As a child, I moved a lot between the US and Canada, some days not knowing which country you’d wake up to tomorrow. I was born in Bakersfield, CA, but quickly adapted to the gypsy lifestyle, which by age 7 would involve moving to Pismo Beach CA, Tulameen BC, Germanson Landing BC, back to Bakersfield, then to Kamloops BC, then to Pinantan Lake BC, then back to Bakersfield at my grandmothers trailer, then a house we rented.
We headed to Manning Park, then up to an area outside of Likely, then into Quesnel, then another house in Quesnel. We then ventured back to Likely and stayed in a Cabin for a few months, and it was so cool it actually had a roof and plumbing! We then moved to the illustrious mining claim, then back into Quesnel. Education was this weird, chaotic blend of home school combined with a few days here and there of regular school.
We then bought a school bus and converted it into a gypsy mobile, and lived 18 months with no permanent spot other than where we were parked for a night, a week, 2 weetks. We regularly stayed at the Lancaster Swap Meet and parked on the lands of the people we met for a while. Then we headed east towards Quartzsite and other parts of Arizona for a bit, where I fell in love with the Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy as I recovered from the 500 chigger bites.
A few months later we hooked up with the carnival circuit for a bit during that time through the Southern States of Texas and others, the carnies indulging me with so many free rides on the zipper and others, and I got to be in the dunk tank for a bit!
During that time, I got to see WA, OR, CA, AZ, NM, TX, OK, a month or two in KS. While we were in Kansas, we photocopied a letter my uncle Don had from Dempsey Parker, who had once lived in the small town of Dixon Springs. Which was our next stop on our tour, after a quick jaunt through Missouri.
We landed this small strip to park the bus outside Blowing Rock, North Carolina, for a few months. I never knew what made Roger decide we needed to stay somewhere for long, other than a lack of money, as we depended on my dad’s VA Cheques, and when you move that much in the ’70s and ’80s with no internet or direct deposit, it can take a bit to catch up to you.
There I was able to borrow the neighbour’s shower regularly, and after the last 18 months of nothing but home school, I finally got to go to a real school again! However, it left me with the traumatic scar incurred by the concept of putting sugar on your mashed potatoes, as so many in the cafeteria did!
It was there I first volunteered, helping out at the senior’s care home, playing Bingo with them, watching the Waltons. Technically I was too young, but for some odd reason, they still allowed me. I remember the smile when I brought the one elderly lady, an African Violet.
Roger got the itch again, so it was time to travel West back to Los Angeles and Pismo. As always, though, our time was short North was on the agenda, and we found ourselves in a little RV park outside Winthrop, Washington, for a few months. Finally, the plumbing in the bus wasn’t an issue, as there were quarter-fed showers and toilets 100 feet away, like a luxury outhouse!
My mom needed surgery, so it was back into Canada and the quaint little village of Fanny Bay, BC, until that could occur. My dad somehow convinced a company to hire him as the business manager of an Oyster Processing plant. The one good thing about it is that the random cat I brought home one day had unlimited oysters for its diet.
Shortly after, my great-grandmother would pass away, presenting an opportunity for free rent with the luxury of indoor plumbing! What can be said about Taft? Well watching the Movie with Robin Williams called “The Best of Times,” you’ll know all you need to know. It was there I had the luck of being connected with a good school counsellor who saw the issues at hand and pulled some tricks to get me graduated from High School at 13 and into the Community College . He could do the one thing to ensure I had a future and didn’t risk being a street kid in a few years with no employment options.
By that June, it was apparent that it wasn’t going to work out for long, really no surprise, and we were on the move again to the small town of Northport, WA. Arriving there, in the lovely bright yellow school bus, we stayed on someone’s property, then my dad convinced a guy to let us rent to own this piece he had with a rustic cabin(no plumbing, no electrical) in lock up stage. Later, when we moved to the fairgrounds in town, he tried saying it was because the cabin wasn’t actually on the property, but I knew better.
I was now 15 and had seen more cultures and lifestyles, along with the geography of the US and Canada, than most will ever see in their lifetime. And the highlight of my life was living in the Bus on the Fairgrounds in Colville, Washington; once again using quarter showers and a bedroom that was 2 feet by 6 feet by 3 feet. I’d had enough of no running water, no showers, no proper toilets, and no electricity on a lousy day; things had to change. So I packed up and headed to Bakersfield to continue the higher education in College that I had started in Taft at 13.
I wanted a home, and for years I’ve searched for anything that feels like home, and the closest I’ve ever found was my jeep and an open road. That was until a few weeks ago when I landed in Tennessee. For years that stop in the tiny town of Dixon Springs, TN and feeling like I belonged stuck with me. For so much of my life, people have felt the need to point out that I’m strange, people saying, “Why can’t you just be normal.”
Although not an eidetic memory of those first 15 years, it is highly accurate when recalling things as they were and not with a child’s mind. Could it simply be the images of familiarity I have from the brief few weeks here? I don’t remember the geography or anything other than that one moment in Dixon Springs, or perhaps it’s simply Kaukokaipuu.
Please now listen to this song as you read the next part:
Imagine, if you will, a long-haired greasy hippy space cadet with his ponytail pull into small off-the-track Southern Town. My dad gets out, you could see them about ready to reach for their shotgun, and he mentions he’s looking for old family ties as we had this letter from Dempsey Parker to his son Ira from Dixon Springs in 1867. Dempsey was from my paternal grandfather’s side.
Well, the people’s attitudes changed, and we were welcomed to see the church he was at, join them on the porch for lemonade, and offer for us to stay for supper. I remember the feeling of curiosity at how quickly people’s view of us changed as soon as we were kin, where it came with an odd sense of immediate acceptance.
Years later, in 1985, when my great grandmother Minnie passed away, I inherited this hand-drawn picture from about 1850 for her grandmother Zilpha Roberts. Along with it, my mom gave me the rough notes of the family tree they had written up back when we had passed through Dixon Springs. Zilpha was from my paternal grandmother’s side.
Most people hear the word genealogy and either slowly back away, or go oh cool, what famous people am I related to? Little did I know at that time just how close Dempsey Parker and Zilpha were geographically; or how much I’d come to love chasing my family roots. But it is so much more than that; it is this gigantic puzzle with thousands of pieces (humans) and clues scattered across the globe to fit them together(documents, stories), and they are all related to you and share some of the same DNA you do.
If any of the primary puzzle pieces that make borders of that puzzle did anything differently, you wouldn’t be here. At your 10th great-grandparents level, it took 8190 lives to lead up to you, and along the way, you find those near misses. Through it, you are building a non-fiction story and tribute to how you came to exist. One of those was when Howard Talton Wheeler had a little mishap:
Last Thursday, while Howard Wheeler, a boy about 14 years old who lives south of town, was handling a 38 Winchester rifle, it was accidentally discharged, the ball passing through the left ear and grazing the scalp. – Hamilton Grit(Hamilton Kansas) 23 Jun 1905 page 8
You also experience walking through the Dismal cemetery of almost 300 souls, and you know how you are related to each of them. You retrace the steps of humans that time and the world have forgotten, many who either have no stones or just a large rock, to mark that they were there. Families where you see 5 small tombstones in a row, as all 5 children died under 3. where their mother had to raise her 10 stepchildren but never got to see one of her own children survive.
Dempsey that I mentioned lived in Smith County, Zilpha also lived in Smith County about the same time. While Zilpha and her husband Matlock skipped around to a few other locations, they finally settled in DeKalb County, which was at one time a part of Smith county. Many of the descendants of both, and the collateral families, are still in the area. For years I’ve been documenting their lives.
Coming to DeKalb County was on my bucket list, but I knew that I needed more than 10 days; I needed at least a month. Finally, all the pieces fell into place, and I booked this little cabin on 40 acres outside Sparta. Stepping outside to the porch, watching the ladybugs sun themselves, the rolling hills with each tree appearing as if an artist’s palette had painted each one.
Maybe it’s because I’ve spent years researching the families in the area, or perhaps it’s in my DNA, but my heart has found its home. As much as I’ve fallen in love with other regions, like Rome and Romania, they’ve always left me with this restless feeling that I need to head home. Here in Tennessee, I’m not getting that; instead, it wants to stay; such a fantastic atmosphere and gateway to so many options to explore. So when the time comes to be a snowbird, it won’t be Arizona or Palm Springs for me; it will be Tennessee.
Trix's Trax 