The Clopton Chronicles
A Project of the Clopton Family Genealogical Society
KITH AND KIN AND KISSIN’ KOUSINS
The Reverend Wallace Theodore “Ted” Jones
By Wallace Theodore “Ted” Jones
Following in the footsteps of so many other old Virginia families, the Claibornes and Cloptons sent some of their own to join the efforts to conquer and tame the wilderness of Georgia. Travel in those days wasn’t for the faint of heart; conditions being at best, uncomfortable, at worst, fraught with danger at every turn. The families traveled in groups composed of family and friends who had been chosen to expand the family holdings.
The Claibornes settled in Hancock and later, Putnam County, Georgia. Just about everyone in the little Pea Ridge Community in Putnam County were related either through blood or marriage. Out of all these begettings came, in 1899, one Wallace Theodore “Ted” Jones. He was a descendant of the ancient Cloptons through a complicated line, although he didn’t know that. He had only a vague understanding that he and the Cloptons were somehow cousins. In the late 1960’s, Ted, a Presbyterian minister and retired Regional Director of Christian Education for the South Carolina Synod, wrote his autobiography at the urging of family and friends. We shall let Ted speak to us from the past in these excerpts from his lovingly crafted memories.
Pea Ridge Remembered
She saved feathers for feather beds
and pillows, and made Mattresses
of cotton covered with striped bed-ticking
The Jones children arrived in perfect sequence - 1 girl, 4 boys, 1 girl, and 4 boys. I was No. 10. Each, according to custom, was given two names, chosen to honor relatives first then close friends. But when I arrived this procedure suddenly came to a halt. I don’t know whether they ran out of friends or, having taken a good look at me, decided a friend wouldn’t appreciate one such as I being named for him. I don’t know how long I remained nameless but finally Lucy, the oldest, came to my rescue. She suggested “Theodore” in honor of a new national hero. Since Mr. Roosevelt would never know, the name was accepted and, like my namesake, they called me “Teddy.”
For two years or more I had only one name. Then my big brothers, ever alert for an excuse to tease me, pointed out what, for me, became literally a crying shame! Everybody else had two names and I only one! Mamma soothingly assured me I had a right to choose another myself. But every name I thought of turned out to be the middle name of a brother.
…Lucy again helped me, suggesting “Otis” for James Otis, a former national hero. I accepted, but now the teasing turned to the order of initials. If I chose T. O. they’d call me “To,” if O. T. I’d be “Ot.”
By now I was furious. I wanted initials they couldn’t poke fun at. I went through the alphabet and decided on W. T., but again they teased me. . . Once again “Sweet Lucy” saved me, coming up with a name no one else in the family had - “Wallace” for the heroic Scotsman, William Wallace. . .
Except for “Sunday” suits for boys and shoes and stockings, Mama’s purchases of clothing were limited to cloth, thread and yarn, which she made into dresses, pants, overalls, shirts and sweaters. She made underwear out of sacks [flour, meal, salt], pants and overalls out of bluejeans, shirts of blue homespun and sheets and pillow slips [except those for company] of unbleached muslin. Of course she taught the two girls to make their own clothes. She carded cotton for padding in quilts, the tops of which were made of various colored scraps, some in beautiful artistic designs, others for us boys of most anything at hand, and little care for design. She saved feathers for feather beds and pillows, and made mattresses of cotton covered with striped bed-ticking. . .
Mama also earned money, both before and after Papa’s death. Black women, both field and domestic workers, for miles around had neither sewing machines nor skill to make pretty “Sunday” dresses for themselves and their daughters. They came, eager to pay the fair prices Mama charged. We churned the milk from our herd of thirty-odd cows and Mama, using one-pound wood molds, molded the butter and shipped it to Macon for sale. She also packed and shipped eggs. . .
Now for a number of real briefs about life in Pea Ridge: RFD #1 didn’t come by our house. I had to walk a mile to Mr. Johnson King’s store to send or pick up mail. When our kerosene ran low I carried a dozen eggs and traded them for a gallon of oil for our lamps at Mr. King’s store. . .
Lambdin [my brother] and I would ride mules loaded with bags of wheat and corn about three miles to Armour’s Mill. We’d watch him open the gate of his millrace to divert water from the creek, watch the huge water-driven wheel gather speed, then go in and see the big round millstones grind our grain. Mr. Armour would take out his toll for pay, and we’d take home a supply of water-ground flour and meal. . .
On my walks for kerosene or mail I’d occasionally meet Mr. John Manley, always with a beautiful horse and buggy. He’d always smile broadly, bow, hold up a hand and say enthusiastically: “Hello, little man!” He made me feel important, and I loved him for that!. . .
The Great Freeze. No TV, radio, nor even a telephone to warn us in advance. Morning greeted us with a light snow which soon gave way, much to our regret, to sleet. Hurriedly the cows were milked, but there was no point in opening the gates to the pasture, for cows, horses and mules huddled close in the barn and stables. . .
And the chickens had to be fed. Only Mama’s customary “Come and Get it!” food call could pry them loose and bring them out. The chicken house door had been propped open to avoid going out and risking dangerous falling. Mama opened a window and, as Lambdin and I watched at another window, she threw out an abundance of scratch feed and sounded her usual call. What a sight it was as a hundred grown and “frying size” chickens came gliding down through the open door, wings spread, each trying to alight on the food! But when their feet hit the ice, they skidded on by. The leaders, slipping, falling and bumping each other in a frantic struggle to get back collided with, and were bowled over, by others just coming in for a landing. That was a sight for young boys to remember with delight!
to uneducated men
As the living are to the dead.
Aristotle 384-322 b.c.
For nine months of the year we were at school from 8 AM until 4 PM, walking back and forth regardless of distance or weather. (Most of the boys) before leaving for school, had to milk cows -- by hand, of course -- turn the cows out to pasture, run the milk through a cream separator, wash up, change clothes, and eat breakfast. When we returned home, we had to change back to overalls, round up the cows from the pasture, feed and milk them, run the milk through the separator, wash up, eat supper and then do our home study by kerosene lamplight. In early fall, we had to pick cotton for an hour or so before doing all the above.
Union School was a one-room, one-teacher school with an enrollment of about 30 pupils, grades one through eight. In the center was a big stove, the pipe of which went straight up through a thick masonry section in the roof. It wasn’t a “little red school house,” but a real nice, big white building with green blinds and trim. It had a porch and, between this and the school room, an adequate cloak room. Somebody had to build a roaring fire in that stove long before school began at 8 o’clock on cold mornings so the big room would be warm when the children arrived. The size of desks increased from front to rear, and between windows on both walls were blackboards. The teacher’s desk was on a raised platform.
Miss Snipes [our teacher] took half of our ball diamond, which was located in the school’s front yard, and had it plowed up, fenced and turned into a flower garden. Now there wasn’t room to play anything but base stealing, hide and seek, hail-over and marbles. We were not only mad at our loss, but she made us work her garden! Then, to top it all off, Miss Snipes made us nail short boards for seats on the limbs of an easy to climb tree, sent the boys up, then the girls, and she climbed up last. Then she had us all sing together like birds singing in a tree! Joe Allan Bell refused, but finally gave in angrily, climbed past all the rest of us while the girls and Miss Kate waited on the ground, and as he passed us he said, “I hope I fall and break my neck!” I was afraid that for such blasphemy God might just let him do it!
In those days, lack of money for commercial toys forced us to improvise, so we developed imagination, ingenuity, and skill in making our own. We made pop-guns, sling-shots, bows and arrows, cross-bows, and javelins. We made our own baseballs and bats, swings, sleds, and balloons of hog bladders. We built dams - big ones for swimming ponds, little ones for water wheels - boats, bridges, rabbit traps, butterfly nets, jumping “frogs” out of chicken skeletons with rubber bands, sticks and rosin.
A photograph taken about 1908 of the pupils of Union School preparing to attend a Putnam County School Rally at Wesley Chapel School is in the Clopton Family Archives. It is not known who originally identified each participants. It is obvious by the “Sunday Best” clothing and the very fact an expensive photograph was commissioned to record the event that much importance was placed on the grand adventure. The children and adults are seen piled into a carriage drawn by two horses, a black man (unidentified), the driver. Pictured are Lucy Rossee; Sara Elizabeth Callaway; Ruth King; Sallie Mae Shaw; Lemuel Thomas Clopton; Luther Clements; Lambdin Jones; Walker Shaw; Carl Knight; Homer Shaw; Ada Lucille “Pink” (Knight) Clopton; Lucy Willis Callaway; Ruby Rossee; Wallace Theodore “Ted” Jones; Thomas Wooten Callaway; Miss Katie Snipes, Teacher; Hattie John (Callaway) Burnett; Joby Rossee; William King Clopton; Malcolm Jones; James Knight; unknown; James Gabriel Callaway; Walter Johnston Clopton; Emory Van Manley; John Winfield Manley; unknown.
`[We played] “Fox and Hounds.” One day Luther Clements was the fox, running with his coat on. As my brother, Malcolm, was about to catch him he unbuttoned his coat, held his arms back and Malcolm garbed his coat. Luther kept running leaving Malcolm with coat and red face.
[Once the] teacher, having entranced us younger children with a fairy story, promised to call a fairy to come to a window for us to see her. We hadn’t noticed that Sarah Callaway, who was one of the older girls, hadn’t come in after recess. The teacher, Miss Kate Snipes, I believe, got us all excited in anticipation, then called the fairy to come. The “fairy” in response to questions from the teacher, nodded or shook her head.
. . . Hattie John Callaway played an “April Fool!” joke on Miss Snipes. She was mad until somehow she learned that her “pet,” Hattie, was responsible, so then she quickly shed her anger.
I’ll always remember with admiration and gratitude Prof. W. C. Wright, formerly Principal of Eatonton School, in our time, County Superintendent. But of course, this is true of everyone who ever knew him. When he visited our school, he always showed a sincere interest in us, the pupils. And he didn’t deliver a dry, platitudinous little talk on “The Importance of Education.” He made us feel certain that he loved us by what he said and how he said it. He liked to shake each one’s hand. We loved that man!
[I remember] the first automobile we ever saw. The teacher heard it coming and shouted, “It’s an automobile, children! Run and see it!” We all got to the porch just in time. It was a red Maxwell, we learned later.
Letters, were the printed words: “Ohio Salt
In the spring of 1905, Albert went to Miami to join [my brother] Watt, and that fall [my sister] Estelle began her two-year teacher training at State Normal School in Athens. Meanwhile another black man who worked for someone several miles away persuaded Frances, the woman who with her two sons lived in that one-room house of ours, to come and live with him. She and the older boy went but the deaf one refused to leave, preferring to live, or at least sleep, alone and eat all meals on our back porch or in our kitchen. We developed a fairly adequate sign language and lip-reading system for communication. . .
Sandy was entranced as he watched Estelle playing our foot-pedal organ and singing. One day Lambdin heard Sandy singing in our buggy house across the road, though it sounded like the singing of a happy, well-fed hen rather than a person. Investigating, Lambdin discovered Sandy had cut with tin snips pieces of tin about the size and shape of the white keys on our organ and nailed one end of each, all close together, clear across a window sill. The projecting ends would bend with slight pressure of his fingers, then spring back up when pressure was released. Now he had his own organ and was playing and singing, his seat an empty wooden box.
In the summer of 1911, Mama went to Miami to discuss with Albert and Watt their insistent proposal that we move down there and all five of us live together. [The decision was made to move to Miami.] After the train had started Mama asked Lambdin: “Where is your overcoat?” “Oh,” he replied, “I left it in the railroad station. I won’t have any use for that in Miami.” We arrived in Jacksonville in time to catch the 9:00 AM train for Miami. Now I’ve heard of “The Slow Train Through Arkansas” but I’ll bet it was faster than the Florida East Coast train from Jacksonville to Miami about January 1, 1912. It took us 17 hours to travel that 360 miles, so many stops! Most of these seemed to be for nothing much more than a crossroads. We arrived at 2:00 AM, sweaty, dirty, tired and so sleepy!
The Miami RR Station, the end of the line then, was close to the Terminal Dock at the end of old 6th Street [now NE 6th Street]. Henry M. Flagler, owner [or at least principal owner] of the railroad, a chain of luxury hotels, and the Terminal Dock put the station there for easy transfer of passengers and freight to ships for Havana and the West Indies. From here Miami passengers hired hacks. The story is told of one man asking his black driver: “Why in the hell did they build the station so far from town?” The driver, after a brief hesitation, replied: “Well, sir, I s’pose they wanted to put it close to the railroad tracks.”
Among Albert’s close friends was Mr. John Frohock [the sheriff], who insisted that Albert take his Cadillac to meet us, so our first automobile ride was enough to rouse us from weariness, at least for a little while. Our home wasn’t quite ready for occupancy and our furniture was in storage. Albert took Mama and me to the Fort Dallas Hotel where Watt was boarding, and Lambdin with him to Mrs. Gamble’s boarding house. [When I undressed and] Watt saw my underwear, he broke into hilarious laughter which, with some difficulty, he muffled to avoid awakening other guests. Across the back of my union suit, in large letters, were three printed words: “Ohio Salt Company.” Watt had probably forgotten that he was the first of eight brothers who had been so clothed. The next morning he bought me my first B.V.D.’s.
. . . About ten days later we moved into our new home. Watt and Albert now paying board to Mama to cover expenses. For some reason it was decided that we boys should not enter school until fall, either because we had missed so much, or because we needed what we two could earn by working. Even with our meager earnings eight months of work would help. Lambdin delivered groceries and I delivered packages for a dry good store, he receiving $6 and I $4 per week, we furnishing the bicycles.
Our store had a mid-summer sale for which they employed a professional sales manager. Instead of relying on newspaper advertising and local distribution of handbills, he insisted also on a handbill in every house from Miami to, and including, West Palm Beach, 70 miles North! Lawrence Gautier, an experienced driver, was engaged to drive Mr. John Burdine’s car. In the back were two boys including Ted Jones, and thousands of printed handbills which we two were to distribute. There were at least 19 towns and villages, at the entrance of which we had to get out and, walking, put a handbill behind every screen door or into someone’s hand. The car would wait for us in the shade of a tree at the far edge of the town. All the boss did was sit on his fanny beside the driver and occasionally take a gulp of whiskey from his bottle.
Once when he was in a restroom we had an opportunity for a brief conference with our driver. He heartily agreed that this was the craziest expedition possible to secure customers. Very few people had cars, and they wouldn’t drive 70 miles, nor even half that far over such a rough road to save a few dollars. Nor would anyone ride the train. When we got to West Palm Beach, we boys were worn out. After dinner we were to work all over that town of 4,000. They had stores almost as good as 7,000 population Miami, and their merchants would probably laugh at our folly rather than resent our invasion. But the latter idea occurred to our driver. Just as we were starting our afternoon work, we heard what sounded exactly like the firing of a shotgun. Our driver had already suggested the possibility of local resentment to the boss, who had had enough drinks to believe it. So when Lawrence frantically exclaimed: “Oh good Lord, somebody’s shooting at us!” the boss exclaimed: “Let’s get the hell out of here!” I’m pretty sure that when Lawrence slipped out of the restaurant while the boss was in the restroom, he secretly arranged with a police officer for that gun shot or giant fire cracker. It took us two hours to get back to Miami.
I applied for a paper route and got one with the Miami Herald, the morning paper. I had to get up at 4:30 and be there by 5:00. This job only required 1 1/2 to 2 hours, so I’d be home in time to change clothes, eat breakfast and get to school on time. On Saturday I had to collect 10 cents per week from each of my customers, turn in the Herald’s part and, if I didn’t have another job, which I did have most of the time in the afternoons, I was free. . .
To replace the old coral rock pavement with
Something permanent …. And someone had
learned about creosoted wood blocks (‘though
it turned out he hadn’t learned enough) and
they decided on the wood.
There was a long-hair, long-whisker carpenter who rode a man-size tricycle with a big wire basket for his tools. It was generally understood that he was also a preacher, preaching to small groups who gathered around him by the river, always far up stream in a quiet place. The story went around that he claimed to be Jesus. I was told that one Sunday he told his friends, “Next Sunday at this time I’m going to walk on the water at this place.” Some boys got word of this and one who lived nearby noticed that every day he [the preacher] left a few timbers or planks under some bushes there. Thursday and Friday he saw the preacher working after dark. Now the river water is black with muck silt from the Everglades, so a person can’t see anything an inch or two under the surface. Saturday night late the boys discovered he had built a platform just beneath the surface, so they went out nearly to the end and removed three wide boards, leaving a gap big enough for a man to fall through. Now you know both the drama of his sermon on Sunday and how it ended with a splash..
The City Council decided it was high time to replace the old coral rock pavement, at least on the principle business street, with something permanent. They considered brick, concrete and asphalt, but then someone had learned about creosoted wood blocks (‘though it turned out he hadn’t learned enough) and they decided on the wood. The blocks were almost as large as the cobble-stones used on many city streets but, fitted together, they made a smooth surface after the street had been carefully graded. Everybody was happy with the new paving - for a while. But when the first big downpour of rain descended those blocks popped up and washed into hundreds of little piles so the street was practically impassable. I don’t know what they did with those blocks, but the street had to be repaved with asphalt.
I recall only three “floats” in a parade early in my Miami sojourn. All three were ordinary panel trucks, no decorations, so they were almost ignored until people lining the street began to see into their open rear doors. The time was a few days after a popular magazine had daringly included a full page picture of a beautiful young woman apparently nude, with hands hanging crossed to cover a certain part of her anatomy. The title of the picture was September Morn. In the back of the truck stood a person who appeared to be that same young woman, and across the truck below “her” feet the same title. Men whooped, whistled and laughed, but women in the crowd blushed in silence, some turning away in anger. Now if that was a man somebody did a wonderful make-up job on his anatomy and fitted him with flesh-colored skin tights! Sitting in the rear of the first [truck] was Miami’s well known 465 pound “Fatty” Palmer, with a sign above him, I EAT ULLENDORF’S MEATS. The truck behind this bore, seated, the skinniest man I’ve ever seen, with a sign, I DON’T…
Said it was, the whole 80 miles to Waycross, Ga.
….. I still wonder if I might have been the
first to make that trip on a motorcycle.
Meanwhile we got involved in World War I. All men 21 to 30 had to register for the draft, but nearly all I knew rushed to enlist. At a patriotic rally in the [Miami] High School auditorium, I sang my first solo: Over There. I wore an army uniform and held a big flag while singing, the flag staff reaching about five feet above my head. Just as I finished and was walking backward for the curtain to fall the guy with the rope pulled too fast and the curtain caught the flag, pushing it down, but I held on and pulled a dipped flag back. ‘Twas embarrassing, though.
Into the Army went brothers Hudson, Malcolm and Lambdin, along with so many others. Those who didn’t enlist were regarded as “slackers.” Miami’s one motorcycle patrolman went in and I bought his motorcycle. The Home Guard was organized for those over 30 and under 21, and I joined it. I was 18. It was fun watching some of those “oldsters” trying to learn to drill and go through the manual of arms with our wooden guns. Of course our drilling was all at night. . .
We were now into 1918 and soon draft registrations included ages 18-35. I registered and decided I had time to take my long-yearned-for motorcycle trip before I’d get called.
So in August I started assembling equipment for my trip. Albert, who had driven a new car from Detroit, warned me. “It’s almost impossible to drive a car over that sand road between Jacksonville and Waycross, Ga. You’ll never make it on a motorcycle!! It took me 8 hours to travel that 80 miles, but I made it, and immediately bought a postal card and sent it proudly to my brother Albert. . .
Dressed in Army breeches and leather puttees, with a generous supply of luggage fastened to the rack behind me, I made the 366 miles to Jacksonville the first day. After a night in the home of a friend, I made a brief visit to Camp Johnston nearby to see my brother, Lambdin.
Then I began my daring crossing of the “impenetrable wilderness” which Albert had said could not be negotiated by a motorcycle. The road from Jacksonville was all Albert had said it was, the whole 80 miles to Waycross, Ga. It was literally a “trail” consisting of two sand runts made by wagons and later widened by a few cars whose drivers dared to try it. I had to learn how to stay in a rut without permitting my front wheel to touch a side wall, or it would plow into it and throw us. After several harmless falls, I learned how to stay in the center of the rut, but I had to run in low gear about half the time and in second the other half. This, of course, made the engine very hot, and what little breeze there was came from the east, blowing the heat against my left leg. To keep it from blistering, I frequently had to put my left foot on the handle bar to let my leg cool off. Eight hours for 80 miles! With this ordeal over and the “proof” card mailed to Albert, I went to a hotel for a shower, supper and a long night’s sleep. I still wonder if I might have been the first to make that trip on a motorcycle. Sorry I didn’t think to check with the Waycross newspaper. I soon discovered that the sight of a motorcycle was about as rare in South Georgia in 1918 as that of an automobile in Pea Ridge in 1908. People ran to their porches to see me go by. . .
Just as I was nearing a small farm house, rain began falling so I turned into the farmer’s grassy driveway. Parking my steed in a shed, I ran to his porch. He had heard me coming and was out there waiting with a friendly welcome. . .
When the rain stopped, I thanked him for his hospitality as I prepared to leave. He calmly told me: “You ain’ goin’ nowhere on that thing. If it don’t rain no more maybe you c’n go tomorrow, but you’re gonna stay here tonight.”
1. Mary Brooks24 Bearden (Sarah P.23 Claiborne, James22, Buller21, Augustine20, Thomas19, Thomas18, Elizabeth 'Boetler'17 Butler, John 'Boetler'16, Cressit15 St. John, of Bletsoe, John14, John13, John12, Margaret11 Beauchamp, Duchess of Somerset, John10, Johane9 Clopton, William8, Walter7, William6, Walter5, William4, Walter3, William2, Guillaume1 Peche, Lord Of Cloptunna and Dalham) was born Abt. 1861 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia, and died May 1927 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia and buried Concord United Methodist Church1. She married (1) Lucius Marshall Jones 1877. He was born February 14, 1858, and died February 10, 1902 at Georgia and buried Concord United Methodist Church2. She married (2) R. B. Harrison Aft. 1911.
Children of Mary Bearden and Lucius Jones are:
2 i. Albert L.25 Jones3, born at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia.
3 ii. Hudson Jones, WW I, born at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia; died 19434.
4 iii. Walter Thomas Jones, Sr., born at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia; died 19435. He married Susie Thompson
5 iv. Lucy Jones, born 1879 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia. She married Tracy King Callaway, of Eatonton; born 1876 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia.
6 v. Charlie G. Jones6, born 1887 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia. He married Florence Boone at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia.
7 vi. William Jones, born March 26, 1888 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia; died July 4, 1904 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia by downing in the Oconee River with another child, Gladys Palmer, He is buried at Concord United Methodist Church7.
8 vii. Estelle Jones, born 1889 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia. She married Clyde Maxwell; died at Cairo, Georgia.
9 viii. Malcolm Jones, WW I8, born 1893 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia.
10 ix. Lambdin L. Jones, WW I9, born 1896 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia.
11 x. Wallace Theodore Jones, Sr. WW I9, born April 3, 1899 at Eatonton, Putnam County, Georgia; died August 19, 1980 at South Carolina. He married Kathryn Eloise Knight at Nacoochee, Georgia; born at Clearwater, Florida.
1. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton), Notes she was removed by Certificate, and notes her death May 1927. She is listed as Mary B. Jones.
2. Tombstone, loc. cit.
3. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton), He is listed as Albert L. Jones and was removed by Certificate.
4. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton), He is listed as W. Hut Jones, noting that he was removed by certificate and that his death was in 1943.
5. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton).
6. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton), He is listed as Charlie G. Jones and was removed by Certificate.
7. Tombstone, loc. cit.
8. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton), He is entered as Malcolm Jones and was removed by Certificate.
9. Concord United Methodist Church Register, (Courtesy William Purcell Clopton), It is noted he was removed by Certificate.
Comments? Questions? Corrections?
 The son of Clopton descendant Mary Brooks Bearden and her husband, Lucius Marshall Jones, an abbreviated genealogy follows. Kith and Kin and Kissin Kousins Juleps is an excerpt from The Clopton Chronicles, the Ancestors and Descendants of Sir Thomas Clopton, Knight & Dame Katherine Mylde, and is the property of the Clopton Family Genealogical Society which holds the copyright on this material. Permission is granted to quote or reprint articles for noncommercial use provided credit is given to the CFGS and to the author. Prior written permission must be obtained from the Society for commercial use.
Suellen (Clopton) DeLoach Blanton, Founder and Executive Director of The Clopton Family Genealogical Society & Clopton Family Archives, added footnotes.
 The descendants of Thomas Claiborne, Sr., of “Sweet Hall,” and his wife, Ann Fox, claim descent from the Clopton patriarchs, Guillaume Peche, Lord of Cloptunna and Dalham.
 The Memoirs of W. Ted Jones, is a typed transcript, a copy of which was given to Lemuel Thomas Clopton, a life long friend of Ted’s brother, Lambden. Upon Mr. Clopton’s death, it was given to his granddaughter, Suellen (Clopton) DeLoach Blanton by her father, William Purcell Clopton. A copy is located at the Clopton Family Archives. Kith and Kin and Kissin Kousins has been excerpted from his Memoirs.
 John Winfield Manley.
 Prior to 1889, Putnam County boasted three schools within the Rockville District: Union, where the intrepid Pea Ridge scholars labored, New Hope, and Hargrove schools. These early institutes of rural education were open only four months each year, none were graded, and each served only a small number of neighborhood children. With the new century came a more progressive and modern approach to education, and thus, the white children of Pea Ridge from the poorest to the more affluent were given equal opportunity to receive an adequate basic education.
 Sarah Elizabeth Callaway, daughter of Carrie Lou Clopton and James Willis Callaway.
 To assist in preparing this essay, the editor referred to the following: John Frederick Dorman and Claiborne T. Smith, Jr., MD, Claiborne of Virginia, Descendants of Colonel William Claiborne, The First Eight Generations, Gateway Press, Inc., Baltimore, Maryland 1995. The Eatonton Messenger, Putnam Printing Company, Inc., 111 N. Jefferson Avenue, Putnam County (Eatonton) Georgia 31024; Official Directory of the City of Miami and Nearby Towns, Miami, Florida, 1904; and, Thelma Peters, Lemon City, Pioneering on Biscayne Bay, 1850-1925. Banyan Books, Inc., Miami, Florida, 1976; Thelma Peters, Miami 1909. Banyan Books, Inc., Miami, Florida, 1984.