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The legend and lore that holds families together There's nothing like the blinking lights of a police car, on a back road in rural Alabama at night, to make you think: Perhaps this wasn't a good idea. Which was exactly the thought that ran through this Yankee's brain as the state trooper approached our car. Fortunately, my worst fears were not realized. Not only didn't the trooper give me a ticket; he wished us a pleasant family reunion, which my wife had informed him was the purpose of our trip. We then drove on to our destination about an hour down the road, in Clarke County, Ala., where the descendants of Lucy and Josiah Mathews were gathering in the place they have inhabited for nearly 200 years. Our brief encounter with the friendly Alabama state trooper caused the first stereotype of many to fall during a remarkable weekend. I am envious of families that know with authority from whom they are descended. Perhaps that reflects the insecurity many recently arrived Americans feel. As the son of Irish and German immigrants, both of whom arrived in this country around 1880, my own lineage in ancestral lands is as dark as Guinness stout. Not so for Louise, my wife. On her paternal Mathews side, there's a continuous line stretching back 20 generations to Sir David Mathew, by all accounts a rugged and robust 15th-century Welshman who was the first to adopt the surname. The Mathews clan migrated from Wales to Ireland, then to Virginia early in the 17th century and, by way of South Carolina and Georgia, eventually landed in a little town in southern Alabama called Grove Hill. Grove Hill is by no means a remarkable place. Nestled amid rolling hills, red clay and tall pine trees, it has 1,400 inhabitants, with churches far outnumbering gas stations and virtually no evidence of modern development, save two Wal-Marts 12 miles in either direction. Clarke County defies another Sunbelt stereotype: Like Allegheny County, it, too, has lost population recently. What makes Grove Hill unique is a sense of place and history so palpable it caused me to examine some prejudices I have long held about the deep South and the people who live there. Five of Lucy and Josiah's sons fought for the Confederacy but, according to the letters they wrote home, they weren't fighting for a "cause" or to maintain slaves, which they didn't own. They were dirt-poor farmers who just wanted to see Grove Hill again. People at the reunion joked about the myths Northerners have about Southerners. One recounted a dinner party she and her husband attended shortly after they'd moved to Dayton, Ohio, when the hostess told guests, "They're from the South, but they're smart." And while there were many quips exchanged about being barefoot and toothless, the people I observed all had teeth and wore shoes. On the contrary, the Mathews clan is uncommonly well spoken, more hospitable, better mannered and better educated than many a Northerner I have known - myself included. Because I shared no genetic link to anyone among the 160 people in attendance, I didn't come away from the reunion with new understandings of myself. But it did help me gain a deeper appreciation for the people with whom they do share genes, namely my wife and children. The highlight of the reunion was seeing the log cabin in which Lucy and Josiah raised 16 children. The cabin, occupied until 1970 by two of the cousins in attendance, was moved to the county historical society a few years ago and is now being renovated. Our own contribution to the festivities was the recording Louise and I made of her grandfather, Mitford McLeod Mathews Sr., before he died in 1985, as he recounted his childhood discovery of the "doodlebug." On the tape, which was played amid much pageantry, Mitford tells of his first encounter with "Mr. Doodlebug," an anteating insect whose larva and sand tracks gave rise to its nickname. The encounter, told with the flourish of a truly gifted storyteller, inspired his lifelong fascination with the origin of American words and a subsequent career as a renowned lexicographer and wordsmith. Henceforth, Louise simply identified herself as the "doodlebug" granddaughter. Such legend and lore is the resin that holds families together. So, too, is a sense of place, which is diminishing in America with each passing generation. That same thought had occurred to me while visiting my sister Judy recently. She'd taken a genealogy class and had found records from the 1910 census in Scranton, Pa., where my father was born. Curiously, the families that had intermarried with the O'Boyles - the Storrs and the Boenigs - not only lived on the same street but also in the same dwelling. That's how it was back then. Families lived among their kin in the same place for many generations (and, quite often, ended up marrying each other). In my family, sadly, cousins have scattered so widely that I know the whereabouts of few - or whether the others are even alive. That's a shame. Not that I want to live in Scranton with a house full of relatives; I'm perfectly happy here in Pittsburgh, our adopted home. I just would have liked to have known them better, and shared a few stories.
Tom O'Boyle is circulation marketing manager for the Pittsburg Post-Gazette where this first appeared. E-mail him at toboyle@post-gazette.com.
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