We planned our route from Florida to North Carolina to once again stop at the site of my three-greats grandfather’s grave in the National Cemetery at Andersonville. Daniel Coykendall was one of approximately 13,000 prisoners of the Confederacy who perished within the confines of Andersonville Prison during the Civil War due to the horrific conditions.
This was the third time we have visited his grave; because I have written about him and the infamous prison in previous blog posts, I will not write much more now.
Coykendall hailed from New Jersey and mustered into the Union Army a few months after the death of his wife, Julia Ann (Perry) Coykendall at the age of 36. Their nine surviving children were parceled out to other families and/or relatives. He was captured by Confederate troops in 1864 and died four months afterward during his incarceration at the most notorious of all Civil War prisoner-of-war camps. He was aged 38.
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| New Jersey's memorial to their Union Army soldiers who died at Andersonville. |
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| A replica of Andersonville Prison's stockade gate. The commander was executed after the war because of the horrors perpetrated there. |
Two weeks
There is no doubt about it: I am a conflicted human being. There we were in Hendersonville, North Carolina: as we rushed back to the RV park to trade in wet gear for dry, soaked clothing for something more comfortable after another adventure, I noticed the neighbors on their patio had poured themselves a glass of wine, put up their feet and were peacefully reading - an idyllic scene if ever I saw one, and one that held much allure for me.
The catch is that at the same moment I was thinking longingly of emulating those two, I was considering all the other activities I want to do, places I want to go, roads I want to follow, things I want to try and realizing that our stay could not possibly be near long enough to make it happen.
Oh well, I guess it's full steam ahead as this t-shirt slogan encourages:
Our home of choice for time with Mom & Dad W. was the Lakewood RV Park, one we have utilized before because of convenience. It is one of the nicer parks we have stayed at, but this time in midsummer found it full. When we called for a reservation, we were told about one possible space for us. If we could manage to back into that space, we could go to the head of the waiting list. The spot was too small for all the hopeful big rigs, but our little Totee could just fit.
Pleased at the prospect, we agreed. Chris’ superior trailer backing abilities were put to the test. With me on one side and a helper on the other side and a number of twists and turns and backs and forwards, we finally got situated. After all that, I assessed the site and pronounced the site “icky”. It felt too closed in and a little precarious, and I felt a whine coming on. Hoping to avert that, Chris agreed to troop over to the office to see if by any chance, something else had become available.
Miracle accomplished - we were assigned a spot I deemed more suitable and we moved. As a result, Chris received ample experience in backing up and my whine was averted.
The park is really very nice - too bad we never stop long enough to use the swimming pool or other amenities. There are lots of trees, thus lots of birds, enough to keep Rowdy interested.
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| Park model prefabs like this one seem very interesting after seven months in the Totee. |
Reconnecting . . .
Our time was divided between helping and just being with Mom & Dad and enjoying the mountains, plus a nice evening with our former Prescott friends, John & Melissa and John’s brother, David.
A planned activity with our former Prescottonian friends went a bit awry, but the resulting punt set everything right. I had been told by a Midland friend about bluegrass jam sessions at Silvermont Mansion in nearby Brevard and finagled a time for the five of us to have supper together and tap our toes afterward.
Alas, John and David were fatigued after a day of hiking and Melissa’s toe had already tapped entirely too much, being in a sore broken condition, thus ensued a social evening at their home, enjoying the back patio until rain drove us inside.
Precip, water bed . . .
After we crossed the Mississippi River some weeks back, we haven’t had a single day without some precipitation - many with drenching buckets; however, as Darren sarcastically mimicked an oft-times response to Florida’s extreme rainfall: “We need it” Western North Carolina has just completed the wettest July in recorded history, breaking the mark set in 1905.
All was not lost: we did get some dryish hours, nevertheless, and even some full days of sunshine followed by nights of rain pounding on the trailer roof, causing a good deal of sleeplessness and one memorable night when the window leaked again, leaving me in a water bed of sorts. Chris has again worked on that issue which is not completely resolved yet.
Waterfalls, Great Smokies . . .
This area of the Great Smoky Mountains is as my cousin Chris, a native Southerner, rightly declares, “heaven”. Every curve of every winding road reveals another scene of unimaginable beauty: distant vistas of far misty peaks, closer scenes of idyllic historic farms, magnificent forested slopes, apple & peach orchards (we zipped right on through Georgia’s wonderful peach orchards to get here), vineyards snaking around the steep slopes and productive market gardens with farmstands selling vine-ripened produce.
The richness of the mountain greenery also produces delightful steams and rivers falling from the heights - hundreds of waterfalls - some cascading over rocks, some dropping straight down over ledges, each one with its own distinct personality. We saw Looking Glass Falls, an easy walk from a parking area, and Moore Cove Falls, reached via a hike of about a mile.
After the great hike up the mountain, it was fairly easy to climb down to the bottom of Moore Cove, and great fun to go behind the waterfall where there was a large alcove carved into the cliff. Who could resist enjoying the cooling spray after the hike - not me.
Whitewater . . .
Deciding this mid-summer stop was perfect to revel in the region’s copious water resources, I lobbied successfully for a rafting excursion. Blue Heron Whitewater was the provider of choice - a great decision. A small company with a careful and caring staff, we were treated well throughout. Orientation, however, was enough to make me seriously consider walking away and getting a refund. After that talk, I knew all the things I should do if the things I don’t want to have happen happen. Trust me when I say ignorance is bliss; sometimes information is just plain scary.
I managed only the slightest smile (or was it a grimace?) at the humor throughout the talk. When our guide, Sandy, explained what is appropriate posture (flat on back, feet out straight pointed downstream) if we should "swim" (the word did not indicate a voluntary activity), she added a proviso about what to do if the "swim" should occur while approaching rocks (pull knees up to chest in a cannonball position); extra points would be added for style if one shouts "Cannonball" at that juncture.
In a way, though, it was good because once I determined to go with the flow (heh, heh), the reality was far less than the fear, a good analogy for many of life’s situations, I find.
Our fully competent and informative guide kept our six-man raft on as even a keel as class 3 and class 4 rapids allow. We got slapped wetly in the face when water engulfed us, but quiet times allowed us to enjoy eight miles of gorgeous scenery on the French Broad River and even had the opportunity to get to know our raft-mates some. Two other rafts in our group joined us as we were served lunch on the rocks (granite, not ice) midday.
After an exhilarating day, we were bused back from Hot Springs to our point of departure. Interesting that we took out near the RV campground we previously stayed at in Hot Springs. No time this trip for a soak in those nice mineral waters.
I am grateful I finished the excursion without need of the cannonball maneuver.
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| Lunch on the rocks |
Flat Rock Playhouse, Carl Sandberg . . .
Much to my delight, “Les Miserables” was on stage at the Flat Rock Playhouse while we were there and we were privileged to see it, easily the most powerful performance I have experienced. From setting to sets to acting to music, it could not have been any better. Major league actors just plain bowled me over with the depth of their performance - superb! And that music - haunting!
I was not allowed any interior photography even before the show, but made up for it taking pictures of the beautiful grounds and gardens, well worth a Sunday stroll just for that.
Also in Flat Rock, a lovely little village, is Carl Sandberg’s home, which he have toured previously - the most interesting home tour I’ve ever done - a can’t miss. It is basically exactly as it was when he lived there, right down to his reading material - fascinating.
Back roading, hiking . . .
We had the chance to explore some wonderful Appalachian back roads, following them to wherever they led, marveling at the sights and wandering off to hike when we wished. We walked to the top of Vance Mountain, probably named after an early South Carolina governor and possibly a relative of my Carolina Vance ancestors. That was a beautiful and intriguing area, a passage on the Palmetto Trail. Our location is far western North Carolina right on the border with South Carolina.
Another hike was ostensibly to Alexander’s Ford, the site of a Revolutionary War colonial militia encampment; that one was far less enjoyable, partly because we never made it to the river and partly because gnats nearly carried us away.
At the trailhead was an old still-used small chapel with two burying grounds behind it. Oddly, one was carefully tended and the adjoining one completely abandoned to the jungle-like foliage that takes over anything that isn't moving or mowed. There we saw a grave of a Revolutionary War sergeant, James Grey, and decided to honor him with an American flag. It appears he has been forgotten.
That particular trail follows the route of the Overmountain militia soldiers who marched from eastern Tennessee and eastern Kentucky to join local and Virginia militia against British loyalists and regular soldiers at what became the Battle of King's Mountain in 1780. Walking in their footsteps imbued the walk with far more significance than it would have had otherwise.
Another time, we followed a tip from a fellow RVer and drove out Big Hungry Road off of Upward Road until we found a spot to pull off to the side. Upon opening the truck door, we were hit with the deafening roar of water as the river whose canyon we were traversing was ripping away down the mountainside. On foot, we made our way upstream through the brambles while avoiding copious amounts of poison ivy, where we found an ancient concrete dam and the site of a former mill, now totally overgrown, another example of how quickly abandoned man-made structures become lost in foliage.
Bluegrass, haircut, spectacles . . .
Remaining in one place for a full two weeks allowed us a bit of time to regroup to some extent. I obtained new eyeglasses, much needed - especially the sunglasses to replace the ones that were stolen in Midland - and got a haircut, needed just as desperately because of being away so long from Julie, most trusted hair stylist ever.
On the fun side, we listened and danced to live bluegrass music and watched top-notch clogging at Hendersonville’s summer weekly outdoor concerts, a wonderful venue in the historic downtown. The list of activities could be expanded substantially with a whole summer’s hiatus from rollin’, rollin’, rollin’.
This country begs to be explored and experienced, both the nature side and the historical side. After all, it is one of the original American colonies; military excursions, encampments and battles occurred here during the American Revolution, the Civil War and other various skirmishes.
Snippets of history have been recorded and posted on plaques throughout the region; unfortunately, they are all installed in spots that allow no opportunity to stop the vehicle to read them. One particular one about a more modern vintage instance caught my eye and we pulled into a side road to read more of it than was possible at 40 miles per hour.
It led us to an angelic monument in a graveyard, one that was crafted in the marble workshop of W. O. Wolfe, father of Thomas Wolfe. Interesting that it was the inspiration for the title of Thomas Wolfe's famous tome, "Look Homeward Angel".
The real reason . . .
Those were all good things to do to relieve Mom & Dad of our continuous presence, but the ‘rents of course were the real reason we were there. It’s been nearly a year since we’ve seen them and much more since we’ve been to their beautiful home. Their age, 89 & 90, is creating some issues that are complicating their lives; our hope was to ease that as best we could in a short visit. We worked our way though a list of tasks they had prepared at my request and dealt with some other things in addition.
Mom & I cleaned out some kitchen cupboards so that Chris could install lower shelf pull-outs to improve her access, a gift shared from the sibs. We picked blueberries that she couldn’t get to, cut down a tree that was readying itself to fall across the driveway, walked the dog, did a little rearranging, vacuumed up water in Dad’s downstairs office that accumulated from the extensive rains, plus other odds and ends of cleaning and organizing that allowed us to work side by side with them while easing some of the burden.
The four of us had a nice lunch-time excursion to Strawberry Hill café and produce stand and enjoyed some mighty fine home cooking by Mom. It was especially fun when cousins Will & Charlotte came for supper and an evening of good conversation. I was in bliss when I stopped at Charlotte’s office for one of the very best massages ever - she is a marvelous therapist and I hadn’t had a massage for a couple of years - sublime.
A last-minute activity was sorting and scanning a representative sampling of Mom’s extensive family photograph collection after I worried they might be damaged by water that seems to be an ongoing problem in their downstairs.
Chris’ paternal grandparents retired in Tryon many years ago and his parents followed suit, all coming from Illinois; we visited the grandparents; graves and photographed their Tryon house. I like to get shots of all ancestral residences whenever possible.
On the move . . .
In an effort to get ourselves focused in the midst of so much to do, we actually put together a calendar schedule of what do while in Hendersonville, in addition to making plans about the drive back to Arizona. Despite one person’s query if we were heading westward in a covered wagon when he heard how long it would take us, we consider the homeward stretch to be extremely rushed, the ultimate goal being to get back to Prescott and find an unmobile house.
Tennessee, Dickson County, Carr, Gentry . . .
Driving through Tennessee without major exploring was wrenching. It is truly one of my favorite states. We have spent some time there previously but nowhere near enough to satisfy me yet. Too bad cousin Chris has established himself in South Korea; we would have enjoyed visiting him again while we were in that great state.
A one-night stand near Dickson allowed us to drive over to the Stuart Cemetery where we honored ancestors with an American flag and flowers. Despite a threatening lightning storm, we photographed all the ancestral and collateral graves there; one earlier visit was pre-digital camera.
Those laid to rest there are Gideon Carr, born 1752 in Virginia, died 1844, his daughter Anna (Carr) Gentry, born 1782 in Virginia, died 1865, and Anna’s husband, Thomas Gentry, also born in 1782 in Albemarle County, Virginia. We have conflicting information about Thomas’ death date, but it will not be resolved until we get home and can look at our geni material there. Thomas’ gravestone has a death date of 1 Feb. 1849; however, his will was recorded in 1847; now we are not sure if that was the probate or not, or if the tombstone date is in error. It has been known to happen. We have not done research on this family in a long time, so I’m sure we can fill in much more.
We have a copy of a letter Gideon wrote describing his trek by foot with his son Bluford Carr from Virginia to Tennessee. He was 71 years old at the time, an age that seems advanced to be walking for such a distance, probably about 300 miles. A local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution is named for our Gideon Carr.
That area brought us out of the Appalachian range and into beautiful rolling hill landscape that I love. Although we have been there previously, it has always been rushed just like this time; I long to spend extended time there, had once seriously considered Tennessee as a permanent home. I am really attracted to this part of the country. Admittedly I say that about many places; however, the Dickson County pull is very strong.
Those ancestors are paternal, but I have other Tennesseeans on Mom’s side, Catron/Kettering/Kettenring, Seals and Mills to name a few.
As we learned too late (a storm pelted us with more buckets of water), there is a Gentry Cemetery near there, but we had not time to go there; however, by a fluke, we found an isolated Gentry burial not associated with it. When we saw a sign marked "Gentry Cemetery Road", we followed its short distance right into a residential yard where it dead-ended. The homeowner was in his pickup preparing to leave and didn’t appear to be overly joyous to see our kayak-topped truck in his yard. A brief conversation later after he was assured that I was a Gentry descendant, he gave permission for us to drive to the back of his property to see the only gravestone there. It was for a collateral family member and his wife.
Doing a little checking online revealed that particular stone for Fulton Gentry is incorrectly published as being located in the other nearby Gentry Cemetery. I am corresponding with the person who put it on there in an effort to get it corrected. Just shows that unless one sees something oneself, one can’t be certain it is correct.
Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, rivers . . .
The beauty of Tennessee slipped by in a blur before we popped over the border into Kentucky - less hardwood forest, more farmland, still rolling but a little more level, all is bucolic scene one after the other: some tobacco crops, more corn and soybeans, fields surrounded by wooded belts with picturesque ponds in low spots - the stuff of scenic calendar pages.
As we passed through Clarksville on the Cumberland River, we read that it is the home of the 101st Airborne, so not surprisingly, there were people in fatigues pretty much everywhere. We saw only the commercial bypass of that city (no, we didn’t take the last train there), which was not overly attractive, but the river is quite an attraction for me, and the Tennessee River, even more impressive, is just a short distance away.
Lots of Amish have settled this region, but they must have been at home tending their gardens because we saw none of their tell-tale horse-drawn buggies on the road.
Curses, foiled again . . .
Drat, drat, drat - the one day when we wanted to “make time” especially, and planned basically to drive, drive, drive got a hiccup. Even though we intended to zoom, our route was to be along the Mississippi River as opposed to taking the Interstate. That plan went bust at the bridge when we were stopped by a beleaguered sheriff’s deputy whose job was to waylay all vehicles more than seven feet wide and 19 feet long and inform them they were out of luck.
Construction on the bridge meant we had to turn around and drive clear back to Paducah, adding a couple of hours to our trip so deciding to make it the time as best we could, we took the Interstate to St. Louis after all. The best laid plans of RVers and all that . . . Is that how normal people travel? Horrors!
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| Sun spot |
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| A lonely remnant of an unknown family's home. |
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| Rowdy is careful not to step a foot past his boundary, well, most of the time anyway. |
1 comment:
I think you should turn your diary into a book. Maybe a travel book "Traveling the back country roads of America". Interesting little known places to see.
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