Mhaolain's Child, a Renaissance Thinker in a Post-Modern Culture

Of Hobbies and Pastimes

If you were asked today to list your three favorite hobbies, how would you respond? I used to think that hobbies were activities that required, well, active verbs. You know, things like playing golf, running marathons, sewing quilts, organizing memory books. My favorite pastime seemed so inactive compared to those movement-related hobbies, as I love to fill my spare time reading. After all, it doesn’t really take a lot of physical stamina to turn the pages of a book. From my early childhood, I wiled away the free moments of my days transported to the worlds of ancient Celtic warriors, fairytale princesses, trolls, and knights in shining armor. Works of historic fiction, particularly those stories with a twist of espionage in them, continue to claim my attention. I’m a huge fan of the Sister Fidelma series by Peter Trevelyan, Brother Cadfael by Ellis Peters, and a host of other protagonists whose latest episodes enter my world like the visit from a long-lost friend.

In addition to reading works of fiction, I love to read books of encouragement. This past year I’ve inhaled Andy Andrew’s The Noticer and Paolo Coelo’s The Alchemist. I’m looking forward to reading Max Lucado’s latest work, as well as my friend Randy Elrod’s forth-coming controversial dissertation on Sex, Lies, and Religion. But my current favorite genre of non-fiction is theology, particularly those commentaries from the Ancient Fathers, like St. John Chrysostom and St. Athanasius. Along with these great thinkers from the Classical era, I enjoy reading the works of modern writers like G.K. Chesterton, Thomas Merton, and Thomas Hopko. But my favorite writer of the 20th century (at least at this point in my life) is Alexander Schmemann. You can tell by looking at my posture when I’m reading one of these works of non-fiction because I have an ink pen in one hand and a highlighting marker in the other. However, I’m forced to leave off my usual system of stars and bars in the margins of Schmemann’s work because I’m finding that I’m marking virtually every word on the page.

For the Life of the World is one of my favorite books, not only among those written by Schmemann but among all non-fiction in toto. I’ve devoured it a couple of times in the last few years, and now I’m reading it again as part of a study group at St. Ignatius Orthodox Church. This study, led by Deacon Michael Hyatt, is bringing even more ideas and insight out of Schmemann’s work, so much so that I’m running out of margin space to write my notes.

Have you ever read a book, beside the Bible, that you found so meaningful that more lines were highlighted and starred than left unmarked? If so, what is its title and who is its author? Thanks in advance for the recommendations!

Fall, Families, and Fellowship: Thanksgiving Essentials

Last week my immediate family gathered at my home for the first of our fall family celebrations, the Fall Fathers’ Birthday Party. My dad, my father-in-law, and my sweet husband all have autumn birthdays, so we meet at our house for a Southern meal of comfort food and relaxed conversation. I took a page from my grandmother’s kitchen diary and served up a roast beef dinner, complete with potatoes, carrots, lima beans, and yeast rolls. I even served coleslaw from my great-grandmother’s “slaw bowl,” which prompted reminiscences from my parents about meals at Ann Eliza Cole Whitsett’s bountiful table. My mother-in-law joined the conversation from the perspective of the value of this antique piece of glass, though, in my mind, the bowl is priceless because it belonged to my great-grandmother, who loved me so much.

My mother-in-law is the Dessert Queen, and her contributions to the meal this year met her usual high standard. As her husband loves all things chocolate, she brought a chocolate mousse cake, which has earned the title of “Better than Sex Cake.” (No Comment.) Knowing, however, that my dad isn’t a huge fan of chocolate, she made a homemade apple pie, topped with whipped cream. I personally settled for a second helping of lima beans!

During our visit, our conversation naturally turned to our family’s favorite holiday of the year – Thanksgiving. While we all absolutely love the Advent season and the joys of Christmas, our relatively far-flung family has found the perfect compromise for the confusion of who hosts the Thanksgiving celebration: everyone. For four glorious days, our immediate families trek to a cabin in the Gatlinburg area to share each other’s company and catch up on life’s journeys. We play games, watch TV, hike, and eat. During last week’s birthday party, we three women reviewed our 4-day schedule of menus and chart of responsibilities. With only one refrigerator, we’ve learned that we must not duplicate each other’s efforts. This year the Grandmotherly Generation once again will dish up the Thanksgiving Day meal. Both our mothers have been inundated with caring for aging parents, who have recently passed on, and then with caring for their own health problems (both fell last Christmas and sustained serious injuries). This year they look forward to creating the turkey and dressing, the ham and sweet potato casserole. I’m bringing paper plates – perfect!

I am blessed to have a family that enjoys spending these special times together. I’m reminded of the words of the Psalmist:

Hear my cry, Oh, God, and listen to my prayer....(for) You have granted me the heritage of those who fear your Name. Ps. 61: 1, 6.

I am indeed grateful for the generational succession of those who were and continue to be The People of The Way.

Welcome to Bermuda

One of my favorite works of historic fiction for children is a story relating to the settling of the Jamestown colony, A Lion to Guard Us by Clyde Robert Bulla. It’s the story of 3 young children whose father leaves them with their mother in London of the early 1600s while he goes off to seek a better way of life in the wilds of what would become colonial Virginia. After their mother dies, the children manage to secure passage on a ship bound for Jamestown. Unfortunately, that ship is blown off course and is wrecked upon the reefs that surround the islands of Bermuda. The persevering spirit of these children, so intent upon reuniting with their father, makes a spell-binding introduction to the trials of those travelers who left their homelands for a chance at a better life in the Americas.

The story found in A Lion to Guard Us not only appeals to my love of history in general but also in specific because several of my ancestors were intimately involved with the Jamestown colony as well as with the Bermuda colony. For several years now, I’ve been privileged to participate in a conference that meets in Bermuda. I love to ride my scooter over The World’s Smallest Drawbridge and into Sandys Parish, named after a distant relative. Today, I’m making my way back to this rugged cluster of reefs and islands for my annual meeting. I’m tracking the flight’s progress on the video screen in the seat in front of me, mindful of the ease with which I approach this spit of land as opposed to the hazardous voyage of my ancestors. Looking at the map, it seems nothing short of a miracle that those long-ago travelers, caught up in a hurricane in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, should have been blown to relative safety on the crags of Bermuda. Though they were hundreds of miles off the course of their planned destination, they found safety and sustenance in this wild, uncharted world.

How like the Great Cartographer, who creates the maps of each of our lives, to provide a safe haven for them and for us in our own time. When the storms of life seem to blow us off our planned course, can we see the safe haven He provides for us? Can we yield to the deviation from the course we have charted to find the beauty and love in uncharted worlds?

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. -- Jeremiah 29:11.

Receive the Light: Embracing the Rain at the Grand Canyon

A couple of weeks ago, I had the delightful pleasure to vacation in Phoenix with one of my best friends and her husband. We were their guests at their golf resort home, where we enjoyed some of the Phoenix area's finest golf courses. In a supreme act of friendship, the golfers sacrificed one of their days chasing the dimpled sphere, and we made the trip through the Red Rock national park and on to the Grand Canyon.

We rose before sunrise and drove through the desert surrounding Phoenix and climbed the plateaus to reach the Red Rocks of Sedona. We were encouraged by Phoenix locals to stop in Sedona for breakfast at The Coffee Pot, where they offer 101 different omelettes. (It's actually more when you factor in all the additional items!) Breakfast there reminded me of our own Pancake Pantry, where the wait is always worth the delicious food.

I was surprised by the lush green forest that surrounds Sedona. The fragrance of the many pine trees filled the air that grew crisp and clear as we climbed the terrain to Flagstaff. After a three-hour drive, we reached the boundary of the Grand Canyon National Park -- and a blinding rainstorm.

Our friends have visited the canyon several times before, so they turned at the first opportunity toward the eastern rim and its clear glimpse of the Colorado River. As we pulled in at the first viewing area, the rain slacked, and a sunbeam lit the very area in front of us. I get goosebumps remembering my first vision of the canyon -- like opening night at God's theater where, according to His own plan, He brings the lights up slowly to reveal shadows, colors, shapes, vistas beyond description. The rocks glimmered as the sunlight sparkled off their rain-slick surfaces. Underneath our feet, the rocks crunched more than we'd expected as the rainstorm had also brought hailstones to cover the ground to the canyon's edge with white. 

When we reached the eastern rim, we raced to the edge in our efforts to outrun the darkening storm clouds. But the storm clouds served as the most amazing backdrop as the sun broke through their heart to shine on the terrain at our feet. The Colorado River sparkled bright blue-green miles below. The rain began to fall again, but we embraced it as it provided the prisms for the light to create the pattern of a full double rainbow. 

Our day continued with more incredible contrasts of light and dark, sun and rain. As we stood on the southern edge to watch the sunset, I was struck by the rough, sharp angles of so many of the named formations in the canyon. They seemed to twist and turn their way into the shadows of the coming evening. One formation, however, stayed aglow with the sun's rays longer than its neighbors. Its shape seemed to mimic the position of a dancer whose arms are open and whose torso leans forward, as though anticipating an embrace. This rock seemed to me to cry out, "Come, receive the Light. Stand in its warmth. Reflect its colors."

For me, that day at the Grand Canyon I clearly heard the "very rocks cry out." It was the best choir ever.

**all photos taken with my iPhone, which can only slightly capture the grandeur of the viewshed.

The Loveliest Day for Flowers

I'm stretching on the sofa, luxuriating in one of the first morning sunbeams to cross my house in many weeks. It's been a rainy, relatively cool summer for Tennessee, so my kitties and I are taking advantage of this glorious stream of gold with its ambient warmth. The birds are singing outside the window, and the flowers seem visibly to lift their heads to the rays of light and warmth. My flowers have been their most beautiful and prolific this season, particularly my roses. (I have almost 200 rose bushes.) Today, they make me think of the prismatic toys I played with in my childhood, glistening their many colors and hues in the sunlight and the gentle breeze.

It seems almost like a scene from a heart-rending movie that I'm watching the last day of summer's color. In spite of their happy growth, in spite of their healthy blooms, tonight these gorgeous creatures of nature will almost assuredly die, for tonight brings the first freeze of fall. It is bittersweet that I walk through the gardens today thanking my rooted friends for their gift of beauty this year, knowing that tomorrow I will see broken browned buds where today is life.

If I knew that today was the last day of my own life, to whom would I purposefully speak my thanks and love for the beauty they've poured into my life? When the time for frost and freeze approaches my own head, will I continue to spread beauty until the last spark of warmth passes?

Consider the lilies of the field ....

Plumping My Wrinkles from the Inside Out

Wrinkle Plumpers?

My grandmother was a firm believer in the power of Oil of Olay. She kept her pink jar of the concoction on her dressing table even when she moved into the nursing home. After she slipped into dementia, my mom and aunt both continued to keep the Olay near her bedside.

Now that I'm approaching the Grandmothering Season of my life, I'm trying to find my own version of Olay in my battle to have the same beautiful skin of my grandmother and mother. I'm committed to products that have natural ingredients whose names I can pronounce. Just as I look for wholesome close-to-the-earth vitamins and supplements, I'm looking for skincare products that come from the garden more so than from the chemical laboratory.

Imagine my surprise this week when I discovered that one of the most recommended wrinkle-reducing products is not one you rub on your skin. Instead, it's one you ingest. Furthermore, it comes from natural sources, both plants and/or animals, particularly shellfish. It's glucosamine.

Glucosamine has long been touted for its ability to boost hyaluronic acid (HA) in the joints of human bodies. Recent research reveals that not only does glucosamine boost HA in the joints but it also boosts the HA in the layers of human skin. In fact, HA is one of the primary ingredients in injectable "dermal fillers" like Restylane and Juvederm. Personally, I have a strong aversion to needles, so I'm more willing to try to ingest 1500 mg of Glucosamine each day than to endure the pricking of injections.

Wow, plump up my wrinkles while I'm eating some of my favorite foods, like scallops, shrimp, and lobster. Anyone ready for some sushi?

Fall Chores: Polishing the Silver

I love the crispness in the air today. It brings to mind all the poems of childhood like "The Frost is on the Pumpkin" and "Over the River and Through the Woods." The swirling colors of falling leaves seem to stir my inner rhythms with the anticipation of the family gatherings and holidays we soon will enjoy. In a few days, our family will gather here to celebrate the Fall Fathers' Birthdays, as my father, my father-in-law, and my son's father (also my husband) all have autumnal birthdays. Before I can take down the scarecrows and jack-o-lanterns it will be time to put out the Thanksgiving decorations, followed closely by the raising of the Christmas tree. It's my favorite time of year, this purposeful season of being grateful and expressing gratitude.

Today, the cool air seemed to encourage me to clean out closets and cupboards, as soon many cooks will descend upon my kitchen. One of my least favorite cleaning chores is to clean my beautiful tea service. I love these articles. I love the slowing down to sip hot tea and to savor our company as we wait for the water to boil and then the tea to steep. I love the continuity of using items that are much older than my brief tenure. I love to be mindful of those who have gathered round the pot in centuries past and those who will gather round it in the years to come. As such, it doesn't seem honorable that I so procrastinate when it comes to giving these items their much deserved cleaning and polishing. I try to be mindful of using harsh "quick and easy" chemicals on them, much as I am mindful of my own aging skin. But I have trouble finding the time to spend on rubbing things clean.

Then, I remembered a science project my son and I performed during our homeschooling years. Dare I hope that boiling water, baking soda, and aluminum foil could restore the shine to my silver?

Success! This project was my easiest cleaning project of all time. I added enough water in my deepest pot to cover the smaller pieces, leaving room for boiling. I placed a chunky sheet of aluminum foil in the bottom of the pan, boiled the water, added about 1/4 cup of baking soda, and boiled the pieces for about 3 minutes. When they came out of the soda water, I polished them gently with silver polish and dried them with a soft cloth. They look beautiful. This project was super easy, not very messy, and only took an hour to clean about 10 pieces. (I threw some extra pieces in there for good measure.)

As the great British Prime Minister William Gladstone opined, "If you are cold, tea will warm you. If you are too heated, it will cool you. If you are depressed, it will cheer you. If you are excited, it will calm you." I believe it's tea time -- with the silver pot, no doubt.

Unexpected Pleasures, Undeserved Gifts

My hubby and I just returned from a week's vacation in Phoenix with some of our dearest friends. I love the way that our life-paths were joined; it makes for a storyline from a heart-lifting movie. But, we can save that story for a different day. Bill and Robin are kindred spirits, and we have enjoyed several fun family vacations with them and their girls. Last week became a new chapter in the storybook of our friendship.

One of the activities that we share in common interest with them is golfing, and where better than Phoenix/Scottsdale to experience fabulous golf. Robin and I joined in the inaugural four-some at Wildfire's Arnold Palmer course. She and I then varied our activities to include hiking Pinnacle Peak, sitting beside the pool and waterfalls, and spending the day in the spa. The men played golf almost every day. In fact, they enjoyed the course at The Boulders so much they played it twice in one day! The crowning course, however, came on Friday, our last day to play in the sun. We spent the afternoon on The Monument course at Troon North. Not only did we find ourselves nestled among fantastically arranged boulders and desert flora, but we also found ourselves sharing the countryside with a vast array of animals, from iguanas and lizards to rabbits to dozens of varieties of birds. On one fairway, we were greeted by a solitary coyote who ambled along between the golfers as if he was one of the course's rangers. I searched diligently for the bobcats that reportedly cavort in the back canyon at dusk to no avail. My one disappointment of the week, as this "kitty lady" loves cats of all shapes and sizes.

We finished the 18th hole at Troon in deepening dusk, which brought a fabulous sunset over the desert. We capped our day with dinner at Roy's Restaurant at the JW Marriott at Desert Ridge. We had eaten with them earlier in the week with such enjoyment that we decided to return for our farewell dinner. After all, Roy's offers delicious food (try the Lobster Potstickers and the Butterfish entree) in a gorgeous setting. The hostess who made our reservation for Friday evening mentioned several times that we should be aware that the hotel was hosting a jazz concert on the lawn on Friday night, so we should be prepared for loud music. As Nashvillians accustomed to talented players providing music at almost every eatery in the metro area, we welcomed the opportunity to hear some of Phoenix's local talent. To say we were pleasantly surprised is a drastic understatement, as our dinner music Friday night was played by none other than Grammy award winning artist Boney James! How fitting that a remarkable vacation was capped by remarkable food in a remarkable setting with the most remarkable friends.

The night's enjoyment was made bittersweet as we learned of the sudden death of a friend and co-worker just before we went in to dinner. This news made us all even more aware of the brevity of life, the importance of living in the moment and living a life of purposeful gratitude.

Thanks for the gift of great friends who encourage you to see God's presence and His blessings in every step of life.

If the Walls Could Speak: The Brooks-Woodring-Kemp House

snowfall February 2006

The plight of friends and family during this recent round of home foreclosures has been difficult to endure. I’m grateful to partner with a local Franklin bank that places importance on its hometown relationships and going the extra mile to help people in tough places of life. Though many folks here in Franklin have suffered through financial upheavals and restructuring of their lives, they thankfully continue to find themselves with their well-beloved roofs over their heads and familiar soil under their feet.

While I myself have been spared the immediacy of dislocation, the house in which I live has seen the trials of the lives of three families other than my own. I often wish my walls not only had ears but also had mouths with which to speak the stories of the events it has witnessed. One such story would be the happenings of the Woodring-Nave family who lived here from 1851 until 1911. Their tenure brought many joyful occasions as well as tragic events, births to deaths, weddings and funerals, the War and Reconstruction.

When in 1851 beautiful young Emily Nave, of the Bunker Hill, Tennessee Nave clan, married George Woodring, a newly-arrived stonemason, her father presented the couple with the generous gift of a spacious house set on a five-acre lot a mere three blocks from the Pulaski town square. It was the perfect place for the artistic craftsman to ply his trade in the booming economy of The Land of Milk and Honey. The 1850s in Tennessewas an epoch of plenty – plenty of land, plenty of crops, plenty of building, plenty of opportunity. George Woodring took advantage of all his opportunities, and when the War began in 1861, he was regarded as one of the leaders of Pulaski, Tennessee.

Unfortunately, Pulaski fell to Union occupation troops in early 1862. Military law was put into place, and the land of plenty became a land of deprivation.

Ever resourceful, however, the Woodring family became leaders in the underground resistance. In their case, underground was a literal term, in that, after a little careful tunneling, the root cellar under their house opened into a cavern that was part of the cave system underneath the town of Pulaski. Many people who might otherwise have starved received food via the Woodring tunnel.

At the war’s end, Mr. Woodring found himself in much the same situation as many other Tennesseans in that he had no currency with which to pay the exorbitant property taxes on his home and little hope of finding enough work to earn money to sustain life, much less pay taxes. The hopelessness of the situation draped over the family, and they prepared themselves to be evicted. Fortunately, however, the Woodrings had many friends in Pulaski. On the day of the foreclosure sale, these friends pooled their own limited funds and bought the Woodring’s house. These wonderful friends not only bought the house, but they, with great legal foresight, deeded the house back to Mrs. Woodring with the codicil that the house belonged solely to Emily Nave Woodring, who was “not responsible for any of the debts of her husband, George Woodring.” Brilliant!

The Woodrings raised four sons and one daughter in this house. Mr. Woodring lived alone in the house for a couple of years after Miss Emily passed on. After his death, the house was sold to the Butler family, who lived here until their deaths in the 1940s. The house stood abandoned from this time until we moved it in 1991 from its original house site in Pulaski to its current setting in the rolling hills of Williamson County, Tennessee. I’ve loved every moment of my time as an inhabitant of this house. Perhaps someday in the distant future, these walls will whisper my story to a new generation of inhabitants.

The house as I found it in February 1991--

The Mysterious Hezekiah McKee of South Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama

Many of the people I coach in family history research find the 1850 U.S. Federal Census the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Often, it is. More often, however, it is a tantalizing miasma of truth and error. As I work through this research tool (as well as most historic records), I imagine myself as one of the entries in that record: what was happening in my household on that day when the census-taker came? What were the census-taker's credentials? What were his recording tools?

In climbing my own family tree, I've been the fortunate recipient of decades, and sometimes centuries, of family lore recorded in family Bibles. It's interesting work to reconcile Aunt Lillie's history with the legal documents available to me. Her family line has proven easy to verify, and I can name ancestors clinging to the branches of the Willeford-Maclin-McNairy-Boyd (et al) tree back into the mists of time. Some of her neighbors who perch on other of my family tree's limbs, however, have proven a little more reclusive. Take for example Ezekiel McKee, who might have been my great-great-great grandfather, on my mother's side. "Might have been" is my current operating term, though I think his story is becoming a little more clear with each day of research.

My maternal grandfather, George Yarbrough, lived most of his childhood in the small town of Elora in Lincoln County, Tennessee, surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant kin who were always addressed as "Aunt Sallie" or "Uncle Bill" even if they were cousins 6 generations removed. His world was rocked when, around age 10, his parents (James Hopwood Yarbrough and Medora Yarbrough Yarbrough) died in one of the influenza epidemics. Granddaddy and his younger brother, the youngest children still living in their parents' home, were separated and sent away to live in the homes of their parents' siblings. For my granddad, his new home was with his namesake, his Uncle George Yarbrough, his father's brother. Getting family history out of Granddaddy was like getting a pearl from an oyster as he was closed-mouthed about family stories. Even when my mom and I began to bring home tidbits from the archives and query him about what we'd found, Granddaddy never seemed interested. I guess some memories were simply too tinged with regret.

When we discovered the listing in the 1850 Lincoln County, Tennessee census for his grandmother Mahaley (Haley) McKee Yarbrough, we couldn't wait to tell him about the finding. She had died before his birth, and her husband, Augustus Yarbrough, had subsequently moved into the home with my grandfather's parents. Unfortunately, Augustus died before Granddaddy was born. Yet, here Mahaley was in the 1850 census in the household of one Ezekiel McKee, just down the road from the household containing her future husband, Augustus Yarbrough, who lived with his father William Yarbrough. Her household consisted of Ezekiel, age 65 born around 1785 in South Carolina; Mary, age 50, born around 1800 in South Carolina; Mahaley, 20, born around 1830 in Tennessee; and Julia, 18, born around 1832 in Tennessee. Back all those years ago when I first discovered this entry, I believed that government documents were, by and large, accurate. Today, I can say that government documents are, just like most things, as good as the information given and the reliability of the person charged with collecting the information. With that preface, I can say that I personally have found the 1850 Lincoln County census to be filled with "almost but not quite" entries.

My mom and I have collated the McKees of Lincoln County, Tennessee with interest over these past decades, but we've made no real headway. As with most projects in life, we tended to push this McKee question to the back burner and focused on the other lines at which true progress was available. Recently, thanks to the Clan Mackay DNA project, I've been working with other folks who are related to McKays/McKees (and all the hundreds of variations of spellings.) With the internet offering me online records, I decided to try once again to find Ezekiel McKee. After all, just how many men born in the late 1700s could have been named Ezekiel McKee??

Try "None." After all my digging these past weeks, I find absolutely no references to Ezekiel McKee (spelled anyway) who fits my ancestors parameters. However, an interesting name began to crop up in my research: Hezekiah McKee. Hmm. Could it be another of the 1850 census-taking conundrums?

Starting with what I know for fact, I found Hezekiah McKee in the 1860 Lincoln County, Tennessee census living near-neighbors to newly-weds Augustus and Mahalia McKee Yarbrough. The listing not only provides for an appropriately-aged Hezekiah, born in the end of the 1700s in South Carolina, but also Mahalia's sister Julia and her son, William. Coincidence?

In the 1870 census, Augustus and Mahalia are in New Market, Madison County, Alabama, and right down the road again is Hezekiah. Julia and son William are still in his household. Coincidence?

I know that Hezekiah died in 1873 in New Market. In the 1880 Madison County, Alabama census, his widow Sarah lives down the road from grandson William, whose mother Julia still lives with him. Meanwhile, Augustus and Mahalia and their brood of children have moved just across the state line back to Elora, Lincoln County, Tennessee.

Given how closely positioned Hezekiah, Julia, and Mahalia are in 1860, 1870, and 1880, it seems remarkable that Hezekiah McKee does not exist in the 1850 census -- anywhere; conversely, Ezekiel McKee exists only in the 1850 census.

Never being content with brick walls, I began to look further in Tennessee history for Hezekiah McKee. After all, Mahaley consistently stated in all her census reports that she was born in the late 1820s in Tennessee; Julia likewise stated that she was born around 1830 in Tennessee. So, I looked for Hezekiah McKee in the 1830 Tennessee census. And, knock me down with a feather, there was Hezekiah McKee, not only in 1830 but also in 1820 and 1840 Franklin County, Tennessee. Just as close as Elora, Tennessee is to the Alabama border, it is also that close to the Franklin County, Tennessee border. Furthermore, the census figures in the reports for Hezekiah proved remarkably consistent and offered the likelihood that Mahalia and Julia were indeed the 2 youngest daughters of Hezekiah McKee of Franklin County, Tennessee.

Additionally, I found young Hezekiah McKee in the 1810 Pendleton County, South Carolina census, along with other McKee men like Archibald, William, and Jesse, whose descendents also moved to and through Alabama and Tennessee at the same time period as Hezekiah. I've been able, through marriage records and online queries, to hypothesize that the eight children of Zeke and Mary are Jeptha or Jesse; Sarah; Eliza, who may have married John Ethridge in 1840; Clara, who married William King in 1838; Derrell, who married Keziah Fowler King in 1840; Jasper, who married (1) Louise King, (2) Mariah Hill (1857); Haley, who married Augustus Yarbrough in 1851; Julia, who remained unmarried.

I think I can envision what happened the day the census-taker came by in 1850: When asked the name of the head of the household, Mary replied, "Well, sure, it's Zeke McKee," and the census-taker, trying to avoid nicknames, wrote down Ezekiel instead of Hezekiah. Not even in Lincoln County do people just apparate and then disapparate. At least not unless your surname is Potter.