Death doesn’t bargain.
~August Strindberg, The Dance of Death~

For nearly ten months now I have been deeply immersed in discovering the intricate, and often captivating, lives and times of my ancestors.  Every infinitesimal find, every human newly-connected to my tree fills me with an inexplicable sense of thrill and wonder. Each document scoured, pondered, and precisely catalogued provides me with tangible evidence of their lives and how, through their existence, there came to be ‘me’.

You might call it an obsession. I prefer to call it a passion.

IT JUST SOUNDS LESS CRAZY.

Cynthia (Mann) Walker (1814-1897), my 3X great grandmother buried in Oakwood Cemetery, Adrian, Michigan

Sometimes, however, after long hours of searching, I turn off my computer with a permeating sense of sorrow, a certain numbness that keeps me lying awake at night feeling a mysterious empathy for family never known and long gone.

I experience this melancholy most often after reviewing death records, understandable given the weighty nature of these documents.  However, death records very often reveal missing pieces to the puzzle found nowhere else, and they have proven to be invaluable in my searches.

Through death records I’ve discovered the identities of ancestors’ parents and their birthplace, previously unknown maiden names of the women folk, and in one instance, the fact that my ancestor had a different biological set of parents than the ones detailed on every other document I’d archived about her.

BIG SCOOP INDEED.

In the large scope of genealogy, I have found that even more relevant than the hard facts they provide, death records give us an intimate glimpse into the everyday lives of people, recording events that must have shaped them in intensely profound ways. 

Sometimes death records reveal babies and young children who arrived and departed within the 10-year gap of the U.S. censuses, humans forgotten to documented time other than the scars carved into the hearts of their mothers.  Sometimes the documents remember stillborn babies, nameless and graveless. And sometimes they record unspeakable tragic life events.

While searching for information on a particularly interesting branch of my tree, the Jordan’s of Lenawee County, Michigan I entered the variant spelling of ‘Jordon’.  From that search, I discovered an unrelated family of Jordons who, over the course of two weeks in December 1880, lost four children between the ages of 2 and 14, from a cholera epidemic.  The last child died on December 25^th.  Christmas Day.  As a mother, I cannot even begin to fathom such a loss.

These events are also sobering in the fact that in 2011, we are immune, both physically and statistically, to them. These diseases are just not something that would cross our minds to fear today. 

In my own family tracings, I’ve learned of a stillborn baby unknown and un-mentioned in any of our history, a toddler who died of a ‘brain infection’, and parents who lost two children under the age of four from scarlet fever, ten years apart.

As death records show, the 1800’s were perilous times.  Not only did children and babies die at an alarming rate, adults were also prone to sometimes unusual fates.

I have stumbled upon records wherein …

… 60-year farmer was ‘crushed to death when run over by his team of horses’

… 3-year old twins ate poison weeds

… 5-year old girl overdosed on laudanum from the family medicine case

… 45-year old man ‘shot by his own gun’

… 38-year old woman ‘kicked in the head by a cow’

And the death diagnosis of ‘dropsy’ was notated on a full quarter of all the records I reviewed.

NO, I DID NOT KNOW WHAT IT MEANT.  YES, I LOOKED IT UP.

So.  The obvious depressing nature of death aside, I applaud the State of Michigan for it’s incredibly valuable (free) databases of death records.  For an amateur genealogist like myself, they provide hours of in-depth investigation that often reaps bountiful rewards.

Seeking Michigan.org
http://www.seekingmichigan.org
A wealth of information, including (but not limited too) actual scans of death record documents 1897 – 1920 and historical photos, including Civil War soliders from the State of Michigan.

Michigan Department of Community Health
http://www.mdch.state.mi.us/PHA/OSR/gendisx/search.htm
Easy-to-use database of Michigan death records from 1867 – 1897.

Lenawee County Researchers
http://lenaweecountyfamilyresearchers.weebly.com/research-help.html
Direct links to familysearch.org databases for Michigan.  If you’re looking for ancestors specifically in Michigan, these direct links narrow down the number of records on familysearch.org as a whole that you need to review.

Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Library
http://www.rbhayes.org
Information for the State of Ohio, I cannot say enough good things about this organization.  I’ve ordered historical documents online, as well as interacted with library staff.  To say they are efficient and professional is an understatement.  

I want to give a special shout out to Nan Card of the Rutherford B. Hayes Library for her speedy assistance and attention to detail.

AND NOW, A WORD OF CAUTION. 

In my quest for unearthing the past, I use a variety of resources and online databases.  I have also contacted cemetery sextons direct who have been vastly helpful in my endeavors and I have visited the graves of my ancestors who are relatively local to my area.

OKAY.  MUST PAUSE A MOMENT.

Can I give one more shout out to Dan Righter of Brookside Cemetery in Tecumseh, Michigan who has shown the utmost professionalism and responded to my gabillion email requests with not only accurate, vaulable information, but the patience of a saint. 

You’ll hear more about Dan Righter in another blog soon to come.  Dan is my hero.

ANYHOO.  BACK TO MY WORD OF CAUTION.

Doing online searches I have found an inordinate amount of research sites linking back to Archives.com.  I won’t even link them here because I found the site to be eons less than useful. I signed up for this pay-for-searching database on a trial basis.  I couldn’t even find documents I’d already located on the free databases and cancelled within 30 minutes of searching.

Now if I could only get them to stop sending me teaser emails about the documents I’m missing, my life would be complete.

Very deep, very deep is the well of the past. Should we not call it bottomless?
~Thomas Mann~

Having spent an undefinable amount of time the past few months delving into my predecessors, I still consider myself nothing more than a mere novice in the endeavor of unearthing Intriguing Tidbits Concerning My Ancestors.  As a huge fan of history in general and with an overblown penchant for organization and love of minute details, genealogy had only to whisper its compelling sweetness in my ear just once and I was hooked. 

four generations circa mid-1940's. my mother is the little girl looking down, my grandmother is on the far left, middle is my great grandmother, far right is my great, great grandmother

YOU HAD ME AT ‘DNA’.

In the short span I’ve been immersed into my new hobby, I’ve discovered much about from whence I came.

Most of my ancestors were simple, everyday people.  The majority of the men folk were farmers, an honest, if not completely insecure and/or unreliable way, to earn a living.  And according to more than one census, the women ’kept house’.  I’ll bet they cooked as well, a trait that obviously did not swim downstream in the gene pool.

IT IS NOT MY INTENT,  HARD-WORKING GRANDMOTHER CHEFS, THAT I BRING
SHAME TO OUR LINE.

FORGIVE ME.

I have yet to find any of my ancestors who were ‘professionals’ in the sense we’d define careers today.  To date, and going back over 250 years, I have uncovered no records to indicate that any of my direct lineage attended a college or university.  They may have.  I just haven’t found any evidence to that effect.

Many of the families consisted of over eight children; my 2X great grandparents on my maternal side had ten children.  The overall average was approximately five surviving offspring.

Young children and babies tallied in one census were sometimes absent in the subsequent years, from which I can only surmise a death.  This seems to happen frequently.

Women who were widowed often remarried very shortly thereafter, more than likely to a widower with children.  This type of life event can make it difficult to trace a concise path from a maiden name to a first married name then a second married name.  Unraveling the mystery is part of the charm, but can lead to dead ends in a line.  Which, as you can imagine, is not so charming.

Of all the branches I’ve climbed in my tree, it’s been my observation that once a line is settled in one area they generally tended to stay put. If they moved, it was a relatively short distance from where they started.  For instance, the majority of my ancestors on my maternal side emerged from Pennsylvania-Ohio-Indiana.  If the documents stated an ancestor moved ‘west’ it was within the context of the American landscape at the time.  ‘West’ meant Ohio or Indiana.  Which, in reality, from Pennsylvania, would have been ‘west’. 

Based on this social trend, I have no Southern roots. 

OH FIDDLE DEE DEE.

As to a few specifics of My People …

My 5X great grandfather on my maternal side, Isaac Headley (born in 1735) served in the Revolutionary War in a New Jersey militia.

Isaac’s son, my 4X great grandfather, Benjamin Headley was the first tax assessor in Morris County, New Jersey.

Going back to the late 1700′s on my maternal side, my ancestors were Pennsylvania Dutch. 
I’m assuming that explains my immense love of Shoo-Fly pie. 

BLESS THEM.

My 2x great grandmother on my maternal side, Sarah Jane Watson, by family accounts was reported to be a full-blooded Cherokee.  Although I’ve yet to unearth any photos of her, family photos of her daughter (my great grandmother) would support that belief as she has all the physical attributes of a Native American.  Sarah Jane is listed in every census as ‘white’, however, it might have been politically incorrect at the time to claim Native American heritage.  ‘Watson’ is reputed to have been Anglican-ized from the Cherokee name of ‘Watsoni’.

My 3x great grandfather’s last name was Pickleheimer.  For some reason,
I find that fact quite amusing.

And I can’t leave y’all without a few observations on the genealogy process as a whole …

While ancestry.com has been an invaluable tool in my efforts, I would recommend that you don’t fully rely on information gleaned from members who are tracing a portion of the same lineage.  When I first joined ancestry.com the benefit of crossing paths with others who were also searching and gathering information never crossed my mind.  In retrospect, it seems obvious that there would be such a group branching off from siblings of my own direct ancestors, therefore, I can only attribute my lack of connecting the dots to that possibility as a Moment of Blundering Stupidity.

HOWEVER.

Let me show you another such stupid moment.  The screenshot of ’John Focht’ was a ‘hint’ from another member’s tree to a common ancestor.  Do y’all see a Giant Red Flag? 

CLUE:  MOTHER AND FATHER
OF JOHN FOCHT

Methinks ‘rushcitygal’ best slow down and check her math.

GLARINGLY OBVIOUS ERROR.

If an ancestor has a common name, information is going to be plentiful.  Take your time and make sure you’re chasing the right individual.  Consume slowly and digest what you’re reading.  One wrong link in the chain can create a lot of grief in loss of time and wasted effort, not to mention the fact they’re just not Your People. 

WHICH WOULD BE A CRYING SHAME.

My lineage includes George A.  Smith, a 2X great grandfather.  His wife was Nancy E. Smith.  Unfortunately, I’ve yet to discern her maiden name which makes that branch difficult to trace.  I have found many censuses with both the name George A. Smith and a wife of Nancy E. with a gaggle of maiden names.  However, the information I’ve reviewed to date doesn’t match what I know to be true of my George Adam Smith.  The years don’t necessarily jive and as my George and Nancy lived in Sandusky, Ohio, George A. and Nancy E. from Missouri aren’t interchangeable, no matter how much I want them to be so I can move on.

The litmus test of correct research is that it can be backed up by more than one piece of data.  My mom and her treasure trove of antique photos of our family history have been a huge boon in my toils.  Her knowledge and historical documentation allowed me to verify the information I’d amassed from ancestry.com.  One lone document does not an ancestor make.

Prior to the 20th century, it appears the population as a whole did not necessarily possess keen spelling skills. Therefore, last names, and even general written (and printed) words, were often spelled phonetically, as evidenced by the photo of a Revolutionary War pay voucher for my 5X great-grandfather, Isaac Headley.

Not ‘Hadly’.

Nor …

Captin
Colnel
Brigedeear (three vowels together
are kinda charming)
Genaral Wilamson
Jeneury (as in the first month of the year commonly known as January)

And my personal favorite, time in ‘sarvis’.

I MIGHT BE RE-THINKING THAT WHOLE
‘NO SOUTHERN ROOTS’ THING Y’ALL.

MY NORTHERN ANCESTOR GOT PAID
FOR HIS SARVIS.

On the same topic, names were often 1) misspelled or 2) mis-transcribed from census records, military draft records and even marriage documents.  Look for variations in names.  My grandfather, Norris, is listed in the handwritten notes of a census as ‘Oris’.   This ultimately created a hiccup for others on ancestry.com who took this as gospel and called the handsome devil Oris.

IT’S NORRIS, PEOPLE.  AND HE’S MY GRANDPA.

When you find a particularly interesting person in your lineage, go a step further and research the history of the area or the important events at that point in time in which they existed.  According to recorded history of New Jersey in late 1776 and 1777, I can surmise that my 5x great-grandfather who served in the Revolutionary War was part of a voluntary militia and was involved in the Battle of Trenton under the overall direction of General George Washington.  The Battle of Trenton took place on December 26, 1776 in the location and time where Isaac Headley was officially documented to be.  As militias were temporary units, it appears shortly after that battle, he was discharged and able to return home to his family, having served ’1 month and 27 days’ in the fight against the British.

Additionally, during the time of the Civil War many of my ancestors lived along the Ohio-Kentucky border.  Kentucky was a slave state, Ohio was not.  If slaves were able to cross the Ohio River into the Cincinnati area, where my ancestors resided, they might have escaped into freedom.  I’ve wondered on more than one occasion if any of my ancestors were abolitionists living in an area that was a hotbed for that type of anti-slavery activity.

I think what fascinates me most about researching my personal history is the humble knowledge I carry some genes, some DNA from every one of these people who existed prior to me.  They were living, breathing people who had joys and sorrows, successes and failures.  They laughed and cried as part of a history other than my own.  And although we live in different times, they are me.  And I am them.

Without them, I am nothing.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold,
it would be a merrier world. ~J.R.R.Tolkien~

It is with a deep and contented sigh that I prepare to write my final blog on our ‘Remarkable Adventures in the Low Country’ oft times referred to as ‘Suzy and Beezus’ Best Trip Evah’.  Five days meandering through the celestial city of Charleston, laughing, eating, learning, eating, pondering, eating, relaxing and of course, eating, is an indescribable experience.  For the sake of brevity I recorded only the pinnacle points of our trip, but there is so much more tucked away in my memory that I shall cherish always.

  

The Bulldog Graveyard Ghost Tour where we stood on a circular stone facing the harbor and experienced an unexplainable phenomenon when we spoke.

Visiting an art gallery across the street from Magnolia’s restaurant where we had a dickens of a time shaking off the sales woman who was persistent that she wanted to sell us a thousand dollar painting. 

‘MA’AM, WE ARE REALLY JUST ADMIRING THE FINE WORK HEAH 
UNTIL IT IS TIME FOR OUR DINNER RESERVATION OVAH THEAH.’

The evening we went to see the movie ‘Something Borrowed’ which, if you haven’t seen it, you should.  I give it two thumbs up.  Darn cute.

The afternoon we fed birds and squirrels in Battery Park overlooking the harbor, enjoying the warmth of the sun, being wholly in the moment, and getting rid of these gawd awful cheese bisquit-like crackers that were nothing they were purported to be.  Please note in a blind taste test, the squirrels preferred the animal crackers 6 to 1.

And most of all, the awesome company and the moments of laughing so hard I thought I just might pee my paints (and get rid of all those hard-to-remove stains, thank you 1860′s ladies of Charleston).

PAUSE FOR ANOTHER SIGH. 

Okay.  Ready?

st. phillips cemetery, situated in the french quarter of charleston which is the oldest part of the city.

Being a huge fan of history, a previously undisclosed fact about myself (cough), we scheduled not one, but two visits to the
St. Phillips Church and Graveyard.  Who else but yours truly would go on vacation and wander through tombstones?

AND ENJOY IT.

Now. I feel it necessary to momentarily digress to impart just one more bit of newly-learned trivia to you.  Question:  Do you know the difference between a graveyard and a cemetery?

LAWDY, I DIDN’T.

Well.  Apparently a graveyard comes with a church; a cemetery does not.  Do you suddenly feel smarter?

MISSY, I SHOHLY DID.

As part of our Bulldog Graveyard Ghost Tour experience, we ventured into the St. Phillips Church graveyard about 8:30 one evening.   Our tour guide, who was remarkable in every way other than his terribly weak flashlight, told us tales of presumed dead people being locked in crypts while actually still being among the living, as well the poor folks who had the undesirable task of trying to piece together the graves after the graveyard was heavily shelled during the war.

‘BUBBA, I GOT TWO HANDS HERE AND ONE FOOT.  WHATCHA Y’ALL GOT?’

Sad, but true.  It is dubious as to who is truly buried in each grave and whether the headstones are actually in correct placement to the identity of the deceased beneath them.  In fact, once they’d shuffled around the skeletal remains taking care that, as best they could, each grave had two feet, two hands (side note:  I just typed two heads.  And yes, I chuckled.  Very sacrilegiously).

MY APOLOGIES.

Anyhoo.  Once each grave was deemed to have the requisite two feet, two hands, one head, etc. the remaining ’leftover’ headstones were leaned against the graveyard walls, several deep.  And they still rest there today.

All kidding aside, the graveyard was a very somber place, and we viewed it with the utmost reverence for the deceased.  The headstones dated as far back as the early 1700′s which was incredibly surreal.   What gave us most pause was the sobering multitude of children’s graves.

Three graves in particular are forever embedded into my soul. 

The first crypt entombed the bodies of three young brothers ranging in age from three years old to ten years old who passed, one after another, over the course of a ten-day period. 

The second was for a 13-year old boy, the inscription of which read that he had accidentally drowned while bathing in the river.

The third was for a family that lost four children, all under the age of five, over the course of 18 months.

AS A MOTHER, I CANNOT FATHOM SUCH AN IMMENSE LOSS.

It is well documented that childhood in the 1700′s and 1800′s was a precarious venture and that many children never made it to adulthood.  It is one thing to know this. It is quite another to see it.

And on a last note about the graveyard, a disproportionately large percentage of the inscriptions on the headstones and crypts described the deceased women as Godly women above all other virtues.  I wondered if, in a time when life was incredibly risky and unpredictable, people clung to their faith for strength or whether they were faithful to God because death was so ingrained into their daily lives and they sought the comfort of believing their loved ones … and children … were in a better place.

HEARTBREAKING.

magnolia's 'uptown and down south cuisine'

And after all that there’s really no easy way to segue into the balance of this blog about dinner at Magnolia’s.

BUT.

I shall attempt to shift gears as sensitively as possible.

Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times there are not forgotten
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land.

~Stephen.Foster~

Before we begin, I’m going to flat-out admit to some corner cutting tonight, namely in the area of providing y’all with links for professional photos versus Lisa’s Very Own Polaroids.  Because I lacked a digital camera for our excursion (mainly because I can’t find the dadgum cord that will allow me to actually get photos off the device and onto my computer) and was using my cell phone camera throughout our journey, overall I took a limited amount of photos. 

HOWEVER.

We actually saw each and every thing
in the linked photos. 

I SWEAR.

The Charleston Museum, America’s first museum founded in 1773 and ever-so-conveniently located across the street from our hotel, is an incredible treasure trove of artifacts.

The museum displays range from the current
‘Threads of War’ exhibit of Confederate clothing, shoes, fans, and hats to artillery and guns from the Revolutionary War to locally-dug dinosaur bones.  The antiquities run the gamut of All Things That Once Existed in Charleston.  While I very much enjoyed every nook and cranny of the museum, I will confess that the Confederate clothing collection, well putting it mildly … 

BLEW MY PEA-PICKIN’ MIND.

And if we said it once, we said it (at least)
a million times.

‘LOOK AT HOW TINY THE WAIST IS ON THAT DRESS?’

 Check out the Charleston Museum Threads of War Exhibit 

Even the photos in the link above do not adequately illustrate the diminutive size of these articles of clothing.  My (un)educated guess would be that the waist sizes on the dresses were no more than 18″, and I’d hazard to say even that’s being generous.  I’m here to tell y’all the women’s dresses could easily be worn rather smartly by today’s 12-year old girls. 

IT’S NO WONDER THESE WOMEN HAD TROUBLE BIRTHIN’ BABIES.

And the shoes?  Ohmygoodnessgolly, the women’s evening slippers were the size of
Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.

NO CROCS FOR THESE GALS.

Another notable fact was that a few of the printed fabrics weren’t exactly what I’d have imagined would have been manufactured during that era, much less something an 1860′s woman would have worn.  One of the Lilliputian-waisted dresses was a Barney purple print with white circle clusters scattered about, and in the center of each circle was a tiny black star.

SHALL WE SAY, PERTY DERN UGLY.

But lest you think I was disappointed in the clothing, oh mercy no.  It is actually all quite stunning, not only is the excellent condition of nearly 150-year old clothing a marvel, and discounting the purple catastrophe of a frock, the clothing is simply exquistite.

BREATHTAKING.

And while we’re on the topic of clothing, the day we visited the Charleston Museum several women clad in (what I actually envisioned women wearing) homespun dresses were re-enacting Confederate life in the outside courtyard.  One re-enactor’s assigned task was to explain the Civil War-time laundry process to us Yankees.   Apparently, so she tells us, the Union army set up a rather vexatious blockade in the Charleston Harbor, preventing the transfer of goods from European ships to the Confederacy.

WHERE IS CAPTAIN RHETT BUTLER, BLOCKADE-CRASHING SUPER HERO WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

So.  Among other inconveniences, this blockade prevented receipt of such luxury items as milled laundry soap.  The Confederacy stood strong.  They merely improvised.  From lye soap made from lye and wood ash to a Highly Unique and Essential Ingredient for a successful wash, they persevered.  And.  Because we’re all friends here, I’m going to bestow upon you an 1860′s Very Special Laundry Tip for Spot Removal. 

URINE.

Yes, those resourceful women used human pee to remove stains.  And you thought Tide sticks were ingenious? Apparently, and I’m not about to actually verify the fact myself, urine is the ultimate stain remover.  Empty the odorous contents of family’s chamber pots into a large copper bin, bring to a boil, soak your clothes, stir them up a bit with a wooden paddle and there you have it.  Ummm.  (Questionably) clean clothes.

In fairness, there are several processes beyond the pee soak, including a good scrubbing with the aforementioned lye soap on a glass washboard (no tin cheese grater-like washboards for these ladies) and adding blue indigo dye (think the consistency of good old Mercurochrome only blue, not red) to the final wash water to keep your whites white (of course).

AND REALLY.  WHO’D A THUNK MOST CLOTHES DIDN’T GET WASHED FOR 5 MONTHS?

If you were really rich and had fancy clothes with lace and other delicate materials, well sometimes that apparel didn’t get washed at all.  Merely brushed and hung out in the sun to air out for the next wearing. 

THE THINGS I NEVER KNEW SEEMS QUITE ENDLESS.

Now since I’m quite certain you’re getting read to nod into your soup, I shall close this blog with photos (yes folks, these are my photos) of the Joseph Manigault House located across the street from the Charleston Museum and the Edmondston-Alston House located on Battery Street overlooking the harbor. 

Of the two homes we visited, the Joseph Manigault House was my favorite.  The furnishings were gorgeous (and original to the home), the tour guide informative.  Not to mention it didn’t smell musty.

WHICH IS A BIG PLUS IN MY BOOK.

joseph manigault house, considered the original owner's city 'townhouse' and used in the summer months. the family moved into Charleston from their plantation home in the months of June, July and August and would throw lavish parties on the second floor.

 Check out the Joseph Manigault House

edmondston-alston home

our view from the second-story 'porch' of the edmondston-alston home. when the union fired on ft. sumter in 1861, the original owners of this home, along with their neighbors, clamored to their rooftops in horror to watch the battle unfold out in the harbor.

We Fada wa dey een heaben,
    leh ebrybody hona ya name.
We pray dat soon ya gwine
    rule oba de wol.
Wasoneba ting ya wahn,
    leh um be so een dis wol
        same like dey een heaben.
Gii we de food wa we need
    dis day yah an ebry day.
Fagib we fa we sin,
    same like we da fagib dem people
        wa do bad ta we.
Leh we dohn hab haad test
    wen Satan try we.
Keep we fom ebil.

~Gullah Geechee Translation of the Lord’s Prayer~

boone hall plantation

Because a trip to Charleston would not be complete without a visit to a bona fide plantation, Day 2 found us at Boone Hall Plantation about 10 miles from downtown Charleston.

a view of slave row from the main drive

After the house tour we walked down Slave Row where 9 of 27 original brick slave cabins still stand.  Talking to native Charlestonians the next day as they were re-enacting 1860′s life at the Charleston Museum, we were told that it is questionable whether these are truly the original cabins.  The consensus among the re-enactors was that a planter of the time, and certainly one of the prominence of the owner of Boone Hall Plantation, would not have flaunted his slaves in front of his plantation, but strategically placed them out-of-sight, most likely behind his plantation.

inside a slave cabin

Conversely, the tour guide for Boone Hall explained that although there are only 9 remaining brick slave cabins on-site, there were originally 3 rows of 9 cabins each that housed the ‘skilled slaves’.  These slaves would have been the ones who, after they completed their work on the plantation, would have been hired out in downtown Charleston to earn money for the plantation via a trade.  The brick cabins which are in direct view of the main drive coming up to the manor house, would have also been home to the house slaves.  The tour guide explained that the planter purposely had the slave cabins built in the front of the house to show his wealth to visitors.

the gullah theater at boone hall plantation

The highlight of our visit to Boone Hall Plantation was, by far, the Gullah Theater located at the end of Slave Row.  The woman who gave the presentation from the slave’s perspective was a black woman whose ancestors were actual slaves on Boone Hall Plantation.  

“Mus tek cyear a de root fa heal de tree.”  ~Gullah proverb~
[You need to take care of the root in order to heal the tree.]