2018), a 24-hour news cycle exposes politicians or leaders flaunting “alternative truth” messages or admiring, even advocating, vocal and physical violence toward others.   Bad behavior makes headlines and it seems the media and politicians feed on one another in a dizzying assault on our good nature. 

    I’ve grown grumpy.  I desire a return to “old-time” virtue and ethical living that my preacher daddy taught me around the kitchen table and from the pulpit. 

         My dad and I are often not on the same page politically, but we refuse to let our differences put a wedge in our father-daughter relationship.  I credit our bond to love and a strong ethical foundation based on respect for others, learned from grandparents, parents, and old-time religion.    

--- C. Burr

--revised in 2024.  

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The Maple Tree Outside My Window" A Poem by Kansas Elder Myster E.

The maple tree outside my window

Talked to me this morning

In language, I never heard before

She talked about patience and waiting

Breathing in and breathing out

And being still

She talked about pointing up toward heaven

And rooting deeply down

Grounding with the earth

She talked about stretching wide

In communion with the neighborhood

Offering refuge to strangers and friends

She talked about beauty

In being full, in being empty

And the wonder of being old

She talked about bending with the wind

And weathering the storm

About standing strong

She talked about taking a little

And giving a lot

About being one with All

The maple tree outside my window

Talked like I never heard before

--Myster E

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Bessie -- A Foundational Salt of the Earth by C. Burr

Bessie (photo taken about 2005 on Mother's Day)

“Maybe there is no such thing as time; there are only moments, each with its own story.”  Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

Robin Kimmerer inspires me to sit and listen to nature. One morning in early June,  I reclined in my backyard, noting how each oxygen-filled inhalation is a gift from trees, grasses, shrubs, flowers, mushrooms, and mosses.   As I breathed in the whiffs of a neighbor’s lilacs, I thought of my mother-in-law, Bessie, and the gentle cessation of her breath a few weeks prior.   “Death lost its sting” for me during her sacred transition, and although I’ll always feel sad about her leaving us, I am comforted by HER words of comfort. She told us not to worry; she was ready to go.

              I offered to write Bessie’s obituary, meeting the challenge to collapse a life story into a couple of paragraphs—a story absent of awards, degrees, and distinguished honors on a list of who’s who, but a life that affected dozens of people over her 93 years.  

                A friend pulled me aside, after reading the obituary, and said “There are people who are the salt of the earth and then there are people who become a foundational salt of the earth.  Bessie is one of those people.”  He went on to explain that her goodness laid a foundation that will live on in her children, grandchildren, and other people who knew her.

I know what he means.  This tiny woman lived significant verses of the Christian Bible without asking individuals if they were “saved.”  She didn’t judge others, practiced kindness, remained humble, and cared for her ailing husband, Albert.  She respected her flesh and blood temple, taking excellent care of herself and she was a good neighbor, visiting the lonely and the sick.  As salt of the earth, she preserved loving-kindness as Jesus taught.   

Bessie’s kind essence will expand beyond the grave through numerous descendants over decades.   And yet, when I consider a 1.5 billion-year-old Sioux quartzite brought into Kansas from the Ice Age and when I scan the midnight sky for stars millions of light-years away, I realize that Bessie’s life – all of our lives - are but tiny specks.  

 Even in our smallness, says Kimmerer, “Isn’t it miraculous that each life, stone, and star has its own story?”     I pray my brief moment on this earth--my tiny spark of a life --can be as foundational and fruitful as my mother-in-law Bessie’s.

                                                            

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn,

   for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,

   for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

   for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful,

   for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart,

   for they will see God. . . .

You are the salt of the earth.        Matthew 5:3 – 8; 13.

  

                                                         ---- Elder C. Burr

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"The View From Avery's World: What Would Our World be Without Animals?" by Turtle GG

                                                                            

As a family therapist and cultural anthropologist I have been increasingly concerned about how casual and disrespectful humans are about their relationship to animals—companion animals as well as those in the wild. In my search for ideas for changes in this world view of the supremacy of humans, I opened the book of essays, Zoologies: On Animals and the Human Spirit by Alison Hawthorne Deming, a science writer and poet. Her answer to my dilemma came in the form of a question, “What does the disappearance of animals mean for the human imagination?” I admit it took me three days of pondering what she was talking about.

Then I got smart and consulted with my 11-year-old granddaughter, Avery, about what she thought animals mean for us. Instantly, she said she loves the beauty of the flowers along with the bees they feed, not only the animal but how the rest of nature relates to it. She went on to say birdsong is so important to her that she couldn’t imagine outdoors without it. She agreed with me that animals can teach us things like how all the elephant family helps take care of the babies. Then lovingly she described the connection with her two dogs, wanting to be with her and snuggle and play. They feel warm and soft, comforting.

Interestingly, in Avery’s brief and heartfelt conversation, she hit upon most of the salient points I had unearthed in two years of research. She connected the beauty of nature with the animals (bees). She showed her mindfulness of the birds in her own habitat and how they contribute. She noticed that animals have found ways that work toward caring for their own that might be an improvement on what some humans do. She picked up on the importance of reciprocal connection in the world with animals. She touched on the idea that animals she is familiar with live in the moment and provide comfort. And what really stood out is the joy she feels about the natural world. She notices the beauty with her hearing and eyesight, her touch and her emotional attachment, especially to her furry friends.

 Avery also pointed me toward asking the right question in my own imagination--not what do we do for animals but what do they have to offer us? What would the world be without them? Thinking of animals as a resource for our spirits and imagination and for our sense of wonder and awe opens us to a new worldview. We share the earth and contribute to each other. This reciprocity between humans and animals connects us with all of nature, giving us hope for the future of the earth.

                                                  --Turtle GG 

submitted 9/6/18

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"NOW AND AGO" An Essay Revering the Oldest Rocks in Kansas by RiverSoul

 Monument to the Ice Age, Blue Rapids, KS

              One recent day, as I periodically feel the need to do, I revisited the Age of Glaciers Monument in the small NE Kansas town of Blue Rapids.  Some 10-11,000 years before the present (YBP) the last glacial sheet melted its way north out of Kansas.  Fossil evidence shows that several large mammals, including both mastodon and mammoth, roamed the Midwest during that time.  Archeological evidence suggests that Paleo-Indians lived in Kansas by that time and hunted, among other animals, those giant elephantine forms.

         The basic reason for my revisits is a particular type of stone:  Sioux quartzite.  I needed to read again that the large pieces of this stone, scoured out and dragged by the last glacier from SW Minnesota and found scattered across the landscape as far south as the glaciated NE corner of Kansas, are at least 1.5 billion years old.  This quartzite, a type of metamorphic rock formed from sandstone under great heat and pressure at geologic depth, began with ancient riverbed sand deposits.

          I grew up encountering those large, roughly spherical chunks of quartzite scattered across my home county of Pottawatomie that lies just to the SE of Blue Rapids.  Some chunks of this reddish-brown, very dense and resistant stone are 5-6 feet in diameter.  Standing next to one of these large stones, I feel jelly fish fragile and utterly temporary.

Oldest Rocks in Kansas

          Why does whatever metaphysical plan that may exist even bother with the mortal, and tenuous, human stage of development?  Is it (to use poet Maxine Kumin’s term) that our “Ground Time” here is a period of testing to determine what sort of placement we will earn in the spirit world?

          Or is the appearance of humans on this planet just the result of contingencies, a position fervently argued by Stephen Jay Gould, the late Harvard paleontologist and student of evolutionary theory?  Did our line persist and develop to its present stage due to a string of unplanned mutations and happenstances in the struggles, the gives and takes, the triumphs and losses of organisms during the eons of life on Earth?  Did we become the dominant species by a series of unplanned rolls of the dice?

          Or, to look at Sioux quartzite in another way, was this stone shown to us as another potent lesson about time?  About how, looking at that ancient rock, we must be moved to admit that, in spite of our thus far short Ground Time here, we, recklessly, have done great harm to the Mother Earth that sustains us?

          About how we humans have a finite amount of time—a non-renewable resource—at our disposal to turn around our collective lifestyle; about how, given our penchant for habitat destruction, and if humans are to have that significant Ground Time here, we must learn to not wait, as we tend to do, until it is almost too late; about how we must learn to live in a state of mutualism with our Earth?

          About how we must desist from viewing our Earth as something evil, as something we must conquer and control?  (Being evil is not the same as being dangerous.)  About how we must accept that we are part of the biological and physical worlds that swirl both around and within each of us?  About how we must learn to both cherish and to become persistent allies of the fragile crust of Spaceship Earth?  About how our interactions with our planet must be done with the grace of the good neighbor:  the patient gardener with the long view, living a blessed lifestyle known as “reciprocity?”

     I study the small piece of quartzite on my shelf—and I wonder.

                                                                                                                   RiverSoul

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Artisanal Caregiving -- A Creative Alternative to Nursing Homes By RoseWalk

Artisanal cheese is locally sourced and produced on a small scale, rather than mass-produced. Artisanal care is individually sourced, selected, and developed, rather than institutionally hired, supervised and monitored.

Post-stroke, my husband Jerry’s (J.) time in rehab was almost over. I knew nursing care was only a part-time solution, an exhausting, expensive compromise while I moved into our newly purchased accessible home. I had to get away from the 24/7 television noise and other distractions in the nursing home. My new home would be a sanctuary. To protect my peace of mind would not be easy, but the core elements of my vision were taking shape:

I would keep working part-time.

I would not become a martyr to my husband’s care.

I did not want strangers in my home.

What would I do? I began informal conversations with some of the workers I had bonded with during J.’s short time in rehab:

Would they be interested in working at our home?

Would they be interested in a flexible schedule with a good hourly wage?

Within a few weeks, I had lined up a few people to work for us 5-20 hours each per week. All of them were CNAs and had nursing experience.

They were experienced in providing the transfers and personal care my husband needed. They could help me get his wheelchair in and out of the car when taking J. to appointments. They had been trained in person-centered care, so they were attentive to his likes and dislikes at mealtime and when selecting videos to watch.

More importantly, they liked him. They enjoyed playing cards with him or laughing with him about a funny video. When I came home from work or chores, the caregivers were good company for me, helping me navigate our new normal.

I had an accountant help me set up a payroll system for Social Security and Medicare taxes, so I could deduct these employees’ wages. This was a workable system. As a friend put it:  “It’s a good trade. You need help, and they need money.” By foregoing an agency, I could pay the assistants more. As the months passed, the CNAs I had recruited from rehab transitioned to new jobs, new states, new responsibilities. I realized this fluidity would be a common feature of employing those in their 20s—an age at which most of us are in need of employment while in transition between life stages, while trying to figure out what’s next. I knew I’d need to recruit new caregivers soon. Who would they be?

Synchronicity struck. I received an email from a former student asking for a letter of recommendation. Also, he wondered if I knew of any part-time jobs.

It took me a day or two to realize that D. would be our next assistant. An English major, he was a good listener, attentive to detail, kind, calm, and compassionate.

He was not a trained caregiver, but he was physically strong and a good problem solver. I could provide whatever training he needed. After all, hadn’t I learned on the job?

D. worked for us for nine months before he left for another opportunity. Another former student recommended her friend P. P. worked for us for over a year and recommended his friend K. to fill in the gaps when he was unavailable. Before too long, K. found a job in her field, and P. cycled back in to work a couple of months for us before going out of state for grad school; fortunately, D. would be back in town to attend grad school the same week P. would be moving away.

These caregiving relationships were mutually beneficial. While at our home, caregivers had more ownership of their schedules:  they could eat meals when they wanted, visit the restroom when they needed, read, nap, or do homework. As long as they were available to respond to J.’s needs in a timely fashion, caregivers could relax.

There were other mutual benefits. Yes, they needed money, and we needed help, but J. and I also enjoyed their company. We exchanged movie, book, and music recommendations. We took turns cooking and shared our leftovers with one another. If I needed something from the grocery store, I’d text a request to the caregiver due to work for us the next day. I enjoyed hearing about their ups and downs with friends, partners, and family members; they also seemed interested in my life. On the cusp of career changes, caregivers seemed open to advice and recommendations from me, and I enjoyed feeling helpful. J. and I both enjoyed having these young, curious, intellectually engaged people in our home. We were happy to discover and cultivate these artisanal caregivers.

What are the key characteristics of a successful artisanal caregiver? They should be intelligent, curious, and flexible.

High in both IQ and EQ (emotional intelligence), these special caregivers could see J. as a human being with needs other than personal care. Though he can’t speak (much), his intellect is intact. Their understanding of this fact drives their respect for him and their unwillingness to talk down to him in the patronizing sort of tone that can be heard in some nursing homes, with well-intentioned, but over-worked and over-tired workers. They can also listen, pay attention to non-verbal cues, and apply complex (not always well-articulated) instructions.

Successful caregivers are curious, therefore interested in learning new things, including how best to care for J. They are also interested in the world more generally, providing wide-ranging topics of conversation that overlap with both of our interests.

Successful caregivers are flexible and able to respond according to J.’s changing energy level and abilities. They are aware that his condition will be stable, unstable, then . . . terminal. Their own transitional status allows them to cope with the fact that this job may suddenly be over.

Though I miss our mostly carefree life before J.’s stroke, I am aware that our current situation has brought some unexpected benefits. We have made new friends, and, together, we have all learned more about how to cope creatively with life’s challenges.

                                                          ---Rosewalk

Submitted 7/29/18

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"Saint Flower" A poem about zinnias from Elder PrairieTalk

Zinnias are like some special kind of saint

smiling in the face of my transgressions.

They forgive me when I don’t water them

though the Kansas sun beats down like hell.

They accept it when I uproot them

to some godforsaken spot I need to brighten.

They keep face when I cut them down in full bloom

and let them slowly wilt on my sunroom table

while the cat nibbles at them

and the vase water begins to smell.

They even seem to nod their approval

as the compost pile becomes their final resting ground.

I see some now

from the front porch swing.

They are cheering a spot

in a made-over bed,

their yellow, orange and red petals

barely faded

by dust from the road

and I have little to offer back

save the salvation they give me

on this late July afternoon.

 Ann L. Carter
(Elder PrairieTalk)

(More information about PrairieTalk (Ann Carter), please see her website:  annlcarter.com) 

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Call for Submissions: ELDERS SPEAKING.ORG

Elders Speaking group blog celebrates elders -- their wisdom, their creativity, and their reflections.     Browse through our past submissions.  You’ll find a variety of topics and styles of writing, including poetry from published and unpublished poets.  

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