Digging For Roots, Uncovering Secrets by Donna Marie

Laura sat at the picnic table. I followed her gaze. Butterflies, floating around the bush behind the barn. Laura agreed to meet me here, but didn’t know why, not yet. I put the tape recorder down and leaned the shovels against the nearby fence.

Laura: Shovels? This puts digging into family history in a new light. (She chuckled.)

Aunt Laura. Our relationship transcends family, we are actually great friends. 

Our current topic of interest – family history. Past history, no problem. Recent history? No answers. We haven’t been able to document her father’s family’s early years.

Laura: What’s the agenda today?

Me: I don’t even know where to begin.

Laura: The beginning? Just lay it all out.

I wondered if she knew how much she sounded like Great B at that moment.

Me: I found a birth certificate for Esther Irene Carnet, but then she seems to have vanished. I located her parents. Esther’s father was a County Judge. I also found birth certificates for Pearl, Jeremiah, Isaiah, Molly, and Louise, children of Frank and Opal.

Laura: I don’t recognize those names.

Me: Just remember those names and that Esther’s dad was a judge. It will be important, trust me. I went to see Great B today. 

With that, I reached over and hit play. My voice filled the air.

Me: Hi Great B! It’s nice to see you again. How have you been? 

I walked toward her and sort of stuttered stepped waiting to see if she would open her arms inviting a hug as she usually did. The staff at the assisted living facility where she lived said that Betty was in the early stages of dementia / Alzheimer’s. I thought a moment, she was now in her late 90’s. Her exact age eluded me. Betty was actually my great-aunt, my grandfather’s only living sibling; however, I had always referred to her simply as Great B.

Betty looked at me, tilted her head and squinted her eyes. Then she smiled and reached out for a hug.

Betty: One of Jeremiah’s girls. You look like Mary.

She was right. Well, sort of. Mary was my grandmother; but, my grandfather’s name was not Jeremiah. She remembered my grandmother’s name, but not her brother? Thinking this was part of her dementia/Alzheimer's, I let it pass.

Betty loved to tell stories and seemed to know everyone. I loved a mystery. Genealogy always had a mystery somewhere. I loved the thrill of the puzzle. 

My visit to Betty today was two-fold. First, I wanted to check on her and second, I was determined to find information on her early childhood. With dementia/Alzheimer’s setting in, I felt a renewed sense of urgency.

Me: What have you been up to lately? Still watching the butterflies I see. 

No matter where she lived, there were always butterflies. When she moved to this facility, she insisted a butterfly bush be planted outside her window. She said as long as there were butterflies, she would never forget her mother. Her gaze would settle on the bush and the butterflies and I could almost see her mind slip through the passages of time, thinking of places and people no longer here.

Betty: What have you got for me today?

I smiled. This must be one of her good days. I always had questions for her. She remembered things. Today was a good day, I felt it.

Me: A mystery to solve.

Betty: Oh?

I smiled as her left eyebrow rose, as it always did, when she was interested in something.

Me: I am having trouble putting some things on paper. We’ll get to that. Review some things with me.

Even before dementia/Alzheimer’s, Great B’s memory was better with the past than the present. We would spend most of our time talking about the past then as our time drew to a close, she would ask about the here and now. “It’s not that I don’t care honey,” she once told me, “But, I just don’t seem to remember.”

Me: Something easy.

Sitting up straight in her chair, she imitated a child putting on her thinking cap.

Betty: I’m ready. Lay it out there.

I grinned. That was Great B.  The subject didn’t matter. Person, place or thing, just lay it out there and see what turns up.

Me: Where did your name come from?

Betty: A gem, just like my mama.

She said without hesitation.

Me: Why did your parents pick that name?

Betty: Like I said, a gem, like mama.

Even though I knew the answer, I glanced down at my notes. Betty’s mother’s name was Opal Mae (Bates) Little. I don’t care who you are, you can’t get Betty out of that. And how is Betty a gem? The staff mentioned memory issues would start to occur. But they didn’t know what I did. Great B might forget the present, but she had always been spot on when it came to the past. Sometimes her information might be a bit sketchy, but when it was all said and done, she was always right. Always. Besides, as the only living sibling, I had to try.

Me: How many brothers and sisters do you have?

Betty: None. None left but me. 

Me: I know you miss them all. How many of you were there?

Betty: All of us together? Five. 

Me: No, seven. Remember? You, Jim, Buddy, Cicely, Bessie, Robert and Imogene.

I watched as a sour expression crossed her features.

Betty: Five. You counted – them. I don’t.

Me: And you were the…?

I prodded, testing her memory. Wait. Five? No, seven. Counted them? There were seven. Which didn’t she count? And why?

Betty:  What’d ya got somethin’ wrong with your mind? You know I weren’t the youngest. Are you going senile or something?

At that, she laughed and I knew she was making a joke at my expense.

Me: Smarty! Seriously, tell me the order again. Oldest to youngest.

Great B stared out the window at her butterflies for so long, I didn’t think she was going to answer. Finally, she let out a deep sigh and whispered – it’s time. Turning her eyes toward me she said -

Betty: Me, you know I’m the oldest. Then Jeremiah, and Isaiah, the boys. The boys were always together. Then Molly and the baby, Louise.

Me: What about Robert and Imogene?

Betty: Those were her babies, not mama’s.

Laura reached out and snapped off the tape recorder. 

Laura: What? 

Laura reached down and turned the tape recorder back on. My tone mimicked Laura’s.

Me: What? Opal was their mother, same as you, that makes them your siblings.

I stumbled over what to call Great B’s mom. I never knew my great-grandmother. My mom always called her Old Lady Little. Come to think of it, most everyone called her that. Mom never liked her and never had anything to do with her. She said she was mean.

Betty: Why are you asking these questions again? They’re all gone. Don’t really matter now, does it?  

Click. Laura paused the tape again.

Laura: What is she muttering?

Me: She kept saying, “It doesn’t matter anymore. Somebody has to tell, or no one will know and remember.” She acted like she just realized something for the first time. 

Click, the tape continued.

Me: I’m trying to solve the…

Betty laughed so hard she started coughing.

Betty: You always did like puzzles. Have to solve it don’t you? Can’t let anything go. Gonna wear your brain clean out one of these days.

I laughed with Betty. As always, she was spot on.

Me: What can I say? It’s an obsession. Oh, I found some information about your dad, Frank.

Betty: What’d you find?

Her head whipped around, her eyes locking onto mine. Her intense interest catching me by surprise.

Me: I found a marriage license for Frank’s mom and dad, Miles, and Molly. Even found his birth certificate. Thought I found Opal’s but this one was born in Tennessee, not Missouri like your mom. 

Betty: Mama was born in Tennessee.

Me: No, she lived in Tennessee. Funny thing though, I still can’t find birth certificates for….

Betty interrupted me.

Betty: Me. Ain’t gonna find any. For none of us. She made it all go away. Even mama.

I was beginning to worry. Betty was not making any sense. I didn’t realize her dementia / Alzheimer’s was that bad already.

Me: She who? What did she make go away? Your mom has been gone a long time. She passed away in 1975.

Betty: Longer than you know. Old Lady Little died in 1975, not mama.

Click, off went the recorder. Laura turned to me again.

Laura: Now I’m confused. Is she saying her mom, Old Lady Little, didn’t die in 1975? I know for a fact she did. I have a copy of the obituary. I remember my cousin calling and telling me she died. I wasn’t about to go to the funeral. Mean old woman.

Me: Why did everyone dislike her so much?

Laura: She was flat out mean. You remember the story your mom told you about the mattress, right?

I could recite the story from memory and I did.

Me: When she was a young girl, Mom had to stay at Old Lady Little’s house. Old Lady Little was sitting on the bed brushing mom’s hair when she just grabbed her head and shoved it between the old metal bedsprings and the mattress and then started bouncing up and down. Mom said she was trying to kill her. That story still makes me laugh. A weird joke, but funny.

Laura looked at me, her smile gone.

Laura: That really happened.

Me: WHAT? ARE YOU SERIOUS? THAT COULD HAVE POKED MOM’S EYE OUT! OR CRUSHED HER HEAD!

Laura: Yeah. One day when Lois was standing by the wood burning stove, Old Lady Little walked by her, threw her hip into Lois and pushed Lois right into the hot stove. 

Lois was Mom and Laura’s older sister.

Me: Mom’s told me that story before too. I thought it was an accident and mom just made it sound deliberate because she didn’t like Old Lady Little.

Laura: NO! I saw it. She did it on purpose. Then lied about it. Said Lois was clumsy. She even smiled when she saw Lois had burned her hands. Thankfully it wasn’t too bad of a burn.

Click, Laura turned the tape recorder back on.

Me: Great B, why do you dislike your mom so much?

Betty: My mama was the nicest person you ever wanted to meet. Do anything for anybody.

Me:                I’m not sure how we got so far off topic. I was asking you about your name and your siblings and we end up here.

Slowly, as if I were a child she said -

Betty: There was me – Pearl, a gem like mama, then your granddaddy Jeremiah, then Isaiah, and Molly and the baby Louise.

Me: Great B, (I said gently) I have never heard those names before. Who are they?

Betty: Us. She made us change our names, after she got rid of mama. That’s why Pappy left? He couldn’t stand her no more. Couldn’t stand to look at her. So he just walked off. Left. Left her. Left us. Left us with her.

Me: Who got rid of your mama? What happened to your mama?

This time I shut the tape player off. I looked at Laura.

Me: Betty’s dad’s disappearance. If I remember correctly, there are three theories. First, after harvest (he was a farmer) he was robbed and killed for his money. Second, he walked to town for a loaf of bread and simply kept walking, never to be heard from again. And third, he left and went to Memphis where he started a new family.

Laura: I’m going with the one where he moved to Memphis. I heard a story that his Mom received a letter from him one Mother’s Day, telling her that he was ok, that he lived in Memphis and had a family and a good life. What do you think?

Me: I’m with you, for now. Even though I haven’t seen the letter, nor found any evidence of that life, I haven’t found anything to the contrary either. No records of him being killed, no death certificate, no reports of suspicious deaths in the area where they lived at the time.

Laura: Ok. But this isn’t new. We’ve hashed these theories around many times. I know you. I can tell. You have something new to spring on me. I don’t think I’m going to like it.

As the tape player clicked on again, I mumbled, you’re not going to believe it either. Laura sat back, took a swallow of her coffee, and listened.

Me: Great B. I know you didn’t like her. Heck, not many people I’ve talked to liked her. But why you didn’t like her? And what do you mean she got rid of your mama? She was your mama.

Betty: DON’T YOU EVER CALL HER THAT. THAT WOMAN WAS NOT MY MAMA.

I had never heard Great B talk with such hatred towards anyone.

Betty: She wanted to marry Pappy but he was already married. So she took an ax and KILLED my mama. Old Lady Little killed my mama and took her name and place. I weren’t born Betty. She didn’t want any reminders of mama so she made Pappy move. She told him we needed to forget mama so we should all change our names. SHE gave us those names.

Laura paused the tape recorder with a snap. She sat in stunned silence for a moment before she started laughing.

Laura: WOW! How did you get Betty to say all that without laughing? I’m surprised she went along with it. Betty is usually very straightforward. I admit, you almost had me there.

Wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, Laura looked at me. I sat there silently. Didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle. Just looked at her.

Laura: Oh, you can’t be serious.

I turned the recorder back on.

Me: I cannot wrap my head around the fact that you say she killed your mother, with an ax no less.  Took her name, married your dad, renamed you kids, and went on with life? How could she do that?

Betty: She just looked at me and said your name is now Betty. She went down the line and gave us all new names.

Me: But - your other family would know. Kids would have told other kids – hey my name used to be this but now I am supposed to say my name is this.

Betty: We moved to Missouri. Didn’t know anybody there. Didn’t attend school much, never saw family. Just letters.  No television, no telephones, no computer things. She told everyone, Pappy included that mama ran away. Said mama came over to her house, told her she didn’t want to be married anymore, didn’t want kids anymore, and just left.

Me: I can’t believe that your mother, that Opal, that - Old Lady Little (I stumbled trying to figure out what to call her) killed a woman with an ax. Not only killed someone but got away with it. How could she get away with it?

Betty: If you move somewhere no one knows you, who’s gonna look at you and ask – did you kill someone before you moved here? Are those the names those kids were born with?

I thought about today and the internet. People would just do a background on new neighbors now.

Me: Great B, did you ever think just maybe, your mama really did just run away from her life?

Betty: NO! SHE KILLED HER!

Me: How can you be so sure?

I turned to look at Betty. She was staring out the window at the butterflies. Tears fell silently down her cheeks. Softly she started speaking.

Betty: Mama loved butterflies. She’ll always be with them. I was there that day. I saw her do it. Out behind the barn, by the butterfly bush. I hid behind the barn door, but I saw. I tried to be quiet, but she must have heard me because she turned and saw me. She told me that if I ever told anyone, she would kill me and my brothers and sisters too. She told me that Pappy told her to do it. He didn’t love mama anymore and wanted her gone. She said her daddy was a judge and if I told anyone, he would make sure they hanged me.

Me: And you never told anyone? Why now?

Betty: Who would believe me? You don’t. (She looked at her aged, wrinkly hands, touched her face and held up strands of her gray hair.) Once I die, no one will ever know.

Me: Why do you call her Old Lady Little?

Betty: She said she would change her name from Esther and she would be Opal. Opal was MY mama’s name! She will never be my mama. I told that woman that day - YOU are Old Lady Little. That’s YOUR new name. That will always be your name.

Me: Look at me. (The sadness etched in her face nearly broke my heart. I took her weathered, worn hands gently in mine.)  Aunt Pearl, like a gem, (I said with a smile,) I will find proof for you.

Laura sat in stunned silence. In a hushed tone, she said -

Laura: Your mom always said Old Lady Little killed the real Opal and took over her identity.

Standing up, we each grabbed a shovel and headed to the butterfly bush and started digging. Alternating between uncertainty and nervous laughter, we dug.

Laura: This is crazy. What are we expecting to find out here? A coffin? A wooden box…

Before she could finish her sentence, our shovels struck something solid.