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                                  CHAPTER SEVEN 
                                   KINFOLK REUNION

   In February, 1804, we got a letter from Uncle John and Aunt Amy Myrick. They, along
with Young and David had sold their land in Franklin County, and were leaving in March,
heading to the new land they had bought in Hancock and Baldwin County, Georgia. They
wrote that they planned to follow the same route that we had and stop by Uncle John
Goodwin’s place in Union County on the way down. 
   They also wrote they had a lot of family news for us and were planning to spend a few
days with us, if it was all right. Their plans were to be at our place around the last of
March. Becky immediately wrote them a letter telling them how excited we were, and how
much we were looking foward to seeing them. She explained that we would wait until
they arrived to catch them up on our news. 
   Pansy and Coot were as excited as we were, when they heard the news.  The letter
stated they would have thirty-eight Negroes with them, and they looked foward to seeing
their kinfolks. Coot’s first question was, “Did dey mention my mama, Jeane, Missa Theo?
You know ‘bout ten years ago dey said she was still doin’ well, did dey say anything,
Missa Theo?” The only reply I could give him was, “They didn’t say anything, so I’m sure
she’s all right, or they would have told us.” In my heart, I figured she would be dead, since
she would now be eighty-nine and, if she was still living, they would have left her behind
with someone because of her age.
   During February we killed and butchered hogs. We cured most of the pork by salting it
down in wooden barrels. On March 5th, Wiley, Harris, and Henry picked most of the
dried hickory out of the woodpile, hauled it down to the creek and let it soak for a few
days.  After it was thoroughly soaked, they placed it on the huge bed of red hot coals they
had prepared in the smokehouse. We hung hams, sides of bacon and sausages in the
smokehouse until it was full. All that night and the following day a tantalizing aroma was
evident throughout our house and the entire five acre knoll on which it stood. 
   Becky spent most of her time in the kitchen, baking bread and cakes. Pansy sewed and
ironed new curtains for the house. Every day, starting the twenty- third of March, Becky
packed a dinner, handed it to one of the boys and had them ride the eight miles up to Red
Bank Church on the main road and look for the oncoming wagons. She was afraid they
would miss the turn-off, even though we had included a good map in the last letter.
   Finally, in the early afternoon on March 27th, Harris came galloping across the creek
and into the yard yelling, “They’re coming!” Pointing behind him, he said, “They’ll be
toppin’ the hill over yonder purty soon!” We all rushed out to the front porch to sit down
and wait for them. I’m glad that Coot spent all those winter months in the barn making
rockers. I always swore that we'd never have enough company to fill them, but now there
are eighteen rocking chairs scattered on the porches. 
   When the first wagon topped the hill three miles away, I started counting them. There
were ten open wagons, each pulled by a team of oxen, and too many cows, horses and
people to count from that distance. Six horses pulled out in front of the pack as they
topped the hill, and seemed to be racing for the house. Young was first, then David, then
Aunt Amy’s boys, Goodwin, Fletcher, and Jordan, and finally, Uncle John. 
   Young, already dismounted and limping toward the house, shouted back at them, “Tole
you I’d beat you, gimpy leg and all. Y’all ain’t eva’ gone beat me in no hoss race!” I met
him in the yard and, while we were hugging and jumping around like boys, the other five
jumped off their horses and joined in the celebration.
   As the first wagon crossed the ford, Coot jumped up off the steps, started
buck-dancing around the yard shouting, “Praise ‘da Lawd! Praise ‘da Lawd! My mama
still a’ kickin’. Yonder she come, perched up on dat wagin seat like a queen.” By the time
the wagon pulled out of the creek, Coot was there, lifting Jeane down from the seat and
running toward the porch with her still in his arms. 
   When he got to the steps, Jeane was yelling, “Put me down boy, put me down. You
gon’ break eva’ bone I got lef in dis creaky ole body.” When her feet hit the ground, I
grabbed her and was giving her a big hug when she pushed me back, and with a question
on her wrinkled brow, looked up at me over a pair of tiny wire-rimmed glasses and said,
“Who you? Know you ain't none a’ mine. You’s too white fa’ dat.” 
   Jeane then started laughing, and whispered, “Missa Theo, I’se jus’ a’ teasin’ you.
Knowed who you wuz time I crossed dat creek. You put too many a’ dese gray hairs in
dis ole head fa’ me to fa’get you. While I’m heah, I’se jus liable to make you one a’ dem
upside down cakes yo’ granpappy use to laf’ an talk about all a’ time.” Jeane was right.
That was Pappy’s favorite story. I must have heard him tell it a hundred times, and
everytime I thought he would split his sides laughing. 
   It was quite a sight on the five acre knoll that afternoon. As the wagons continued to
pull into the yard, people were jumping off, shouting and hugging each other. The
Negroes driving the livestock left them and started running up the hill to join in the
reunion. Riders jumped off their horses and let them go. Luckily, all of the animals were
thirsty and slowly made their way to the creek for water. Later they were rounded up and
put in the pasture. After all the oxen had been unharnessed and placed in the pasture, we
set up a camp for the Negroes behind Coot and Pansy’s cabin, and all our kinfolk were at
the main house. 
   The creek was still a little cool, but all the younger boys, led by Harris, headed for the
swimming hole. As they started down the hill, I yelled, “Y’all come back here. Take this
soap and, by the way, the girls might want to go swimming and clean up a little bit too. So
I’m gonna give y’all about two hours. Then, you gotta get out, get dressed and let the
girls have the creek.” I added, “Harris, you look out for those little fellows.” They all
grudgingly agreed, turned and ran down the hill. 
   All the grownups were sitting on the front porch as they disappeared into the woods.
Aunt Amy said, “Y’all better make sure who all’s going, so we can make sure they all
make it back. We don't want to lose any younguns, especially after we’ve made it this far.”
We laughed, but I assured her I had taken note of each one of them. 
   Of course, there was Harris; William, Young and Martha's oldest, and his brother
Theophilus Y.; David, Jr., David and Temperance's oldest, and his brother Laun, twelve;
Uncle John and Aunt Amy’s boy, James, also went along to help look out for the younger
ones. Temperance, holding twenty month old Elijah T. in her lap, said, “David, Jr., you
watch out for Laun, you know he ain’t the best swimmer in the world.”  I was sure they’d
be all right after Young’s response, “Aw, them younguns can swim like a fish,
Temperance, don't you fret yo’self none about ‘em.” 
   It couldn’t have been more than an hour, when we heard one of the boys yelling, “Y’all
come back here with our britches! Git back here right now! I’m gonna tell y’alls mama,
and she’s gonna beat y’alls little asses.” David, William, Julius, Wiley, Goodwin, Fletcher,
and I took off down the hill and through the woods to the creek. When we got to the edge
of the swimming hole, all the boys were huddled up in the middle, neck deep in the water. 
   Laun was the one doing most of the shouting and, forgetting he was in the presence of
grownups, said, “Them damn girls been hidin’ ova’ there in them bushes watching us. We
heard ‘em gigglin’ an tole ‘em to get tha’ hell outta heah. They did all right, but came a’
running by and snatched up all our britches and high-tailed it off in tha’ woods. I’m gone
kill ‘em, when I git me some more britches.”
   Wiley and William were the first ones to start snickering and with that we all started
howling with laughter. The excited manner in which Laun explained it was equally as
funny as the episode itself.  I said, “You boys go ahead and get scrubbed up, and we'll
look for your clothes.” David found them in a neat pile under some bushes about fifty
yards from the creek. On the way back to the house, I found out from Harris who the
perpetrators were. It was our girls, Elizabeth, Charity, Gillie and Frances; Young's
daughters, Elizabeth and Mary; David's daughters, Mary and Lorrain; and John’s
daughter, Amy.
   When we got back to the front porch, everyone was waiting with bated breath to hear
what had happened. When Julius finished describing it to the last detail including an
excellent mimic of Laun’s reaction, the whole place was rolling in laughter. Jeane, who we
had earlier guided to one of the rocking chairs, had sat and rocked quietly through the
whole episode, said, “Dem girls need a whupping in ‘de wust way, but dey done heard
y’all laffin so much, wouldn't do ‘em no good a’tall. An’ dat boy, Laun, shudda had his
mouth scrubbed out ‘wid dat lye soap.” 
   It was fun watching Aunt Amy trying to admonish the girls for such a terrible and
unlady-like thing to do to their cousins. Everytime she would get a serious look on her
face and start to scold them, she would start snickering. Finally, she said, “Oh, the heck
with it, let's go swimming.” Fearing a retaliation, the grown women, Martha, Temperance,
Amy and her daughters, Lucy, Betsy, Polly, Sarah, and Martha, escorted all the younger
girls down to the swimming hole. They felt that they could all use an all over bath to get
rid of the trail dust. 
   Uncle John and Aunt Amy have six beautiful daughters ranging in age from the
youngest, Amy, seventeen, to the oldest, Betsy, twenty-three.
   As they proceeded down the hill, Young shouted, “Y’all look out now, with all you
good lookin’ women, I’m liable to be a’ hidin’ in tha bushes, a’ lookin’.” Martha, turned,
walked a few steps back to the porch, cupped her hands so only the grownups could hear,
and said, “That won’t bother us a bit, you old coot, all you can do is look anyhow.” 
   While the women were down at the creek, all the men sat on the porch smoking,
chewing, spitting and talking. Becky was in the kitchen with Pansy and a few of the Negro
women, preparing supper. They had moved Jeane’s chair into the kitchen at her request.
Coot was supervising the setting up of the make-shift tables on sawhorses on the
southwest porch. Young said, “Theo, you shou’da seen the size of our wagon train. Fo’
we split up back at the main road, must’ve been fifteen mo’ wagons an a hunnert mo’
grown-ups and chillun, and that ain't even countin their Negroes.”  
   In spite of his proper upbringing, Young’s dialect was a replica of Uncle Peter's, which
seems to be a mixture of proper English and Negro. Young continued, “You remember
Gray Andrews, mine and David’s pa-in-law. He’s with ‘em. Got ‘im some prime bottom
land over in Hancock County, Georgia. We tried to get ‘em to come on down here with
us, but he was anxious to get on over into Georgia. They’ve got several mo’ younguns
since y’all saw ‘em.”
   We heard the women and girls chattering and giggling as they headed back up the hill
toward the front porch. About that time, we heard the dinner bell ringing, so we all headed
for the side porch. Goodwin, John’s oldest boy said, “You know, that's ‘bout the purtiest
sound I’ve heard all day. With all the goings on we’ve had around here, I think I could eat
a horse.” Young responded with one of Pappy’s old sayings, “Yeah, my belly’s ‘bout to
beat my backbone to death.”  Coot had set up two big tables, one for the children and one
for the grown-ups. I asked Uncle John to say the blessing, since he's a preacher of sorts.
   John stood up, banged a wooden spoon on the table to get the children quiet, bowed
his head, and said, “Lord, you’ve been good to us and protected us on our journey. We
thank you for that. You’ve blessed us with fine families and brought us all together for this
wonderful reunion. We thank you for that. And Lord, you’ve set us out on a trip to some
fine new land, so please bless and look after us as we proceed into Georgia. Lord, some of
our girls sinned this afternoon, and I know you will forgive them, and we thank you for
that. Lord, I know you will forgive little Laun for his relapse into profanity, and we thank
you for that. You’ve placed a fine table of food before us, and we thank you for that.
Amen.” 
   Young, sitting next to me said, “Amen,” then muttered under his breath, so only he and
I heard, “Lord, you finally shut him up, and I thank you for that.”  I burst out laughing.
Becky with a shocked look on her face, asked, “Theo, what in the world are you laughin’
at?” I lied and said, “During the blessin’ I was so overcome with the gifts of the Lord and
the happiness of having such a lovin’ family around me, that I just couldn’t help it.” Becky
smiled and said, “That’s so sweet of you.” As she started helping her plate with food, the
others did the same. Young leaned over while reaching for some cornbread and whispered
in my ear, “You’re goin’ to hell for lyin’.” 
   After supper we pulled all the rocking chairs around to the front porch and arranged
them in sort of a semi-circle, so we could all talk. Young started by saying, “Don’t know if
we wrote ‘bout it, but Mama died ‘bout four years ago; don’t know what she died from,
jus’ got sick and died. Left eva’ thing to me, David and Mary Ann. Back in October of
1800, Mary Ann married a preacher from Halifax named Ira Portis; ain’t got no younguns
yet; don't know why. Me and David bought out her share of the old place. We sold the
whole place to Philip Alston, from Warren County fo’ we left this month. Got four dollars
an acre for it. Don't know why that man wuz willin’ to pay so much for that worn out
dirt.” 
   John Myrick was a big burly man, with hands as big as a dinner plate. He always wore
a thick, well trimmed beard that was a mixture of smut black and gray. He was a very
quiet man. I don’t think I've heard him speak over a hundred words since I’ve known ‘im,
which is all my life. I don't know what got him started that afternoon, but he brought us up
to date on all the Goodwins in Union and Laurens Counties. 
   We were all sad to hear that Uncle Mark died back on June 27th, in 1793. He had been
very prosperous. Now, Aunt Elizabeth and the boys, Thomas, Mark, Jr., and James, along
with the daughters, Sally and Betsy, are tending the several hundred acres he left them.
Mark, Jr., married Tabitha Parsons a few years ago, and they named their first child after
Uncle John Goodwin in Union County. 
   Uncle Peter and his wife, Elizabeth, are still living and thriving on the three hundred
acres next to Little River they bought from Uncle Mark back in ‘91. He had only charged
them three hundred dollars for the place. A few years later, Uncle Mark’s wife sold
Solomon and his wife, Sally, Uncle John's daughter, three hundred acres on Little River
close to Uncle Peter and Aunt Elizabeth.  
   Uncle Theo, Jr. died about ten years ago and his wife, Temperance, is now living with
her son, Solomon. Theophilus T., their oldest son, and his wife, Nancy, along with
Solomon, and Thomas and their families continue to farm over one thousand acres along
Durbin Creek. Theophilus T. and Nancy now have two girls and three boys. The girls are
Temperance, eight, and Rebecca, one. The boys are Solomon, ten; Thomas, six; and
Joshua, four. Aunt Amy Myrick told Becky, according to Uncle Peter, they had named
little Rebecca in honor of her. This brought a big smile to Becky's face. 
   In January, 1795, Uncle John Goodwin married Christiana Collyer Plummer, former
wife of William Plummer, who passed away in August of 1791. At the time of their
marriage, Uncle John was sixty-six and had several grandchildren. Samson married Nancy
Palmer, and they now have two sons and four daughters. The boys are John Palmer
Goodwin, born in 1786, and Wyche Goodwin, born in 1795. They named the daughters,
Mary, born in 1793; Elizabeth, born in 1797; Sandal, born in 1800 and Nancy, born in
1802. 
   Of course, we knew about most of Uncle John Goodwin's grandchildren, but Uncle
John Myrick had to catch us up on all of them. He started with the first girl, Anna. She
married James Woodson, Jr., in 1775 and has the following children; Nancy, Cassandra,
Goodwin, and James P., all born before 1790. The next daughter, Elizabeth, married
Robert Woodson in 1774 and had the following children: James, Elizabeth, and Delila, all
born in the 1770s.
   I tried to tell Uncle John Myrick that the only news we needed catching up on was
from 1791, but it was to no avail. He continued as though he were in a world of his own.
John’s daughter, Cassandra (Cassie), married Thomas Hays in 1800 and now has a
two-year old girl, Elizabeth. Sally Goodwin married Uncle Peter’s adopted son, Solomon,
in 1791 and they have no children yet. Polly married Thomas Woodson in 1794 and now
has a girl, Nancy, born in 1795 and a boy, James, born in 1800.
    When he finished, I looked at Aunt Amy and asked, “How in the world does he
remember all those names and dates?” She replied, “He keeps paper in his pocket all the
time, and when he hears things that interest him, he writes them down and then reads his
notes ever so often until he knows them.” It was at this point that Young said, “Y'all
know, for the whole time we been here, eva’ time y’all start callin’ or yellin’ at that
three-year old, which y’all so honorably named after me, I just about jump outta my skin
thinkin’ somebody is callin’ or yellin’ at me, so John, take that paper you got and put a big
‘G’ after that boy’s name. I’m a’ callin’ him Young G. from now on.”
   Later that evening Young turned to me and said, “Come on, Theo, let’s go for a walk.
I got some bi’ness to talk over with ya.” As we were walking out through the yard toward
Pansy and Coot's place, he said, “You know, old Jeane’s not gonna be with us too much
longer. I figgered she might want to stay here with Coot and Pansy. What you think about
that?” My reply was, “You know, Jeane is, and has been, like a part of the family to you,
me and Pappy, and I’ve never thought of her as property, so why don’t we go on over and
ask her what she thinks about the idea?” 
   When Young explained his thinking to Jeane, she peered out over her wire rimmed
glasses, looked Young straight in the face, and said, “Missa Young, yo’ pappy done give
me to you back in 1771 ‘cause he love you so much. The only way you gon’ get rid’ a’ me
is when they start throwin’ the dirt in my face, and even then I’se liable to come back and
haunt you.” At that, I burst out laughing, and that was the end of that business session.
   As we sat on the porch two days later and watched the last of the wagons top the hill to
the west, I had a sad, empty feeling in my heart. There goes a beloved part of the
Goodwin family that I may never see again, off on a new wonderful adventure to settle
and clear new lands bordering the Indian territory in Georgia. I was envious to some
degree. I suppose there's an adventurer hidden somewhere in all of us.

CHAPTER EIGHT                                                                                                                                                BACK