It's More Than the First Holiday of the Summer

                Memorial Day originated with the purpose to honor the confederate dead. The designated date for observance was May 30 with the solemn day being called Decoration Day. Its first  observation began in 1868. How fresh the losses and pain of the Civil War loomed in the minds and hearts of almost every family since the war ended only three years earlier!

                Recently, I discovered an unusual article written by Randy Krehbiel of the Tulsa World five years ago. Its title, Indian Territory Suffered Greatly in Civil War. His second paragraph quoted a historian who said no other area of the country suffered more than Indian Territory.  The paragraph below stunned me as I read it:

By the end of 1863, one-third of married Cherokee women were widows; one-fourth of Cherokee children were orphans.

                Those statistics mirrored my Cherokee ancestors’ plight in the 1860s in the Cherokee Nation where they resided in the Saline District. My maternal grandpa, Calvin Callcayah Smith, an original allottee on the Cherokee Rolls in 1907, descended from a Civil War veteran.

                Grandpa Cull, the name his family and close friends called him, was named for his paternal grandfather, Cullikayah or Ga-la-ka-yah or Cullacayah or Cullcayer (pick the spelling you like). The man for whom my grandpa was named had been born in Georgia in 1832. The Cherokee Trail of Tears, the forced removal of most of the Cherokee people from the Cherokee Nation East to what is now Oklahoma, occurred during 1837-1838. His mother was designated as a trail of tears survivor so I drew the conclusion that he came to Indian Territory the same way.

                He married Rachel Kingfisher. The fourth son born to them in 1855 was my great-grandfather Walter Smith. They had three other sons and three daughters. Only my great-grandfather, Walter, his youngest brother, John, and two younger sisters, Josephine and Elizabeth lived to adulthood.

I photographed and enlarged the name of his father
as written in Cherokee by my great grandfather,
Walter Smith, in a letter to get reparations for family
members who were forcibly removed to Indian Territory.

This is an enlargement of the Cherokee name of
my great great grandmother, Rachel Kingfisher
Smith from the same letter. Walter spoke Cherokee,
Spanish, and English. Obviously, he wrote
Cherokee. too.

                At six years of age, little Walter experienced his father leaving their home to volunteer for John Drew’s Regiment of Cherokee Mounted Rifles, the result of a reluctant alliance with the Confederacy. On November 5, 1861, Cul ca yer Smith, at twenty-nine years of age, enlisted in Company A from the Saline District. According to my great-grandfather, Walter, his father died around 1862. Very few records remain concerning the Native American casualties of the Civil War, not to mention the details of them. Oral family history related that he died in the Civil War.

                By 1867, Rachel, my great-great grandmother, was dead, too. A man fearful of bushwhackers shot her in a cornfield as she shocked corn to later grind into cornmeal for her children. When the man realized his horrible mistake, he carried her limp, dead body and placed it on the front porch of their home. Walter, aged 12, John, aged 10, Josephine, aged 8, and Elizabeth, aged 6, became orphans suddenly and went to live with their maternal grandmother, Ge-la-ner-jay. (This information was provided by Joe West, the son of Josephine Smith West, for the Mayes County Historical Book.)

                The earlier quote from Randy Krehbiel’s article accurately described my Cherokee ancestors. From my research of John Drew’s Regiment of Mounted Riflemen, those full blood Cherokee fathers sought to protect their homes, the Cherokee Nation, and their families whom they fiercely loved. My great-great grandfather, Cullikayah Smith, gave his life, not for preserving the states’ rights of the confederacy or for the freedom of all living in the United States. After all, the government in Washington, D.C. had ordered the forced removal of his people. He only wanted his little family safe.

Cover of the book about the regiment in which my great-great
grandfather volunteered to serve to protect his nation, the
Cherokee Nation. In the muster roll, his name is spelled
"Cul ca yer." The photograph on the cover is of John Drew, 
the commander of the regiment.

                The fearful Cherokee who killed Rachel, Cullikayah’s widow, found himself motivated by fear of the “carpet baggers” from the North or “bushwhackers” of the sympathetic Southerners and in turn, destroyed the last parent of the Smith children.

                Both Cullikayah and Rachel are buried in unmarked graves in Steeley Cemetery near Kenwood located in Delaware County in Oklahoma.

                Yet Walter Smith, my great grandfather, led a productive life, rising above the separation, loss, and pain he experienced in his formative years. To learn more about him, go to: https://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/12/a-cherished-new-years-eve-centenarian.html

                I am deeply indebted to Elizabeth Purcell Hammer, my mother’s only living cousin on her father’s side. Without my conversations with Elizabeth, I would not have known these family stories, books to read, or articles to research. She has been a family jewel. I am so glad I found her.

The Little House That Jake Built

The Little House That Jake Built

Around 1927,  when my father, Edmund Gates, Jr., was eight years old, Jake Smith, the uncle of Mrs. Mary Goad, built a wooden house with the dimensions 14’ by 28’.  He constructed the little house on the west end of the 95-acre Gates farm near the Arkansas River. When recounting the initial construction of the Gates family home, Dad remembered Jake was a good builder except for one complaint that he heard from his parents. As Jake built their family’s little house, he chewed and spat tobacco juice all over the lumber! 

     Edmund Gates, Sr. and Mamie Tripp Gates in front of their little house. 

     Grandma has such a pleasant countenance. In the background, standing  

       on the porch are Ella, their eldest daughter, and Harry Bledsoe.  Ella is 
holding their daughter, Mary Beth

Jim Gates, my father’s youngest brother, recalled the little house’s relocation to its present site around 1934.  Both brothers remembered the moving of the house on timbers, but it got stuck in the sand. Their father let it set overnight. Then Harold Goad, around 28 years old, had a team of four big black horses that pulled it out of the sand ditch and transported it to the spot on which it sets today.

In the mid-1960s, Grandpa Gates, Edmund Gates, Sr., suffered a stroke. Up until this time, he and Grandma had no indoor plumbing. They used the water pump to the west of the house to pump water for their use.* The outdoor privy or outhouse used by Grandpa and Grandma and any of the guests was located to the southeast of the little house.

With Grandpa experiencing paralysis due to the stroke, Grandma decided it was time to update her home. She chose to add a bedroom and a bathroom onto the south side of the tiny two-room house. Plumbing the house to have running water and a stool were mandatory for her. Grandpa seemed to believe Herb and Jim and maybe their sisters were pushing her into the 20^th century. He told Dad, “They’re going to break her!”

His prediction did not come true. Grandma even added another room to the north of her kitchen that served as her laundry room following Grandpa’s death in 1966. Upon her death in 1988, she was debt-free with a substantial savings account. Let’s just say, Grandma could manage life and money on her own quite well.

*Go to this link to view a photo of the pump:  http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/08/remembering-steven-glenn-gates.html

Front: Grandma Gates (Mamie Tripp Gates), Mamie Gates Tice, Julia Gates
                Newland, Martha Gates Johnston, Ella Gates Bledsoe, Mary Gates Roberts,
                  Edmund Gates, Jr. Back: Edmund Gates, Sr., Jim Gates, Jess Gates, Herb Gates
  My grandparents are standing on the west side of the little house with the
   nine children who grew to adulthood. All nine were raised in the two-room 
house and the bunk house!

It Was My Fault

Inconsistency’s Deceptive Undermining 

       I exclaimed to Mother, "I don't know what is going on with Bob." I was referring to Bob, the orange and white Manx cat. Two evenings in a row, I had to carry him in for the night. That never happens.
       Angie, my sister, laughed when, over a year ago, I commented that Bob and Tailer would "go nocturnal on me" if I left those two out until dusk. She knew each evening they came in about the same time. Even though Tailer ran in front of a car and lost his life, I continued to keep Bob on a schedule. Maybe it’s the school teacher in me.
       Bob was accustomed to a routine because of his rough beginning. When he, Tailer, and their other two litter mates were less than two weeks old, their mother disappeared. Unable to find anyone to take them, we began bottle feeding them. We were also caring for Dad following his second stroke that occurred just days before their births. Dad was our primary concern. The kittens had to be on a regimented schedule and eat when it fit into Dad's day.
       So why did Bob suddenly appear to be untrained after over two years of excellent obedience? I realized my inconsistency had caused Bob's issues with coming in. Normally, I called his name and he darted onto the porch. But one day I had been gone most of the day and hadn't turned him out until late in the day. Within a couple of hours, dusk was approaching. He wasn't ready to come in. According to his internal clock and schedule, he still had roaming time outdoors. 

      The next day Mother and I were gone from the farm so Bob didn’t go out until about three in the afternoon. Within two hours, he was back in so I could go check the cattle. (He had to be inside when I started up the old pickup because he felt too comfortable to be wherever I was. I feared it would be under the wheels of the truck.) I began to feel guilty about him being inside staring out at me as I began to plant tomatoes after checking the cattle. I turned him out. Big mistake- Bob did not want to come in. He was having too much fun at dusk. I had wavered from his daily regimen. My change in his schedule altered his response.
      Angie refers to me as Bob’s momma. I am not his parent, but my unpredictability as his caretaker affected him.
      Just as inconsistency adversely affected Bob, so can it work negatively against parents when guiding their children. Erratic parenting can lead to unpredictable behavior in children. 
     In a relationship, fickleness causes doubts to emerge and even sometimes fear about what responses to expect. Whether in families or friendships, a lack of dependability creates difficulties in interactions in families and friendships.
      Children thrive on a schedule. It provides security in knowing what to expect next. Lack of it breeds uncertainty and anxiety in the child and can lead to impulsivity and restlessness.
      Friendships and family relationships can suffer from inconsistency. If a friend usually calls on special occasions, receiving no phone call feeds thoughts of concern for the welfare of the friend or even questions about the strength of the friendship.
      Some of the strongest attributes of God involve His consistency. God is omnipresent- David writes, "Where can I go from Your presence?" God being there - right in the moment - is a given constant. God's omniscience or all-knowing doesn't diminish on bad days or busy times. Nothing takes Him by surprise. Our knowledge of who He is won’t shield us from problems but we can be certain, if we are believers, that He has a plan. Paul writes in Romans how "all things work together of good to those called according to His purpose...to conform us to the image of His Son."
      As I learned with Bob's care, consistency remains important for a smooth running household. Even of greater significance is my commitment to a consistent, on-going relationship with the Lord. My life won't be free of problems, but I will be availing myself of the most strengthening source possible- the very God of the universe. Can anyone think of something I need more?

Bob, in the warmth of the morning sun, as he eyes a bird
and itches to get outside to it.

The Glow At Midnight

This manuscript was written and submitted several years ago. It seemed appropriate to publish an edited version as a blog posting this Mother's Day since it occurred on Mother's Day on May 8, 1983. As Mother and I prayed this very night, I heard myself saying to the Lord, "Help me to remember how faithful you have been to us over these last several years even through many difficulties." May we realize what great blessings we have received from God as He has given loving, devoted women to us as mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers.

The Glow at Midnight

            Some days can seem unbearably long—draining all energy and emotion. A day like that occurred for our family in 1983 on Mother’s Day. That day was the culmination of a long, difficult journey that began in early October of the previous year. But it hadn’t always been that way.

Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, my maternal grandma, and Bernyce Smith Gates,
my mother, on Mother's Day, 1973. Notice one of Grandma's rose bushes .
Grandma followed the tradition to wear a white flower to honor her deceased
mother, and Mother wore a red corsage to honor her living mother. I don't recall
if Angie or I took the picture. Let's just say we were learning!

            My sister and I grew up in the same house with our parents and maternal grandparents. We worked together on our farm growing a garden, caring for a herd of cattle, and raising sometimes as many as five hundred laying hens. Grandma was a hard-worker and frequently drafted us as her unenthusiastic assistants. 

Times of fun and laughter punctuated our work-filled summers. After finishing a farm task such as canning fifty quarts of green beans (after picking and breaking them that same day), Grandpa would pack up the cane poles and tackle box in the bed of one of the farm trucks. Angie and I hopped into the back of the pickup and bumped off to one of the three ponds on our farm. As the sun began to sink below the western horizon, we delighted in roasting wieners on old tree branches that Grandpa had whittled to a point with his pocketknife. Those sticks would pierce and hold the wieners or marshmallows over the fire he and Dad had built. My sister and I would have not been happier if we had been taken on a summer-long European holiday than those fishing excursions.

            But in 1982, one October morning after breakfast, my sister and my mother heard a terribly frightening crash as Grandma collapsed onto the floor of the hall after suffering a major stroke.  After several days in the hospital, she was transferred to a rehabilitation facility.  Because rehab services, such as physical therapy, were limited at that time, my mother and sister were told after Grandma’s thirty-day stay, “Just take her home and make her comfortable.”

My sister chose to put her career plans on hold and actively assisted my mother with Grandma’s therapy. She, along with Mother, had a crash course in caring for a patient with paralysis on one side. My father helped in the evenings when he came in from his carpentry job.  We received invaluable daily support from one of our closest neighbors, Charlotte Hutchens, who was a home health nurse.

 In early May of the following year, Grandma’s kidneys began to shut down. Her last day was Mother’s Day. My father and I led the music worship at our small rural church as song leader and pianist that morning. Grandma lingered throughout the day even though she was unconscious. Later that evening, Grandma passed away.

 Our family was emotionally spent after over six months of care and daily seeing a woman with enormous talent, capability, intelligence, and fervor debilitated by the stroke. Even though at her death we grieved deeply, we still had a peace because of our belief in life after death. That peace found its basis in the fact that Grandma, at age thirty-one, following her father’s death, had sought forgiveness and made a life-altering commitment to follow Jesus the rest of her life trusting her eternal life to Him.

 Soon her body was moved to the local mortuary from our family home. Those who have had a loved one die after an extended illness can identify with the weariness and fatigue that comes following the passing of the loved one. My sister had been by Grandma’s side as her breathing pattern changed and death approached. She was exhausted physically and emotionally. By midnight, she decided to try to sleep in her bedroom that was adjacent to Grandma’s room where I was staying that night, too.

She put a record on the turntable. As the record slowly spun on the spindle, a beautiful musical rendition of Psalm 23 filled the room. My sister turned out the light so we could try to relax and go to sleep although our hearts were heavy with grief.  Instantly out of the darkness, a vintage portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall to the left above the bed was glowing and illumining that portion of the room. Its brilliance startled my sister who was the first to see it. The antique frame holding an artist’s conception of Christ had originally belonged to my mother (See the photo of it to the left.). To Mother’s knowledge, the painting had never glowed so brightly before that night. Ironically, the painting never glowed so intensely again after the night of Grandma’s death.  Our tears changed from tears of grief to tears of peaceful gratitude confident that we were not alone.

The warm glow emanating from the old sacred representation seemed to be a reminder that He was with us as our Shepherd, lovingly guiding us through this valley of the shadow of death.  He assured us that the glow of His presence would never be diminished by the darkness of our situation.  From that night forward, these truths were indelibly written in our minds and on our hearts, knowing Grandma spent her first Mother’s Day in heaven with the Lord she loved.

When the Raineys Lived Among the Seminoles

           Gladys Rainey Smith, my maternal grandmother, loved to entertain me with stories – always stories that were true. Her true experiences ranged from comical to adventuresome to downright scary - at least to me, since I wasn't quite the daredevil she was!  Many of these stories originated during her childhood in Konawa or Seminole County.

She delighted in telling about one of the country schools they attended while in that area. From her description, the school was designed in the “shotgun” style – just a long narrow structure and only one door. So much for meeting the fire marshal’s code! Grandma always chuckled as she told how the locals had nicknamed the building the “daubers’ den.” Some gifted rural poet crafted a little rhyme much to the dismay of the youngest pupils in the school, among whom were her youngest sister, Emma and her younger brother, Gene. (To see childhood photograph of Emma and Gene Rainey, click on: http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/02/alice-rainey-valentine-baby.html ).

This teasing rhyme flowed from the lips of older kids provoking the little ones to tears.

The Daubers’ Den  -

The hole in the end

Where the daubers go in!

                As the name of the county denotes, the Rainey family lived among the Seminole tribe that had been forcibly removed from their homeland in Florida. Less than ten years earlier, a horrendous event occurred in that area of Indian Territory when a crazed mob became vigilantes and burned two Seminole young men at the stake. (To read the account from the Seminole perspective go to: http://www.seminolenation-indianterritory.org/seminole_burnings.htm

                The clash between the two cultures occurred one year before my grandma’s birth. However, her parents were already in Indian Territory at the time of the awful happening. I can understand why Great-grandma Rainey had such a fear and even dislike of Native Americans, even though it was unfounded. She only learned to “like Indians” after my grandpa, Calvin Callcayah Smith, married into the Rainey family. To read more about their relationship see: http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/01/hens-humming-and-having-enough.html

                My grandma, as a child, was instructed sternly by her mother to never talk or associate with Seminole Indians. What did my defiant grandma do? Precisely the opposite! Seminole Indians riding in their wagons, enjoying fresh watermelon in the summer, stopped in front of the Rainey home. They called to my grandma, who at the time was around 8-10 years old. They asked her if they could borrow some salt for their watermelon. Grandma obliged and shared gladly. As one would expect, she got into major trouble on three accounts – talking to the Seminole Indians, lending them salt, and disobeying her mother!

                Grandma, the adventuresome one, recalled patrolling their homestead at night. The tension and uneasiness with their hosts, the Seminoles, reflected the need for vigilance. The reason for the nightly watch originated with the fence wires being cut at night and their cattle being driven onto the land of their Seminole neighbors. Grandma’s father was then required to pay an amount to the Seminole neighbor for the animals encroaching on their property! Grandma related of walking the fences of their farm, with her father holding the lantern, when they heard the zing of the barbed  wire as it was being cut! That always seemed a little too close for comfort for me, but not for Grandma. She loved the excitement of assisting her father in guarding their property.

Even though I am not as bold, courageous, or daring as my grandma, many times when faced with a daunting task, I pray to the Lord for wisdom and strength. In the back of my mind, I remember my ancestral DNA.  As Clark Kellogg, the sports broadcaster, says about second- and third-generation athletes, "You can't run from the DNA."  The memory of  my predecessors' bravery, combined with my faith in His strength, serves as a springboard to success.