A brief story (with a corresponding compilation picture) of over 120 years of my Texas family’s history documented through our treasured family possessions that I began inheriting in 1981. I explain these possessions that begin with possessions owned by

AN ORDINARY LIFE

My great-great grandfather, King Bean, was born in 1850.  On July 11, 1859, he was listed, along with other chattel, in his slave owner's will.  His owner listed his worth as $700.   My great-grandfather, Wesley Bean, was born free in 1869.  And my grandfather, Tom Bean, was born at the turn of the century in 1899.  My grandfather died in 1981.  Because of my grandfather, I have my family's collective memories.  Memories told through possessions.

My grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather were ordinary men who lived ordinary lives in a rural Texas community on the Fayette-Bastrop county line.

They were tough Texas stoic men who never talked much about the past because it never occurred to them that the past or themselves could be of much consequence.  But yet, these tough Texas stoic men managed to leave behind their life stories, not in words, but in possessions.  These possessions have allowed me to take walks thru History, any time I please, to get a glimpse into their lives.

As I hold in my hands my great-great grandfather's old rusted meat grinder dated April 13, 1886, I can close my eyes and travel back in time to 1886.  I can see my great-great grandfather, King Bean, along with some of his sons, standing in their make shift smoke house preparing to process meat for the family. 

If I go back in time five years earlier to 1881, I can feel my great-great grandfather's pride in being a landowner.  He has just purchased land that only a few years earlier, was part of a thriving plantation in central Texas.  As I hold his 1911 copy of his 1881 deed in my hand, I can feel his pride at having made the leap from roaming farm hand and sometimes cowboy to land owner.  A mere twenty-two years earlier he was listed as inventory, along with the 100 hogs, 13 mules, and 80 cattle belonging to his former slaveholder.  Now he has risen up from slavery and created an inventory of his own.  None of which includes human beings. 

I stop in 1896 to watch King sign his name to a Chattel Mortgage.  Thirty years earlier, by law, he could not ever have hoped to learn to read or write.  But now, thanks to the post slavery Freedman's Bureau school, he can conduct his own business transactions.   So on this day, January 1, 1896, he signs his name after having sold "one brown and white work ox" and "one bay mare about 15 ½ hands high (and a) four years old branded KB" for $40 to a "B. H. Baltgegas". 

I move ahead in time to 1918.  Although King had many triumphs, I also know of his sorrows as well.  I stop in August of 1918 and watch King holding a picture of his youngest son, Elisha.  A somber Elisha, dressed in a WW1 doughboy uniform, stands in front of his barracks looking straight into the camera.  Unlike his brothers, he had no excuse not to go to war.  So on July 29, 1918 he was drafted.  He was assigned to the 341^st Quartermaster Labor Battalion. 

Tragedy struck King a mere two months later.  On September 29, 1918, the infantry that Elisha was attached to engaged the German enemy near Fere-en-Tardenois (Aisne) France.  By the end of the day, Elisha was dead.  Although the family had a 1905 fifty cent burial policy from the "National Burial Association of America (for colored people only)", King would not get to use it, because his young son would be put to rest on French soil. 

Two months later, on November 29, 1918, I take a walk over to the home of Wesley Bean, my great-grandfather.  I see him sorrowfully holding in his hands a WW1" Liberty Bond Receipt".   He has paid $5.00 on a $50 note.  He would not finish paying the Liberty bond off until October 15, 1919. 

I decide to go back in time to a happier time for Wesley.  It is September 14, 1905.  I watch as Wesley walks into "F. E. Lowke Blacksmith and Wheelwright", the local Blacksmith's shop.  Lowke hands him a $2.25 receipt for plow work.  Wesley has had a good crop that year and wants to make sure he is ready for the next crop.  As I watch him, two years later on October 10, 1907, I see him sitting in a cotton gin office watching as an E. Zilss hands him a handwritten receipt on tablet paper.  The receipt says that Zilss has just purchased 166 pounds of cotton worth $195.85 from him.  After deducting his debts for that year, including the ginning fee, Wesley walks away with $58.80 to spend as he pleased.  He mentally adds that figure to the money he has earned from the bushels of corn he sold, the hogs he sold and other business ventures. 

Wondering what he spends his disposable income on, I wander over to October 6, 1900.  I watch him contentedly walk into "J.H. Chancellor, Shoe Dealer, Clothier, and furnisher for Men, Women and Children."  This establishment is one of the best in his community.  It boasts of offering "up-to-date goods", "down-to-date prices" and "high grade footwear a specialty".  Wesley proudly purchases $39.40 worth of goods.  He is generous.  He spends $17.90 on himself and the rest on his father, brother and sister.  Wesley spends even more on clothing and shoes at another clothing store called "F. H. Talley & Son Outfitter for Men, Women and Children" on November 10, 1908.  Only this time, instead of paying with cash, he trades a mule worth $69 for $87.85 worth of clothing for his family and is left with a debt of $27.85.

Wesley considers himself a pillar of the community.  After all, he is both deacon and treasurer of the Center Union Baptist Church.  If I travel back to the late 1860's, I can sit next to his father, King Bean, and all the other recently freed slaves, as they sit in an arbor brush intently listening to a local preacher.  If I fast forward into the future just a few years more, I can sit next to King enjoying church services in a little log cabin.  Like his neighbors, he has been called to church services by the sound of a bugle.  I transport myself back to the present and stand in front of the Center Union Baptist Church.  In remembrance, I rub my hand along the brass plate that is attached to the front of the church.  The plate says that the church was officially founded in 1878 and that King was one of the original deacons. 

Going back to January 31, 1912, I can see that my great-grandfather, Wesley, has become somewhat of a dandy.  He proudly purchases a new fancy top of the line "runabot (carriage) with one......runabot auto seat steel line..." for $56.00.   He wants to arrive to church in style.   Although the church is abuzz about the new fangled horseless carriages that they see the White folks riding around in, Wesley is convinced that the horseless carriage is merely a fad.  Although a few years later, his father would purchase one of the new horseless carriages, Wesley sticks to his guns, and refuses to buy one.

Thinking about my great-grandmother, Laura, I go back to the turn of the last century and see her posing for a picture along with other women.  They are all dressed in their Sunday finest.  Although most of the other women are wearing white, my great-grandmother is wearing a dark colored garment.  She and the other women are local farmer's wives who have founded the  "Mother's Club".  They meet regularly to plan social gatherings and to sew and quilt.  I walk over to her home and stand in front of her dresser.  As I touch it and admire the detail work, I come back to the present as I decide to open a drawer to retrieve linens.  My older cousin, my great-aunt, my great-great grandmother and I, for well over a hundred years, have all used this dresser to store linens.

I decide to visit October 11, 1924.  I watch as Laura walks over to the Dry Goods store, also owned by J. H. Chancellor.  Once there, she purchases  "Unions $2.00, Ging $3.90, Tape 15 cent, Quting 60 cents, Wool $2.50, Braid 45 cents and Thread for 5 cents".  Perhaps the "Mother's Club" is still going strong 24 years later.

I go back in time to 1915.  I watch as family members gather to discuss what to do about a loved one's illness.  My great-grandfather, Wesley, is sitting at the table reading a small blue booklet titled "The Story of Pellagra....Symptoms, History and Treatment".  One of the sentences in it is "if you have stomach trouble read this book."  There is a white doctor on the cover of the booklet named "W.C. Roundtree, M.D."  He seems to be doing his best to look authoritative.  As I read the outrageous claims in the booklet, it is hard to contain my laughter because the name "Pellagra" sounds like a made up name for a disease that does not exist today. 

However, I become contrite and ashamed of my ignorance when I learn that Pellagra was an epidemic in the early 1900's in rural areas in the Southern United States.  We know now that it was caused by a vitamin B deficiency.  People who had an unbalanced diet high in unprocessed corn died from it.  I'm filled with sadness as I think that one of my ancestors suffered and died horribly from this disease.  

I cannot abandon my walks through the past just yet.  I have one more person to visit.  I have to visit my grandfather, Tom Bean, or TJ as he was more commonly known. 

It is June 1, 1933.  The country is still wrestling with the Depression.  TJ has done what he could to help his Aunts and Uncles out, but between them all, they cannot hold on to the 106 acres of land that is left of King Bean's estate.  Monthly he receives letters from the Bastrop Tax Office.  The Tax office is so desperate for money that they offer him a 5% discount on his State taxes and a 5% discount on his County, Road and School taxes if he pays all of his taxes in full. 

Wesley and TJ decide that they can no longer struggle to pay all of the family taxes on the King Bean estate.  Instead they decide to focus their energy on saving their portion of the estate.  By the time the Depression is over, everyone in my family, except my great-grandfather, grandfather and one Uncle, has lost their land.  My grandfather manages to save 40 acres for himself.

            I go forward in time 5 more years.  It is October 24, 1938.  Roosevelt's New Deal has helped my grandfather survive the lean times.  Standing in his overalls and straw hat, I watch as he reads his WPA (Works Progress Administration) form.  It says he is to report at 7:00 a.m., Wednesday, October 26, 1938 to a local school.  As an unskilled laborer he will be assigned to work on a building construction project in town.

            As I continue to walk around in the Depression years, I stop in January 7, 1935.  I shake my head in amusement as I watch my grandfather write a note to his father.  My grandfather has agreed to pay $13 for a Mare.  And because he has already paid $7, he agrees to pay the rest by the 1^st of November.  I think to myself, with a smile, it's the Depression, great-grandfather; why not give your son a break?!    

  I move ahead to better times for my grandfather.  I'm unsure of the year, but I guess it to be the 1940's.  I watch as my grandfather checks the time on his pocket watch.  He picks up his small "Cotton Picked" ledger.  He begins to meticulously record how much cotton has been picked.  He flips to the back of his ledger and looks at the chart showing pound of cotton picked versus price per pound.  As he records his numbers he glances up at the advertisement in the ledger promoting false teeth, it says "Natural Effect and proper Chewing Power.....Hecolite Plates" for $25.

I think about my grandmother.  It is October 12, 1920.  My grandmother is standing in her mother's living room wearing a plain flapper style white slip dress with sleeves.  This is her wedding day.  1920 is an exciting year for her.  She and many of her friends have all had weddings that year.  Two months later, holding a wedding invitation in her hand, she runs out into the cotton field to show the invitation to my grandfather.   It is from "Mr. and Mrs. Jerry McDow" and she and my grandfather have been invited to attend the wedding of their daughter "Anna" on "Thursday evening, December 23, 1920 at Seven o'clock".

Twenty-seven years later my grandparents are an old married couple.  It is 1947 and my grandfather decides to build a new house on his land.  Before he knocks the old house down, he and his friends begin constructing a new one.  While the construction is going on, my grandmother complains about having to cook daily for my grandfather and all his rowdy friends. 

Good times continue for my grandparents as I watch them backing out of their makeshift garage on July 16, 1952.  They are driving a cream colored 1950's Chevy and they are heading over to "Mrs. Goebel's" rural country store.  Once there, they purchase, among other things, flour for $2.20, Meal for 85 cents, coffee for 83 cents, Vaseline for 10 cents and lye for 17 cents.

Two weeks later I make my entrance into the world.  Although I grew up in the big city of Houston, my parents, like a lot of 1950's big city transplants, sent my sister and I to the country to spend the summers with my grandparents. 

As I take my final walk thru History, my eyes began to mist up as I look around my grandparent's small farm.  I walk thru the late 1950's and early 1960's.   As I open one of the windows from their neat white-framed six-room house, I can hardly contain my delight.  I close my eyes and feel the cool morning breeze, smell the fresh country air, and hear the rooster crowing, the hens cackling and the cows mooing.   When I glance back into the room I can see their cast iron pot-bellied wood-burning stove in the center of the room.   Just waking up, I stumble out of the comforting soft tick feather mattress to the tempting smell of smoke house bacon frying and homemade clabber biscuits being baked. 

As I rub the sleep out of my eyes, I slip on my shoes and head outside to the Outhouse.  My grandparents, like a lot of rural African American southerners, did not have indoor plumbing in the 1950's and 1960's.  So I walk out into the early morning sunshine and see my grandfather in the distance over at the pigpen pouring buckets of slop to the hogs.  As I open the door to the cool damp Outhouse, I hear my grandmother humming her favorite hymn as she walks out the back door of the house over to the hen house in search of eggs for our breakfast.

To my family's credit, in their various lifetimes, they have meticulously held on to, and passed down to me, tax receipts, grocery receipts, clothing receipts, promissory notes, deeds, furnishing and various other family items.  Sure, there were the family idiots who threw out a lot of stuff.  But there were also the family members who held onto the turn of the century salt and pepper shaker set that my great-grandmother owned; the old 1940's radio that my great aunt used to listen to updates on World War II;  the black iron cauldron that my grandmother used to do laundry; and now, on into the latter part of the 20^th century, relatives hold onto, among other things, old color 8mm home movies that were shot in Viet Nam by a Viet Nam veteran.

My children used to laugh at my family collection of old jazz albums.  But I quickly quieted their laughter by explaining to them that those old jazz albums are soundtracks to the lives of their not too distant ancestors who lived, laughed and were able to endure segregation.  When my children hold in their hands an album by Billy Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, John Coltrane or Jimmy Smith, they too can take a walk into the past.

I chose to submit this memory because I have read about the ancestors and descendants of the past owners of my great-great grandfather, King Bean, in history books and records.  I know of their deeds and exploits.  Their accomplishments in the Wars: The Indian Wars, The American Revolution, The Civil War, etc.  How they heroically helped take Texas from Mexico.  I know they hunted with Daniel Boone.  They wrote letters to George Washington.  Washington Irving even described their exploits in one of his books. 

As I read about their exploits, I was always aware, though it was unspoken, that my ancestors, their slaves, were with them.  My ancestor saw, heard and experienced the same hardships and joys that they experienced.  Like them, my ancestors also shed their blood and their tears to help shape America.  The only thing that my ancestors could not do, that their slaveholders could do, was be heard.

Now thanks to the National Museum of African American History and Culture, their voices can be heard, their stories told and their history documented.   These are the Bean Family memories.  Not all African-American memories are spoken.  Some exist in the form of possessions.  Sometimes we forget to hold on to those possessions because they hold no monetary value. But to future generations, those possessions often have more value than any gold or silver could ever have.