I have been blessed to know those who came before. Well, not all of them.
A “Fry relative” traced our family back to “Big John” Fry, who lived in Virginia in the 1700s. Given my low-slung height, I was happy we had a tall Fry in the family, but then it occurred to be that Big John might just have been short and fat.
The 1700s means the Frys were here during the American Revolution. Were they fighting against the British “homeland,” were they British sympathizers, or did they just hide in a cave until the battles were over? Who knows? One thing for sure, some of them were busy having babies.
Fast forward to the 1800s, and Absalom Fry, who lived in Kentucky, made a powder horn and evidently enjoyed carving on it. Absalom was killed in a horse race in 1850 when he fell off the horse (or did the horse fall?) and sustained fatal head injuries with the help of a tree stump (not quite like dying fighting at the Alamo).
Shortly before my father died he gave me this family heirloom. It feels weird to hold a personal possession of one of my ancestors from 200 years ago. Here are some pictures of the powder horn.
Absalom’s son, Levi, was 8 years old when Absalom died. Levi is the father of my great-grandfather, Homer Fry. I was fortunate. I met some of my great-grandparents, and I knew well my grandparents.
My father’s grandparents were Homer and Mary (maiden name Davis) Fry. I remember visiting them in Dayton, Washington, where my father was born and grew up. I recall that Homer’s sight was poor, and he was deaf. He was sitting when I walked up to him and extended my hand. When I shook hands with him, he squeezed my hand hard to “see what I was made of.” So we proceeded to have a pressure competition, which I thought was a Hell of way to meet an old relative. I do not remember anything we talked about, but at an advanced age Homer Fry had a mighty firm grip. Here are four-generation pictures.
In the first, my grandfather, Wayne Fry, is holding little me. My father, Max Fry, is on the left, and Homer is in front. Time marches on. In the second picture, Wayne and Homer are seated, and my father and I are standing.
Homer traveled to Washington from Iowa in a covered wagon when he was a child. My great-grandmother Fry was small and thin, and I did not spend much time talking with her. These were sturdy people who lived much of their life on a true American frontier that was Washington state.
My cousins asked my grandfather (Wayne) Fry to write some memoirs. I will share with you one that I read when I visited Walla Walla in the early 1970s.
When he was a teen, one day my grandfather was reading, and his little brother was trying to get him to play “horsee” with him. After experiencing a hefty dose of nagging from his brother, his mother got into the act and told my grandfather to quit being so selfish and to take some time and play “horsee” with his little brother, and then she left the room. My grandfather took his brother by the hand and led him outside, where he proceeded to tie him to the fence. Then he went back inside to read.
My mother’s maiden name was Kathryn Elsie Drake, and she was born in San Angelo, TX. My mother’s grandparents were named Fisher, and they lived in Waco. I remember traveling with my parents from our home in San Antonio to see them after the 1953 tornado had torn up Waco. The Internet contains pictures of the damage. I remember the “old folks” talking about items that the tornado had driven into a nearby tree trunk.
What I most recall about the trip is my great-grandfather. I sat alone with him on the back porch of the old house – in horror, I might add. He would talk a bit and then make a gross guttural noise and spit part of his guts out all over the grass. I was mesmerized by the black crud on the ground, wondering which of his organs was disintegrating in front of my eyes. I knew he was dying, and I did not understand why I was the only one who knew it and why other family members were not more alarmed. He was old and scary. I did not know what chewing tobacco was at that time.
My great-grandmother Fisher was a small, kind lady. The Fisher’s house smelled old. In fact, they smelled old. I don’t know what causes that old smell, but they had a dose of it. I saw little containers around and, looking back, I now know that she was a fan of snuff.
A family story is that before my great-grandmother died, she mentioned seeing deceased relatives outside her kitchen window. She had not been hallucinating, at least to that point. Is this hallucination or spirit warnings? Hospice nurses report people seeing dead relatives in the room when near death. Were these departed relatives providing signs that the end is not really the end?
When my great-grandmother died, one of my relatives was totally grief stricken (maybe my grandmother) and would not believe it was really her in the casket and was freaking out, trying to take the clothes off the body to see if it was really her. I am not sure what “sign” she was looking for. Grief can make people nuts.
Here is a four-generation picture, with my grandmother Bessie Drake, who we called Mama Drake, to the left and my great-grandmother Fisher to the right, with my mom and my sister, Darelyn. I always wondered if my great-grandmother had a pinch of snuff in her lip for this special occasion.
I met my great-grandparents on my mother’s father’s side, but the memory is vague. Many of the Drake’s lived around Cameron, TX, and Marlin, TX. There were a lot of my relatives and generations in those towns, and I suspect the family had lived in Texas for a good while. I remember going to a heavily attended Drake family reunion as a boy. Several attendees brought guitars, fiddles, and banjos. The music is mainly what I remember about it, the music and a lot of people in some old large country building, likely in Waco or Marlin.
I have read that before television it was common for the rural folks to get together on weekends and play music and dance, often in the yard. Some of these parties went on all night. I would have loved to have attended one of those. Bring me my guitar.
I knew all of my grandparents. I was fortunate to know their love. I hope that my grandchildren remember me with the same fondness and love as I have for my grandparents.
Of my grandparents, I was closest with my grandfather, Earl “Papa” Drake. When I was in high school in Kingsville, one summer my Papa Drake arrived and took me to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio to work. He was remodeling barracks, and I got to destroy the inside them, mainly with a crowbar. It was great fun and profitable for me. I was not yet officially driving, and my mother gave Papa Drake a lecture about not letting me drive.
He assured her he wouldn’t. As soon as we got out of Kingsville, he stopped the car and told me to drive, which I did, all the way to San Antonio.
When I worked at the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas in the early 1970s, he worked in a town nearby. We would periodically get together for dinner.
Later in time, when my grandmother died, he was so used to taking care of someone that – to the horror of my mother – he married the next-door neighbor, who was brain-dead. I don’t mean a little bit. I am talking brain-removal type brain dead. Nada! Nada! Nada! Describing this scene sufficiently is for another time.
Papa Drake was a master at construction. I think he could have built anything. He went to Washington during WWII to help build the Hanford facility.
Because Papa Drake went to Washington, I have a father from Washington and a mother from Texas, a story for another time.
My parents and my mother’s parents are buried in San Antonio at Sunset Memorial Park, 1701 Austin Hwy, San Antonio, TX 78218. When I am in San Antonio I go and pay my respects. I know they are not really there, but I feel close to them there, perhaps because that the last place I saw them.
They were good people.
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