Perhaps I expected to see remnants of my Grandfather’s farm in Styx … although I knew it couldn’t look as it did in the pictures that have survived. This photograph of Granddaddy and his oldest children must have been taken in the summer of 1924, since my mother is not in the picture. She came on the scene in December of that year.
I don’t know why I have always had a burning desire to go to Styx, Texas. My grandmother spent decades wanting to get away from the place. If you think the name of the town is pronounced like the name of that river across which dead souls were ferried into Hades in Greek mythology … try again. It is pronounced with a long “i” sound. I don’t know why folks didn’t just change the spelling to “Stikes.” My grandfather told me that they pronounced it that way because no one wanted to admit that they lived out in “the sticks.” But, oh they do!
Family legend has it that when my Granddaddy and Grandmommy eloped, they rode in a horse-drawn wagon to the preacher’s house. The preacher man came to the porch, wiped the grease from his fried chicken dinner on his pants, grabbed The Good Book, and hitched them up as they sat in the wagon. Then, Granddaddy drove them to their new home in Styx. Grandmommy could remember the name of the horse that pulled the wagon (his name was Domino, because he was white with one black spot), however she couldn’t remember the name of the preacher man.
Just a few years after this picture was taken my grandmother was beckoned, like a moth to a flame, to the bright city lights of Oak Cliff. She took her children and left my grandfather with his farm and a broken heart.
I needed to see the place, if I could. I wanted to feel a connection to my family. A few weekends ago, I grabbed my camera and we headed down the highway. With an automobile, Styx is just a short jaunt from Dallas; it’s in Kaufman County a few miles down the road from Kemp — but you might as well be in a different country. Road signs pointed the way, but when we arrived we were disappointed. There was no “there” there. No remnants of old buildings lined the road. No businesses of any kind were there. The only building that had the name “Styx” on the side was a church, and I’m almost certain it didn’t date that far back.
The only thing to photograph was a road sign.
As we pulled to the side of the road to snap this picture, the farm dogs came running out to greet us. They were followed by their owners, who were obviously curious about why some city slickers were photographing a road sign. I walked as close to the fence as the fire ants would let me and explained our mission. I told him I had hoped to find my grandfather’s farm or at least snap some interesting photographs. “Are there any old buildings here?” I asked.
“We own the twenty acres behind our farm, and there was a farmhouse built around 1908 on it,” he answered.
“A dog-trot style house?”
“Yes, but it’s long gone … we tore it down twenty years ago. But, if you are looking for pictures, drive down the road toward Lively. When we were kids, Ernest Tubb’s parents lived there. The mailbox had their name on it.”
Perhaps all was not lost! I might not get a picture of my grandfather’s farm, but maybe I could take a picture that pertained to the Texas Troubadour? We drove down the road as far as it led, but saw nothing but more of the same. Any evidence of Ernest Tubb was long gone, too.
There is no river in Styx, but if you don’t like country life you would think that Charon had ferried you to Hades. Though we enjoyed our ride through the countryside, that place is “dead.” I now understand why my grandmother wanted to get away.
Have you ever tried to find an “ancestral home?” I hope you had better luck than I did.
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I have several “ancestral” homes -one, I live in now, having been born and raised in this old house that was built in 1903 by my maternal grandparents. There is a ghost town about 2 miles down the road from my home which is where my great-grandparents moved to in 1884 and where my grandfather lived for at least a decade or so, before his parents moved out of there and up to civilization of this little village. I walk frequently down to the ghost town and try to imagine what life there may have been like in the 1880s and 1890s of my Grandpa’s youth. My maternal grandmother grew up on a farm in northwestern Pennsylvania, just outside of Warren -a place called Scandia. There is no searching for the farmhouse where she grew up now as it is underwater -now part of the big Kinzua Dam project there. The village where my paternal grandparents lived as newlyweds is now also a coal-mining ghost town about 20-25 miles from where I live. But my Dad was the only one of 10 children in his family who was not born in PA as he was born in Carbonado, Montana. Now I’ve never been to Montana but I’d dearly love to go there someday and perhaps see where he was born but who knows, maybe that place is like your town of Styx -no longer existing -either. My Mom’s ethnic roots are Swedish; my Dad’s are Scottish and I would give my right eye too if I could find a way to go to either (or both) Sweden and Scotland though. Now that’s a dream, an ancestral search, that will never come true for me but what the heck, I can still dream about it anyway, I suppose.
Jeni, you have a rich history! How wonderful that you can visit the “ghost towns” that your grandparents inhabited (and such a pity that one of them is underwater!). Yes, it would be great to see the “old country,” but I don’t know if I would feel the same kinship … I could only hope that I felt the connection I seek.
I’m sorry you didn’t find more.
Our luck was a bit better when we traveled to a remote Hungarian city near the Ukraine border. Both of my grandparents had lived there until the early 1930′s. They left for America before the war but most of the rest of the family was murdered in the Holocaust.
Today, all that’s left of this once-thriving Jewish community are two desecrated and vandalized cemetaries (no stones left standing or in one piece, let alone legible) – and a small entry in the municipal archives. Except for one thing – my grandfather desperately wanted to go to high school and there was no Jewish high school in the region. He requested and received permission to study at the local Catholic high school as the only Jewish student (excused from religion classes and sent down the road to learn with the rabbi instead). And the archives? They had his class roster on file, with his name, religion and grade point average.
Blew our minds. You could have knocked my father right over when he read it.
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That is an absolutely amazing story, Robin. I read that and wonder why I am whining! What luck you had that there was a record of any kind.
When I went to Scotland, I found this house http://picasaweb.google.com/jessied44/ScotPics#5044193460264973010
In the period from 1900 to 1920 before it had a large extension added on to the back, it was a “tied house” for use by the mining railway manager and family and in three rooms housed a man and wife and 13 children.
Since being enlarged and modernized, it is now used as a residential home for developmently disabled adults.
You got some wonderful pictures and one of your “hieland coo” as well! How wonderful that you got to see it. It’s beautiful country!
Well, one of our ancestral homes–that of my maternal grandmother–is alive and flourishing right where it’s been since 1771. You can see a picture of it here: http://tinyurl.com/23md9tk . It’s located not too far from Annapolis and is on the West River. (I have sent it to Tinyurl because the original URL was 126 characters long.) I just nailed up a picture of Mary’s Mount in our new home the other day. And a lot of the furniture and items I use every day came from there–the bed we sleep in, the bureau where I keep my clothes, the rocking chairs in the living room. My maternal grandfather’s family was a bit “illustrious,” and those ancestral halls are not only still standing but are of the sort that are open to the public with roped-off rooms and furniture one mustn’t touch. But Mary’s Mount was a family home and a family farm where generations lived in peace, working hard every day. I remember it well from my childhood, but it hasn’t belonged to our family since the Sixties.
What a shame that it’s no longer a part of the family! It’s a delight. I noticed the family name “Bird” and that’s going to send me back to my genealogy notes. I know that a Bird married into my family … are we kin? Or, just kindred spirits?
Well, take a good look. These particular Birds got to Maryland fairly early on. There was a marriage with the Wheeler family, and that’s become a family name still carried on. I have some genealogy records around here somewhere, and I have a cousin or two who are really into that. I don’t think many people traveled away from here–not many went West. On my maternal grandparents’ side, I’m in the eleventh or twelfth generation to live either in Maryland or Virginia; I’ve done both.
The Bird who married into our family was a woman, I think, and she might have been a widow. It’s been awhile since I looked at that side of the family, but I’ll be sure to check when I’m feeling up to snuff again. It was many generations back, and it would have been somewhere back east … again I’d have to look.
Great story. Interesting. I’ve tried to find some of the places where my Grandparents lived. The old houses are still there in Chicago, but the one where we lived when I was born is gone!
My own family has moved many times, (you may have read the story at one time or another), and we have gone back and found some of the places we lived while the girls were growing up. Interesting to see the house I built in Pibione City, MN. I passed by there and took a peek not a month ago. Still standing. I musta done something right!
Great to read about your heritage. Thanks for sharing with us.
peace.
Why, Joe, am I not surprised that you built a house…and it’s still standing?
You can do anything … can’t you?
I do have to admit that sometimes it is more sad to see a house you once inhabited that has deteriorated. I think I’d rather see it gone than in disrepair. That’s just me, though.
My fathers family lived in Hanna, Utah. His father moved there to run a distillery with two other Italian families. He loved to relate the story of the sheriff coming to the house to look for liquor and didn’t find any because his mother put all of the bottles in the bed and climbed in and claimed to be sick.
Hanna is way out in the boonies. But is still a thriving farming community. Years ago we found the old farm house and went snooping inside. To keep out the cold the walls were covered with newspapers and old pictures. I was able to salvage two old calenders and an old print. The old house is gone now.
We still love to go out and visit. In fact we have a family cabin on the Mtn. and can see out over the beautiful valley.
I love your bootlegging story! Those old tales are really the heart of the family. When the houses are gone, we can only hope that the stories linger. It’s great that you at least get to see the valley!
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