Alabama Ancestry Hunt

            We had a couple of days off at the end of this week, and had not made specific plans on how to use them.  I’d been wanting to dig through the records in some northeastern Alabama courthouses to further my genealogy research and figured that this was as good a time as any.  Joel graciously agreed to be my chauffer.  We headed out Wednesday afternoon, hitting the road a little later than we’d intended, bound for Guntersville, Alabama (Marshall County) and Ashville, Alabama (St. Clair County).  Time permitting, I also wanted to stop in Russellville, Alabama (Franklin County), though my expectations of finding any new information there were slim to none.

            Because we’d gotten started late, we decided to stop in Cullman, Alabama instead of driving on to Guntersville that night.  In my humble opinion, the area around Guntersville is one of the most beautiful places in the world – not too flat, and not too hilly.  The town sits on a finger of land on the south end of Guntersville Lake.  The town square, the old part of the town, sits almost at the very tip of the finger, with the courthouse in the middle.  Joel did a walking tour of the square while I dug through old deed books.  I was still digging when he got back to the courthouse.  He helped me look through indexes, but we struck out; we did not find the document we were hunting.  Frustrated, we left empty-handed, and drove down to Ashville.

             St. Clair County is “where the action was” as far as my father’s family is concerned.  Census records show that Daddy’s ancestors lived there in the very early 1800s and long after the Civil War.  My previous research had unearthed some skeletons in this family, and I wanted to find out more about what made them tick.  We arrived at the St. Clair County Archives building at 12:30, only to find that it closed every day from noon until 1 p.m.  We walked around the square, hoping to find some lunch while we waited for the Archives to open, but there weren’t any restaurants on the square.  We hopped in the truck and drove a couple of miles out of town, where we’d seen a Mexican restaurant.  We were back at the Archives by 1:15 or so.  Although I did not discover any new information, I did find documentation to back up what I’d already learned.  We stayed there until nearly 5 p.m., then pointed ourselves toward Russellville, which is on the west side of Alabama, adjacent to the Mississippi state line.

             On the way to Russellville, I had a change of heart about stopping there.  The Franklin County courthouse has burned twice, once during the Civil War, and again in the 1890s.  The records I needed were pre-Civil War.  I’d already talked to the director of the county archives and knew that no documentation from that period had survived the fires, but there might be newspaper records, other people’s genealogies, etc., that might shed some light on the mystery of my mother’s ancestry.  I wavered back and forth in the decision whether to go to Russellville or not until we reached the junction that would either take us to Russellville or take us home.  Though he had not complained, Joel probably had enough of patiently waiting while I scoured through old record books.  Besides that, he had mentioned wanting to take the grandchildren camping this weekend, once we got back.  Not wanting to cut into the camping trip time, I said, “Let’s just go home.” 

            By this time, it was dark, and we were tired and hungry.  The closest town of any size was Muscle Shoals, 30 minutes ahead.  We decided to stop there for the night.  Now, I must confess that I am a cheapskate when it comes to motel rooms.  I don’t care about “fancy”; I just want “clean.”  As we were driving, I pulled up a list of Muscle Shoals motels on my cell phone and picked one at the cheap end of the spectrum.  We found it easily.  It did not look derelict or run-down.  “Works for me,” I told Joel.  He parked the truck and went in to register us for a room.

            When he came out with the key-card, we gathered our stuff from the truck and hauled it to the door.  The window curtain was open just a tad.  We could see that the television was on inside our room.  We exchanged a glance and did a simultaneous, “Hmmmm….”   I went ahead and used the key-card, hoping not to find somebody lying on the bed, watching tv…or worse. 

            The room was clean and smelled okay.  I checked the bathroom; the fixtures were clean, the towels were fresh, the little soaps and shampoos had been replenished, the bed didn’t have any “body imprints” on it, the sheets were clean.  We decided to stay.  While Joel went to the bathroom, I looked for the remote control to turn off the tv, but couldn’t find one – not on the dresser, or in the drawers, or in the nightstand, or between the cushions of the little love seat.  When Joel came out of the bathroom, I went in after telling him I couldn’t find the remote.  When I came out, he was on his hands and knees, looking under the bed.  “Did you find it?” I asked.  “No, but I found a flashlight,” he said, holding up the trophy, “and some little brown things.”

            “Little brown things?  What are they?”

            “Not sure,” he said.  “But they’re not moving, or anything.”  He didn’t seem concerned.

            We stopped by the front desk on the way to dinner to ask about the remote control.  The clerk had it.  Joel didn’t mention the brown things under the bed.

            We ate at a bbq joint called “Rick’s,” just down the road from the motel.  Joel had a pulled pork sandwich.  I had ribs.  They were pretty awesome.  Judges at a bbq cooking contest and television chefs will tell you that a perfectly-cooked rib should be tender, but firm enough to leave a distinct, semi-circular bite mark.  I say this is nonsense.  I want my ribs falling-off-the-bone tender.  Rick’s were that tender.  They weren’t heavily sauced or dry-rubbed, just smoked on the grill.  I hit them with sauce from bottles on the table.  Not bad at all.  Thumbs up, Rick.

            As we ate, I asked Joel about the “brown things” under the bed.  “What kind of brown things, exactly?”

            He chewed and pondered the question for a second or two.  “Dog food,” he said.  “Like little dog treats.”  He made a wee shape with his thumb and forefinger.

            I chewed and pondered the answer for a second or two.  I could envision somebody coming in with a yappy little dog and giving him treats to keep him quiet.  I could envision him hiding his treats under the bed.  I could envision a housekeeper coming in and vacuuming, changing the linens, cleaning the toilet and tub, doing a pretty thorough cleaning job without ever encountering the treasures stashed under the bed.  Okay, so maybe the presence of the dog treats didn’t necessarily equate with a nasty room.  Still, we double-checked the sheets before we settled in for the night.

            We were back on the road by 10 a.m., and pulled in our driveway about 1 p.m.  After three days of driving, we’d logged close to 800 miles on the odometer.  Joel had had enough driving and was out of the mood to immediately hit the road again for a camping trip.  To be honest, I was kind of glad.  The weather has turned off cool, and nothing sounded better to me than staying inside with a big pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove.  And that's just what we did.

 

           It's good to be home.