Memories of Christmas Past

Christmas was always celebrated as a time for family, food, and fun in Wilton and Princess Cheatham’s household. During the years of the Great Depression (1929-1939), even though times were hard, Wilton and Princess made what they did have work for their family.

My maternal grandmother, Ellistine, was the eldest of her six siblings. She remembers that on Christmas morning, she would wake up and have a peppermint stick and either an apple or an orange laying at the foot of her bed. Under the Christmas tree were homemade gifts lovingly sewn by her mother. On Christmas Eve, while her children were sleeping, Princess would decorate the Christmas tree. What a wonderful surprise for her children to wake up to see a beautifully decorated tree with homemade gifts underneath. My grandmother said that she and her siblings would suck on their peppermint sticks all day long!

Even though the Cheatham family did not have much, the cherished time spent together was more important than all the expensive gifts in the world.

It seems like Christmas back then meant more because they had less and all they had was their family. Versus Christmas today, where all we want are gifts and lots of them. Let’s get back to the basics and make Christmas not be about the gifts we get, but the gift of family, love, cherished memories, and serving others.

Thanksgiving LOL

One of my all time favorite stories told at Thanksgiving is the one told by my paternal grandfather, Charles Johnson. For posterity sake, my mother recorded my grandpa telling his famous story in 1992.

In WWII, November 1945, my grandfather and his fellow African American servicemen were sailing near Spain on a ship in the Atlantic Ocean. Grandpa said that many men volunteered for duty in the galley (kitchen) which he was one of. The men were asked to take out turkeys from the icebox (freezer) and put them out on tables in the cutting room, so that they could thaw out for Thanksgiving dinner. The next morning, the men went down to the galley, opened up the door, and were met with an awful odor. Everybody cleared the room to get away from the smell. Grandpa said that none of them had gas masks!! However, grandpa, being curious, wet his handkerchief to put over his nostrils and bravely went into the cutting room to investigate the cause of the nauseating odor. He looked at the tag on the turkey’s leg and was shocked to see that the date was 1926!!!! Oh my, the turkeys had been in the freezer for 19 years or more!!! To get rid of all the turkeys, the crew threw them overboard into the ocean. Grandpa said that he cleaned up and went back to see if the turkeys were gone, but all he could see were boxes of frozen turkeys floating down the Atlantic Ocean. No fish were seen. The fish didn’t even want those “stinking turkeys”!!!

It is a LOL ( Laugh out Loud) and ROTF (Rolling on the floor) moment each year when Grandpa’s stinking turkey story is told. Even though he has been gone for thirteen years, his gift of storytelling and his voice can still be remembered and heard.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING GRANDPA

The Reason Why I Sing

This morning at 3:04 a.m. I was woken up to the song Why We Sing by Kirk Franklin.

Someone asked the question
Why do we sing?
When we lift our hands to Jesus
What do we really mean?

Someone may be wondering
When we sing our song
At times we maybe crying.
And nothings even wrong

I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
That's the reason why I sing

Glory
Hallelujah
You're the reason why I sing

So, you ask, why do I sing? I sing because God has brought me a mighty long way. November 28, 2016, will be 25 years since I was involved in a horrific accident.

This is how it all happened.

 On November 28, 1991 in St. Louis, Missouri my mom and I were at my grandparent’s house visiting. Their house is on Lee Avenue in the city. On the television, there were warnings of an ice storm. So, my mother and I got in the car and started to make our trek home, in North County, before the impending storm came. SO WE THOUGT!!!! As we were driving on the highway, the car hit some black ice and collided with the wall. By now the ice was really coming down. So instead of staying in the car, we got out to go to the other side of the highway. We did not want any other cars to hit the black ice and hit our car causing us more damage because our car was facing the opposite direction. My mom was in front and I was holding her hand, slightly behind her. I almost cleared our car when another car hit our car, hitting me. I screamed Mommy and then it was lights out.

I needed to be air lifted to the nearest hospital, which was DePaul, but weather conditions were so bad we had to travel by ambulance on the icy roads. DePaul didn’t have a pediatric neurosurgeon, so I had to be transported to Cardinal Glennon.  All I remember was the hospital experience after that. All of the nurses and doctors were very friendly to me and my family. When word got out that I was in an accident and it did not look good, family, friends, and other churches prayed fervently for me and my family. I was in a comma for a month. Christmas that year was horrible for my family and friends.  On New Year’s Eve, my mom and dad got the call from the hospital that I had woken up out of the comma. I did not know what was going on, but I heard a nurse say “ She is going to die”. I became fearful and started to cry. However, in a childlike way I knew to pray. Every night, as I lay in my hospital bed I would pray. I suffered multiple skull fractures and had to undergo multiple surgeries.

My mother taught school in the daytime, but would come to see me after work. While my mom was at work, my paternal grandfather would come every day to sit with me in my hospital room. I remember him sitting in a rocking chair reading his newspaper. He would talk to the nurses and doctors as they would come in to check on me. He fondly called one of my female doctors “Doctor Shug” because she was so sweet to my family. The doctors eventually moved me up to the rehab floor because I was my prognosis was getting better and better. Through much physical, occupational, and speech therapy, I became stronger.  I had to learn to walk, eat, speak, and write all over again. When my elementary school found out I was in the hospital, the principal, Mr. French and my second grade teacher, Mrs. English went the extra mile for me and my family. Mr. French told all the teachers about my accident and they supported me and my family during this ordeal. Mrs. English and her family would come up to visit me. She would read to me and do grade level activities with me. The entire elementary school sent me cards to show how much they loved and missed me. The doctors thought I was going to be a vegetable and be in the Special School District. But my God said no. To the amazement of the nurses and doctors, God performed a miracle on my behalf. On March 19, 1992, I was released from the hospital and came home. I was able to return to  Armstrong Elementary school and continue with my second grade class. All of my classmates were very happy that I was back. With much occupation and physical therapy during school and after school, I was getting better and better. I never failed a grade and continued in school, never missing a beat. I graduated and went on to college. Today, I am 33 years old and doing great.

So, you see this is the reason why I sing, praise God, and lift up my hands in worship at church on Sundays and all during the week.  God did a miracle in my life and I am forever grateful to him. There were a lot of tears and prayers for me that God saw and heard. He came to my rescue and now I can tell my story. I thank God for his sovereignty that surrounded me and my family during this frightening time in our lives. God is a magnificent God!!!!!!  

Legacy of Love

A grandmother’s love goes beyond just family, but extends to other children who do not have homes. There are countless stories of grandmothers that are raising their grandchildren because of circumstances with their mothers or fathers. No matter the situation, when a grandmother sees a child in need, her love jumps into action.

My maternal great grandfather, Wilton Cheatham told my grandmother, Ellistine Cheatham Allen, in the early 1960s, to go get her brother’s children because, “ We take care of our blood.” They needed care because of the tragic death of their mother and the incapability of care from their father.

Taking care of family has been a valued tradition instilled in our family from generation to generation. It seems like this willingness to take care of family began with Lannie Pinner Cheatham, my 3^rd great grandmother. In 1910, Lannie was the head of her household and living with her were her grandchildren- Noel, Levie, Henry, and Moris Cheatum, according to that year’s census. These brothers and sisters may have been orphaned, abandoned, or something tragic may have happened to their parents. In 1910, Lannie would have been 82 years old and getting feeble with age. How in the world did she take care of herself and these children without the help of an older male? Did she take in laundry, clean homes, grow vegetables in her garden and sell them or did she take in sewing?  No matter what she had to do for her family to  survive nor how old and weak  she was , Lannie had a heart big enough to take in and raise the children as her own.

 As you can  see, taking care of our “ blood” is a recurring theme in the Cheatham/Pinner family. It’s in our DNA. Thank you, Lannie for possibly  beginning the loving and selfless tradition of taking care of family.

When love is activated, there is no limit to the number of hearts that will be touched and cared for. LIVES ARE SAVED AND CHANGED FOREVER.

VOICES In The Woods

“ Katie, Katie, we need you to go get Granny Lannie again”, yelled Mammy Mags.

“Shoot, not again”, Katie mumbled under her breath.

Mammy Mags explained to Katie that she was the only one who could go fetch Granny Lannie. She didn’t know what it was about her, but she was the only one in the family that could coax her to come back home.

Reluctantly, Katie put on her shoes and coat. She also had to put away her dolls that she was playing with. Although she loved Granny Lannie very much, she never liked going after her because she would wonder off in the woods and Katie did not know where. As Katie started off into the woods behind Mammy Mag’s and Pappy Frank’s home, she came to a clearing by Sandy Creek in Trigg County, KY. There Katie would see Granny Lannie standing silently murmuring to herself. Katie would quietly tiptoe up to her and gently touch her arm. Granny Lannie would flinch and stare blankly back at Katie.

“Granny”, Katie would say in a soft, small voice, “I came to bring you back home. We gotta get back because it will be getting dark soon and you didn’t bring a lantern with you.”

As if Katie was interrupting a conversation, Granny Lannie turned back to the river and silently said a farewell prayer.  Then she turned back to Katie, took her hand, and Katie led her back home to the family. Who was Granny Lannie out in the woods talking to? Why would she go out there?

Granny Lannie was my fourth great grandmother and I wanted to know more about her. Katie Cheatham Shemwell was Lannie’s great granddaughter. Katie Shemwell was 95 years old when I contacted her granddaughter to ask her if Katie remembered Lannie. Katie did remember and said that Granny Lannie’s parents were from the West Indies. She also said that Granny Lannie was blind and became mentally ill later in life. As I would talk to Katie’s granddaughter, Lannie’s  story of struggle and pain began to unravel and become clearer to me. I found out through looking at the census records that Granny Lannie could not read or write. With all of these clues about Lannie I began to piece together my fourth  great grandmother’s life.  

According to her death certificate, Lannie was born on August 1, 1828 in Stewart County, Tennessee and died from senility on August 6, 1928 in Bumpus Mills, Tennessee. Yes, she was 100 years old!!! Born in slavery, Lannie’s life was wrought with various difficulties and struggles. I do not know her parent’s names, but I did find two different last names for Lannie on two of her son’s death certificates-John A. Pinner and Thomas Cheatham. The last name on John’s death certificate was  Gupton and on Thomas’ it was Shelton. My theory is that Gupton was the slave owner’s name in Tennessee.  Gupton sold Lannie away to a Shelton in Kentucky. After slavery, on the 1870 census Lannie is living in Roaring Springs, KY with a Henry Pinner and his six children.

My  cousin, Janet Cheatham Bell, wrote a memoir and included information giving me more clues about Lannie. In her book it says that Kit Cheatham (my 4th great grandfather) married a Lannie Pinner, who was a widower of African descent who had two sons ( Bell, Janet Cheathm, The Time and Place That Gave Me Life p. 28). After Henry Pinner died, Lannie would have been left with six children to take care of, without any means to provide for them.  On December 4, 1875, Lannie Pinner married  Kit Cheatham in Trigg County, Kentucky. Looking at Lannie’s previous situation, this marriage may have been one of convenience for both parties instead of love which hopefully came later. Kit also had two sons that he also bought into the marriage. Lannie bore Kit seven more children ( Dac, John, Stepen, Lizzie, Thomas, James Solomon, and Frances). So in her household she was caring for a husband plus her two steps sons, her seven children, and Kit’s two sons by a previous marriage. She was taking care of twelve people including herself. No wonder she was out in the wood talking to herself!!!!!! In 1910 she was widowed and lived on a small farm in Trigg County with her step son, Aaron Pinner and her grandchildren. As Lannie became older and more feeble minded she went to live with her son Thomas in 1920 and then with James Solomon and his family until her death.

It seems like Lannie’s life was always in transition. From slavery to freedom, from one marriage to another, and taking care of a bunch of kids. By the end of her life, I can imagine that she was tired. Like a marathon runner, a woman’s work is NEVER done. Was Lannie listening to the hopelessness of her past, the plight of her future, or the voices of days long gone and shattered dreams.

Picture of Katie Cheatham Shemwell- 95 years old

The Fight for the Right to Vote

The upcoming 2016 Presidential Election has been described as one of the most horrible and contentious campaigns in the history of elections. With the lack of good choices and undecided voters, some people have decided to stay home and not vote at all. We, as African Americans, do not have the pleasure of deciding not to vote because our ancestors had to overcome brutal and often life threatening stumbling blocks in order to have the right to vote.

According to the fifth amendment of the United States Constitution, it is illegal for federal and state governments from denying a citizen’s right to vote based on “race, color, or previous condition of servitude”. At the end of the Civil War (1863), Congress questioned whether to prevent newly freed slaves from voting. Between the years of 1890 and 1910 most black voters in the south were deterred from voting because of certain state laws such as poll taxes and literacy tests. Whites were exempt from these laws because of a grandfather clause.

Poll taxes was a system put in place requiring citizens to pay all their back taxes before being allowed to vote. In the 1870s, the taxes were only $1-$2, but for newly freed African Americans families struggling to survive, the cost was a bit much. Most southern states instituted these laws including but not limited to Georgia, Kentucky, and Louisiana.

Another underhanded tactic that Whites used to hinder blacks from voting was literacy tests. In South Carolina in 1882, the state adopted the infamous “ eight-box” ballot system. This was a method where voter’s had to place their ballot in the corresponding box or else the ballot would have been thrown out. For example, a Senate ballot placed in the Governor’s box would have not been counted because the ballot and the box titles did not match. Poll taxes and literacy tests are only two of the ruthless ways whites used to prevent blacks from voting.

These senseless and baseless tactics were not limited to the 1800s. As late as the 1950s and 60s blacks wanting to register to vote were subjected to predicting accurately the amount of black jellybeans in a jar filled with red and black candies or to recite the Preamble of the Constitution. RIDICULOUS!!!!!!!! History records the murders, lynchings, and brutal beatings of those traveling south to register our people to vote.

Our ancestors had to overcome many obstacles to have the privilege to vote. Being aware of this history should give us pride in having the liberty to vote today. When we vote we give honor to our ancestors who could not freely vote.

On November 8th, even if you are not sure who to vote for, GO VOTE and make our ancestors proud!

Courage In The Face of Fear

Can you imagine living in constant fear and chaos 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year? Being tormented relentlessly?  Well that is how our ancestors lived. The time period was Post Civil War and Post Emancipation . Newly freed slave families were migrating to different parts of the south to settle and begin their new life of freedom. SO THEY THOUGHT! Several traumatic incidents occurred that would affect the economic success or downfall of the black tobacco farmer’s livelihood.

The incidences surrounding these freed people were often brutal, unfair, and in constant transition.

My forefathers were tobacco farmers in Trigg County, KY. Their life was very hard. First of all, coming into freedom, black folks did not have resources to buy supplies to even begin to farm. So if you didn’t have money to purchase the needed supplies, how would you get them? That’s right credit! Farmers would purchase their farming supplies and equipment on credit, thus putting them in IMMEDIATE debt. This dept, along with unscrupulous practices on the store owner’s part, weather conditions, and insect infestation produced little profit for the black tobacco farmer. In some instances the farmer’s life could be described as one of destitution. This meant that he and his family were so poverty stricken that they did not have the means to provide for themselves. Not a glorious life at all, but they did what they had to do in order to survive.

In Kentucky and Tennessee between 1904 and 1909, there was a period of feuding between the American Tobacco Company and the black tobacco farmers in this region. It was called the Black Patch Wars.  The “Silent Brigade” or Night riders would go through the fields  at night and destroy crops, livestock, and tobacco warehouses where the tobacco was stored and dried. This was a very intense period of time for the tobacco farmer and his family. He faced constant fear when these evil men would come and destroy everything that he had worked so hard for with an oiled soaked torch.

How did they accomplish this and overcome other obstacles standing in their way? It was God’s mercy, along with their strength, courage, resilience, and the knowledge of knowing where they had come from. This unshakeable desire to make a better life for themselves and their families kept them moving forward against the tide of injustice, prejudice, and racism. 

GRANDMA'S HANDS

Have you ever heard the song “Grandma’s Hands” by Bill Withers? As I listened to this melody, I was reminded of my paternal grandmother, Rubye  Poole Johnson (1912-2002). My grandma’s hands could cook delicious meals and create beautiful clothes. She used her hands, although worn with time, to share her gifts of cooking and sewing with her family and friends.

Grandma Rubye was a fabulous cook, who ruled her kitchen. She was an excellent homemaker to her husband and three sons: Charles, Carl, and Eric. She also raised her five nephews: Jasper, Richard, Andrew, Nathaniel and George.  All had very hearty appetites! My dad, Charles, said that his mother was one of the best cooks that he knew. One of my grandmother’s signature dishes was her famous, melt-in-your mouth, golden brown, homemade rolls. If you visited her house on roll making day, the heavenly aroma of homemade baked rolls would slap you lovingly in your face and you could not wait to eat a hot, fluffy, buttery roll!  Her youngest son, Eric said that he would love Sunday dinners because they would always have “mama’s rolls”.  Her middle son, Carl, remembers helping his mother assemble all the ingredients for “roll making day”. The job of her eldest son, Charles, was to grease the large pans with lard so that the rolls would not stick. Needless to say grandma’s rolls were very memorable and left a lasting impression on those who experienced the delight of them. Unfortunately, grandma did not write her recipe down and her sons were too busy eating the rolls to remember how she made them and what ingredients she used. I guess we will have to use trial and error until we get her recipe right! Grandma was definitely a “master chef” in her kitchen and all her family and friends knew it.

Another one of Grandma’s God given gifts was that she was a fantastic seamstress. One of her dreams. when she got married. was to have her own tailor shop. Yes, she was that good! Unfortunately, that dream did not come to pass, but that did not stop her. I remember in her house she had a sewing room. This room was located just off of the kitchen and was also used as a bedroom. In her sewing room, there was a table with a black, old time Singer sewing machine and around it were lots of spools of  industrial thread in various colors and sizes. This room was where all the “Magic” happened. She would make tailored suits and dresses for her friends and family. My dad said that he always admired the fact that his mother could turn a piece of fabric into something beautiful. He remembers that his mother made him a Gold corduroy car coat with a hood made out of fabric purchased from Jackmann’s Fabric Store on Locust Street in downtown St. Louis.  My dad loved his coat because there was none other like it. A family friend said that Mrs. Johnson, helped her mother finish a sewing project that she had started and also made a pants suit for her.  She taught my dad how to sew and anyone else who desired to learn.

The story goes that Grandpa, Charles Johnson, met Rubye working in a tailoring shop in Anniston, Alabama during his training for WWII. He had brought his uniform to the shop to be altered. Grandma’s motto was” if you had the ability to alter it, you could make it”. She was talking about sewing, but little did they both know that this fateful meeting would alter their lives forever and make such a difference in the lives of many.

GRANDMA’S HANDS COOKED. GRANDMA’S HANDS SEWED, GRANDMA’S HANDS TOUCHED.

Washington Park Cemetery

I am dismayed by the lack of respect and attention given to the maintenance of African American cemeteries in St. Louis, MO and all over this country. My maternal 2x great grandfather, Woodson Ellis, is buried in Washington Park in Berkley, MO. The funeral director that took care of his burial in 1939 told me that people that were buried before 1940 were buried under other bodies. This is very disrespectful to the dead and very heartbreaking to their relatives.

Some of the land that Washington Park is built on was bought out by St. Louis International Airport in the late 90s. The bodies on the land were relocated to other cemeteries in St. Louis by their loved ones. Fortunately, through much research and contacting the Airport Authority, I found out that Woodson Ellis is still buried out in Washington Park on the land that was not bought by the airport. I was relieved and wanted to take a visit out there to see his grave. Because the cemetery is overgrown with weeds, grass, trees, and other things, if I go out there I would have to wear long pants, long sleeves, wear boots, spray insecticide, and bring a weed cutter to get through to the graves. Also, some of the graves are cracked and broken. Our deceased loved ones deserve better than this. As an African American community, we need to come together and fix this problem.

"Good Looking Out"

“Good looking out”, is my maternal great uncle’s favorite saying. The family calls him Uncle Jr., but his given name is Wilton Cheatham. His father’s name was Wilton Cheatham also. Uncle Jr. is my last surviving great uncle of his generation. His three sisters, two brothers, mother and father have all passed away.

My Great Aunt, Marilyn Cheatham Darby told my mother that her mother, Princess Cheatham would call Uncle Jr. “little turtle” when he was a boy because he was quiet, shy, and unassuming. Such a sweet term of endearment. Now that he is grown you can add to that list wisdom and intelligence. Good looking out is his favorite saying because he says you always have to be watchful of everything you do and everything that is happening around you.

In honor of his mother’s life, Wilton Jr. donates his money to cancer research. Uncle Jr. said that it was a pitiful feeling to know that he was healthy, but his mother was dying. Giving funds to find a treatment for cancer could save someone else from experiencing this feeling and save another cancer patient’s life.

 Uncle Jr. will continue to be Princess’ “Little Turtle”. Good Looking Out, “Little Turtle”

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Strength In Numbers

Isn’t it amazing how African American families stayed together after the Civil War? With all the chaos, violence, and discrimination surrounding them, it was a wonder and a miracle that Black families even survived.

African American families had to create like communities because of their need for emotional support, economic support, and safety. Through surrounding themselves and uniting with like families, the Black family had a better chance of survival. The Brandon, Civils, House, Cheatham, Ellis, Shemwell, Tuck, Fuqua, Pinner, Greenwade, and others came together to form the Sandy Creek family. Like I stated in my previous blog, the Sandy Creek community spanned two states- Tennessee and Kentucky. Regardless of the distance, these families still came together to help one another in good and difficult times. Yes, there were celebrations and times of mourning, but they still united as one. Weddings were a time of celebration because you had one family connecting to another to make one big family. Celebrations were fun times to get together with your old and new kinfolks to eat, laugh, dance, and swap family stories. On the other hand, there were times of mourning through death. Even though this was not a happy occasion, family members came together to celebrate the life of the dearly departed, remember their legacy, and past down family histories. The creation of African American communities all over this country connects us to each other and helps us to keep our families strong. This is the story of my ancestral family and many others like it.

Days Long Gone: Sandy Creek Baptist Church

Excitement was in the air and families were dressed in their Sunday’s Best! The time period was the late 1800s, post slavery. The purpose was not only to attend church, but to also fellowship with kinfolks, neighbors, and get a taste of Big Mama’s cooking.

I am talking about the Sandy Creek Baptist Church. This church was located on Ditney Ridge in Trigg County, KY and comprised of members living in both Trigg County, KY and Tobaccoport, TN. Now for those families that lived on Ditney Ridge Rd., the church was not but a walk away. For those families that lived in Tobaccoport, TN the trip needed a little more planning and effort. Papa had to make sure the buggy was travel ready, and mama had to make sure the picnic baskets were filled to the brim with good food. Mama might have packed an extra change of clothes for the children, because you know there was no playing in church clothes. You would get a whipping  for  sure!!!! They were ready to travel to church.

Church was not only the place for spiritual growth, but for a well deserved escape from the harsh realities of life and racism in the South during post slavery. Church was the long drink of water at the end of a hard long week and a breath of fresh air. This was the place where they could be “free”! This was their family reunion, library, social club, newspaper, gossip hot line, and fashion show. The place where help was granted if needed. The families looked forward to Sundays at the Sandy Creek Baptist Church. The place of my ancestors.

 My 2X great grandpatents home was at the top of                                                                                                                                the hill and the Sandy Creek Baptist Church was

                                                                                                                         located at the bottom of the hill to the right.

Nicknames vs. Real Names

Nicknames are a funny thing. It is great when you are a kid, but when the nickname sticks to you into adulthood, it gets to be confusing-especially for the family genealogist. As genealogists we deal with the real, given names of ancestors. For example my maternal great grandfather Wilton’s nickname was Dottie. I was speaking with an elderly relative on the phone that referred to Uncle Wilton as Uncle Dottie. I asked her who she was referring to. She said Wilton, but that she had always known him as Uncle Dottie. I asked her why and she began to tell me the story behind his nickname.

 Grandma Maggie, Wilton’s mother, made him an Easter suit with dotted fabric when he was 3 or 4 years old.  Paul and Jodie, Wilton’s brothers, teased him and nicknamed him Dottie. That nickname followed Wilton all the way into adulthood.

As I said, nicknames can be a funny thing when you are a kid, but not into adulthood. PLEASE DO NOT GIVE THE FAMILY GENEALOGIST ANY MORE CONFUSION!!!! USE REAL NAMES NOT NICKNAMES.

Scullin Steel

Hope in a hopeless situation! Job opportunities were very limited for African American men during the Great Depression. Racism and discrimination were rampant in America at this time. The only options available for African American men to work were in factory jobs, railroad jobs or enlist in the military.

My maternal great grandfather, Wilton Cheatham (1900-1963), was a hard working man. Moving to St. Louis from Bumpus Mills, Tennessee, for better job opportunities, Wilton worked for Scullin Steel. This company was established in 1899 by John Scullin to supply steel for the railroads and 100 years later for the St. Louis Arch. In World War II, Scullin Steel produced 2,000 pound steel bombs. My great uncle, Wilton Cheatham Jr. remembers going to work with his father as a young man. He saw his father pull the hot steel out of the furnace and pour the burning, hot liquid into molds to cool. Wilton Jr. vividly remembers that his father looked like he was on fire and sparks were flying everywhere. African American men that worked for Scullin Steel were given that most laborious and dangerous jobs. I remember seeing a picture on the internet of black men moving bombs from one place to another.  Working in the steel foundry was a hot, hard job, but my great grandfather had to do it in order to take care of his family of six. How did Wilton Cheatham work there for all those years? He had hope in a hopeless situation.

Legacy of Love

 To be phenomenal means to be outstanding, extraordinary, and exceptional. Well, that was my great Aunt, Marilyn Cheatham Darby. Have you ever met someone that you never knew, but felt like you knew them for years? That was Aunt Marilyn. She never met a stranger. She had a big heart full of love for people and her family. At family gatherings, she would always tell us mesmerizing stories about long gone family members.  She was an extraordinary storyteller and my inspiration for finding my ancestors through genealogical research.
 As I would sit,enthralled, listening to her stories, I would pick up names of relatives and places where they resided. Every time I found a fact about one of our ancestors, I would call her in California. She would be so excited and say, "Yes Yes, you found them."  I have found that I miss having those conversations with her. One of her last wishes was that my aunts and I would plan a Cheatham Family Reunion. She absolutely loved family gatherings!

Whenever she came home to St. Louis, we knew we would laugh, dance, fry fish, and visit old neighborhoods and cemeteries. She just loved to reminisce.

Although she is gone from us, her legacy of love for others and family still lives on. Her granddaughter, Noel, has started a non-profit organization, the SSS Project . SSS stands for selfless, sincere, and serve. The purpose of the project is to help those in need in her community, through Blessing Boxes and meals. Aunty would be right out there laboring with her. The legacy of family is now extended to the family of man.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about what Aunty would say or do in a situation. Sometimes I can hear her still, small voice whispering in my ear, cuss words and all! I love you, aunty, for who you were in my life and the legacy you left. 

They Called Him "Sarge"

 “Sarge”! Hard as a rock, ram- rod straight, no non-sense, commanding attention, and well respected. Well that was my paternal grandfather, Charles Johnson Sr., Sarge. When he was growing up he had to help his mother with his younger siblings, Lloyd, Abraham,  Eddie, and Sallie, because his father had walked away from the family. He rose to the task, leaving high school in his junior year. He took on many odd jobs to help his mother financially. Eventually, Charles enlisted in the army, serving in World War II. 

When Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1941, he was stationed at Camp Walters, Texas and then sent to Arizona. He earned many awards for his marksmanship. He also had special training overseas and was on the oil ship “ Victory” in Spain. In Spain, the Germans attacked his and other oil ships. He witnessed his fellow African American soldiers jumping to their deaths into a sea of fire. This must have been a traumatic experience to witness. This might account for his seriousness. Later on in World War II, my grandfather landed in Italy and took a Cattle ship to Sicily. He said that he could barely tolerate the odor! He fought from Sicily to Rome. The orders were to go north and not to fire their weapons. Grandpa also told me that the Germans used sledge hammers to destroy the commodes that the Black soldiers would use. This is another example of the detestable treatment African Americans endured even while fighting for freedom. Racial discrimination abroad and at home, hope in hopeless situations. My grandpa fought throughout France, Italy, and Spain. He also was a member of the 5^th Armored Division that fought in the North African Campaign. His bravery and valor earned “Sarge” the prestigious Purple Heart. After serving four years in the war, he returned to civilian life working three jobs. He worked for thirty one years and eight months in the United States Postal System, retiring in 1970. For his faithful and dedicated service at the post office, he earned numerous awards and citations. His fellow workers also called him “Sarge” because he was a serious and dedicated worker. It is said that his handshake was so strong and firm that he could bring a man to his knees! He also worked for seventeen years as a part time employee at the Thompson-Hayward Chemical Plant and at Stix Baer and Fuller in housekeeping.

From a young age and throughout life’s difficulties, situations, and challenges, “Sarge” developed a strong work ethic and sense of duty that he passed on to his three sons and four nephews that he helped to raise.

Why did they call him “Sarge”? It was a title of respect and honor for all that he did and for the man that he was.