REVISIONIST GENEALOGY

Revisionist Genealogy 2010

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Since the last entry of my

family history, I have learned

a lot of the family tree written down

by recent relatives now passed,

is inaccurate.

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This means I am honor bound

to correct the tree, to revise the

biographical pages.

This means I have

been living in the presumption of

a family heritage that did not exist,

at least as previously put forth.

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In a way, this feels like a reprieve.

There is new hope of the chance

to retrieve a better tradition,

a new theory of relativity.

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We did not descend from an

ancestor arriving on the Mayflower,

unless he came on a later voyage.

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Each documented truth removes

me one more step from the

family dysfunction where I grew up;

from the family where I never fit;

and from which I was exiled.

That family remains

in the perpetuated state

of false recollections of a pedigree

that did not exist. Ironically, it is they

who have been disenfranchised.

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I am freed by the truth by which

I have intuitively lived, and from this

new perspective, realize

I am the one with a legacy,

to pass on to the world.

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To Those who read this blog, I apologize for misleading anyone by the mistaken information I posted here. I am profoundly sorry for my part in perpetuating these errors. I have, however asked others who found the discrepancies to let me know and I would correct them. And slowly, I will do so. My poem above reflects the humor I see in this situation.

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The picture of the model of the Mayflower, and the writing about its history came from the 1957 Collier's Encyclopedia.

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Writing on this post is the Copyright © of Ruth Zachary, Mistakes included.

A POEM ABOUT RUTH BOWERS

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I Never Knew Rosella Ruth 1902

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I have two likenesses of her, and a letter

written to her parents, just after she

was married in 1902. Nearly every

other paragraph mentioned “Charlie.”

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In the first photograph, her hair was pulled

severely back from her symmetrical face,

her round heavy-lidded blue–gray eyes

stared out under carefully shaped brows,

and a strong chin held her blended round

cheeks in place. Her plainly pinked lips

seemed motionless over a black

bodice lined with a white parson’s collar.

She had retouched the photo herself.

Was it the retouched woman who

willingly surrendered to death, and left

an infant and a devastated Charles behind?

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Aunt Lillian’s photo of her was less formal,

less perfect than the family recollections.

A vital, direct, and hopeful gaze looked

at me openly as if curious about what kind of

granddaughter I had become. I noticed

her face was not symmetrical at all,

left ear and eye slightly lower than the right,

with a hint of blood, dark in sensuous lips.

Her mouth and chin were still determined,

but did I imagine a hint of mischief ?

And wisps of hair, escaped in wayward

streaks from that disciplined cap of hair.

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She looked so familiar. That face could

have been mine, once, was the face

I saw in the mirror when I was young;

The face in the photograph shared

my features; the same round heavy eyes,

except brown, like Charlie’s, a drooping

left eye and ear like hers, nose straight

but tilting up. In the mirror

I saw that at my age now, I was like her

grandmother, instead of she being mine.

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I was often told I was her namesake and

had inherited her “gift,” a rare artistic talent.

In this influence, I have lived my life

with determination to redeem the gift

we each were given at birth. I view her now,

as a mere girl of only twenty- three, scry

her face for inner strengths, and wonder at

her weaknesses, by which to measure

the lessons I have learned, that might

have fulfilled the life she didn’t get to live.

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Writing and Vintage Montage are the sole Copyright © of Ruth Zachary.

A POEM ABOUT FLETCHER CREEK, MESICK MI

Birdcalls, Spring 1950

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In mid-May we move upstairs.

The living quarters expand.

My mother opens the windows

letting the spring breeze blow

musty air away. The crosswind lifts

the curtains in sheer joy before

Mama can insert the screens.

the air smells of snow soaked earth,

and is sparkled with birdsongs.

Mama listens. She knows them all,

Killdeer, Robin, Lark, and Finch.

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She layers my bed with hefty quilts.

I do not complain, remembering

their cozy warmth when nights still smell

of lingering snow, blown across the fields

from the deep forbidding woods,

where coyotes and even bear may lurk,

and where I fear to go. Across the bed,

I lay looking through that window,

dreaming of summer days ahead.

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Outside, my father directs the farmer

hired to plow our garden, though

much leveling must still be done

before the first planting, two weeks

hence, timed with cycles of the moon.

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My room seems to open out.

The prairie grass below spreads

its golden reach to the leafless gray

of the still wintry woods,

while in our yard, the timid lilac

dreams of blooms yet to come.

My window, still open, lets in the sounds

of hatchling insects, and one bird’s serenade.

It is a voice I have never heard,

soft, mellow and melancholy.

Entranced, I whistle the tones

to remember, so I may learn its name.

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Sunday is devoted to an excursion

in the woods to see the creek, a

place I have never seen. The brook

curls around a valley and a yellow house.

Whip-poor-will Haven is written

over the door, occupants unknown.

Holding my little sister’s hand,

Mama whistles the song of a bird,

She says it is the Whip-poor-will’s call.

It is my bird, the one that called to me

the night before. I feel a chill, knowing

I will remember this day forever.

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Writing is the Copyright © of Ruth Zachary. Image from F. Babcock's Collection, Photographer Unknown.

Memories of an Accident in 1910

This Poem about my great-grandmother Laura Bowers is an experimental poem, in which the left side represents her spoken voice, and the right side represents the voice in her mind. It is written in the first person point of view about an accident in which my mother was scalded. In this I attempted to show some of the attitudes of family interactions, and of course in the end, it is a fictional interpretation of events told to me by my mother, Ava Valencourt Babcock.
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Writing is the Copyright of Ruth Zachary.

The Starr Lineage

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Family Album 1880s

Pictures were hard to come by

Back in the 1800s.

The first of those were tintypes.

Each was one of a kind.

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Usually if you lived long enough

You might inherit your own likeness

as an infant; yourself already fading,

your mirror image sagging,

like memories of

your departed relatives.

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Many rare pictures were kept by

their children, and

If someone died young, God knows

who got the photographs.

My mother had a baby picture

of Ethel, but not of her own mother.

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You imagine your own collected

Heirlooms will be inherited by

your children’s children, but more

often than not they go to strangers.

A painting by my grandmother Ruth

is owned by Esther’s

Granddaughter.

I have few photographs of

my great grandparents ancestors;

Starrs or Bowers

before they were forty or beyond.

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Pictures of their early homes were

taken as an afterthought

decades after moving away.

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Any images I have of them

were taken by my mother

or Aunt Lillian, herself childless,

who ironically became

self-appointed family historian.

She wanted us all to remember.

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After she died,

Lillian’s nephew Alfred auctioned

off her hand made rugs; and

sold her collection of old photos

to a stranger for the monetary

division of her estate, instead of

distributing her legacy

of family heritage among her heirs.

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Writing is the Copyright of Ruth Zachary

WHENCE COMETH THE CUCKOO?

The Cuckoo's Child
As an unborn child, you fluttered
like a caged bird, practicing to
disrobe yourself of my fleshly husk.
Even before fully formed, my child,
you struggled to redefine your
boundaries, while yet confined
by the walls of the nest.

Nature decreed expansion
as you mindlessly attacked both
the source of your nourishment
and of your confinement.

Even as motherly instinct
compelled me to feed you,
I did not shape the egg,
as you did not choose your parent.
I understood only as you fledged;
you are a foreign species.
You are a cuckoo’s child.

By Ruth Zachary Written in 1976


The name of this blog and this project was taken from this poem.


All images and writing are the copyright © of Ruth Zachary, unless otherwise attributed.

Alfred Bowers, The Violin Maker

The Violin Maker,Vintage Montage by Ruth Zachary © Includes Alfred Bowers, Battle scene (re-enactment) Certificate listing those in New York Company C of the Civil War, Letters on Muster Papers Alfred wrote to first wife Mary in 1863(approx.), second wife Laura, five of their daughters, two homes in Kingsley, and Alfred with his violins. Muster Papers were forms for recording service accounts by soldiers to document pay roll checks.


Union Soldier’s Lament

I feared, my dear, not seeing you again
but hid my passion from the public eye.
You took my hand before I took the train.
I did not kiss your lips nor hold you nye.

I did not know the torment in your breast
held close in silence as you failed to write
a word, while I anguished there without rest
as I lay lonely on my cot at night.

I scrawled a letter in reflected light
on paper snatched from flames before it burned.
I sent my payroll home when I could write;
eight days to reach you; but no note returned.

I made it home in two years more, alive
While you, our children all were gone in five.


Sonnet by Ruth Zachary© Dec. 2008

BIRTH 1939

Baby. Photograph by Forrest Babcock. 1939

Birth

I was pushed into it.

I was pulled into it.

I came

beating my arms and legs,

protesting leaving

the warmth of my mother’s body;

away from my source;

separate.

I inhaled

deeply, and the air forced

its painful way

into my lungs.

I was breathing,

alive in this excruciating world

And I protested again.

Then I was lifted and gently placed

upon my mother’s breast.

A pair or arms

cradled me lovingly

and I settled

closer to this new warmth

and lay quiet.

written Nov. 1958 by Ruth Zachary©

The Accidental Child 1944

The Accidental Child 1944

It wasn’t known how the fire began,
probably sparked by burning leaves,
flying in the breeze. It was discovered
behind the garage, burning in the long
dry grass of late October 1943.

Having already laundered much
of the day, Mama then spent
several hours fighting the fire with
wet towels and buckets of water,
and pumped by Granddad, afraid
the rented garage might burn down.

She put the fire out, but she did not
finish the laundry. She was doubled
over in pain. That was how their second
pregnancy ended in miscarriage. Ava
was heart-broken by that loss.

Daddy told relatives
they had decided not to have more
children; that they would be too old,
at forty and forty-two, but not long after,
Mama was expecting again.

Daddy was terribly embarrassed over
the timing, so soon after the miscarriage,
and told everyone it was an accident,
something Mama did not confirm or deny.

When I got older, I remembered
the looks exchanged between them
when Daddy said it, and later how
Mama explained she was in charge
of birth control, and by default the lack of it.

Mama was delighted from the start
to have another chance at a second child.
I think the story about the accident
was my father’s invention; allowed
to stand by my mother’s omission.

But my sister grew up believing she
was an accident, while I was on purpose.

Written July 27, 2009

A MOTHERLESS DAUGHTER

A Motherless Daughter. Vintage Montage by Ruth Zachary


As she grew, her mother's photograph
Peered down over the top of the piano,
somber light eyes grave and stern
watched while she learned the keys
making magic chords transcribed from
sounds the spirits played upon her skin,
scales fingered in wordless harmonies there.

Her mother's picture hung upon the wall,
sainted now having died of scarlet fever
days after giving birth. She too, had scarce
escaped, found hanging off the bed
in her long nightdress, up-side-down,
like a cat in a sack, hem held fast
under her mother's body, she had been
scooped up by a watchful grandmother.

Sometimes she felt her grandma’s arms
holding, rocking, until sleep came and dreams,
where she could sink into a warm watery world,
where breath did not matter, and the universe
pulsed in her head, keeping steady rhythms
and harmonies, until surrendering, she could
escape those relentless haunting fears.

Sometimes at night, sleep refused
to carry her away, and she would float, adrift,
the raft of bed pushed hard against her back;
body pressed tight between deep
bedding, and weighted darkness.
Overhead, a cold dark cloud seemed to scream,
but she had no breath; no voice, no light.

*This post is out of sequence and should be placed following the entry of Dec. 12, 2008.

All Images and Writing are the exclusive property and Copyright of Ruth Zachary.

A COUNTRY BOY

Farm Boy. Photo Montage by Ruth Zachary.
Click on bottom to see enlarged view.

In a Pig’s eye

Heart pounding,
he knew the pig knew.
It screamed before
the knife struck its throat.
The pig knew he was the predator,
having already heard
six brothers bellow their last curse
in rage and terror.

But …
this one looked him in the eye
as its blood soaked the ground.
He was the last sight
in the the dying pig's glare.
He saw his own silhouette
fade slowly in its gaze;
felt his own seventeen year old
innocence disappear, deaden.

Work incomplete,
he used the gun on the last two.
Avoided that last accusing look,
But it was too late to escape
the wound inscribed
in his own breast,
scar etched into memory.

That night he wrote,
"Butchered hogs today.
Stuck 7, shot 2."

Images and poems are the exclusive copyright of Ruth Zachary.

KINGSLEY GRADUATING CLASS 1904

Lillian's 10th Grade Graduation. 1904 Lillian at right. Click on image for larger view.


An Unfair Portion

It was always my lot in life to receive
the lesser portion of good fortune.

My sister was given great
talent as an artist, but I received
not half as much, a talent I coveted,
as I longed with all my heart
to excel at something; God
only knows how much, and why
my sister was taken to Heaven
never to use her great gift on Earth.

I was saddened by the death
of my elder sister following
childbirth. I wanted a child, myself,
but the fruit of my womb was
a tumor, removed in my teens
which made me childless.
I might have been the one taken.
Or, I might have raised my niece,
but I was still a school girl at the time,
and my mother became attached
to the child, spoiling her lavishly,
unlike myself or my sisters.

I wanted to be a teacher,
but the education required
was not available to me,
as it was later for my niece,
seen to by my own parents.

God took my sister to his bosom
while I endured to struggle on,
endeavoring to learn the lessons
of deprivation that were my lot,
for all my ninety-eight years.

Since music was my only talent
I served the Lord in hymns of praise,
thankful for the meager gifts I was given,
and I surrendered my life to the will
of God, and made it my mission
to be an adamant witness to others
On the behalf of righteousness,

a habit that did not endear me to them.


This poem is the Copyright of Ruth Zachary

VILLAGE GIRL

Filling Her Shoes. Photo Montage by Ruth Zachary

Foraging Near Cottage Street

My mother said In 1910,
there were still trees and thickets
and ponds around Kingsley.

“Grandma Bowers used to take
me to the crick, that crossed the
meadow down the street.
We used to catch fish on a pin,
with a worm and heavy string
or button thread on a stick.”

“We used to go picking berries
like we do now,” she said.
There were raspberries,
huckle berries and black berries.
My mother’s favorite were little
red berries of wintergreen,
or their bright green leaves in spring.

Writing and Images are the exclusive Copyright of Ruth Zachary

THE BOWERS HOMESTEAD 1890s

The Bowers Homestead. Photo Montage by Ruth Zachary

Homestead Near Kingsley

The Bowers came to Kingsley
in 1884 or 85. They settled on a farm
near the railroad where the train
went rumbling across the corner,
its steam whistle warning
anyone on the road.

When the Bowers family came,
to Michigan, they brought
Esther, Ruth and Ethel.
Lilly was born in 1886.
Pearl came five years after, in 1891.

In ’93, when Pearl was two
her mother, heavy with a child
in her belly, heard the warning
and went running to the tracks,
barely pulling her daughter
off the rails in time. Was that why
they moved to the village in 1893?

Or was it for the birth of Grace,
Born in September of the same year?

All writing and images are the exclusive Copyright of Ruth Zachary.

THE STARR MATRIARCHS OF THE 1800s

The Starr Matriarchs - 1800s. Photo Montage by Ruth Zachary.

The First Theory Of Relativity

1 Dr. Comfort Starr came to this country
on the Mayflower from Ashire England in 1620.

2 Thomas Starr was put in prison
for being sympathetic with the Indians.
He was later released and given a tract of land
in Connecticut as compensation.
He raised his family in Thompsonville, CN.

3.Elias Starr

4. David Starr

5. Johnathon Starr was married to Sally Starr.
The couple had three children,
Sara and William J. (third unknown.)

For two hundred years
Women from other families were only
Married into the Starr Lineage,
And were not truly Starrs.
Other family names were extraneous.

By the fifth generation,
Women married into the Starr line
Became Starrs by association.

An Alternate Theory of Relativity

Generation 6.
William J Starr was born Nov. 8, 1843
He died Mar.19, 1907
He married Eliza Jane Reynolds, (Dutch)
In Fallsburg N.Y.

Eliza was born Jan. 20, 18--?
Her parents were Andrew Reynolds
And Catherine Vanbenscoten (Dutch)
Eliza died Oct 7, 1886
Twenty-one years before her husband.

They had thirteen children
In New York State.
Eight daughters, and five sons.
Their farm prospered, and
They were one of the first
Free Methodist families in the country.

Since William outlived his wife,
Either he chose to observe his
Wife’s family history, or perhaps
some of his eight daughters did.

Was there a cultural shift in thinking,
because of educating women who now
Could write down their maternal connections?
Or was it the invention of photography
That affirmed that women existed?

Was this a small act of subversion,
Or was it a Dutch tradition that the
Women stayed in touch with
Relatives no matter how far
removed by patrilocation?

Whatever the reasons, a shift occurred.
Sisters, aunts, cousins, nieces, Grands…
Grandmothers, grand daughters,Greats….
All kept abreast of each others lives,
And proudly passed down their traditions.

Mother Rite

Mothers are the keepers of culture.
For a good while, I ignored my own
mother’s stories, but she whispered them
again and again from her spirited lips
to my sleeping ears in dreams,
reminding me of the ways that in life,
she stitched the Mother rite into my body,
threaded it through my brain,
nourished me with stories of
women’s lives, struggles, victories.
She clothed me in a patchwork,
cut from the cloth of their aprons
and wove me into the tapestry of
our mingled family heritage until
I understood I was one of them.

All Poems and Images are the Copyright of Ruth Zachary. Permission is required to reproduce them.

1903

The Sainted, Photo Montage by Ruth Zachary

Snowstorm 1903

A heavy snow, they said
came suddenly that year in Kingsley,
When you were born in 1903.
Relatives said the doctor
had to take a sleigh to their home
to deliver you into the world.

The day you arrived was
barely in time to survive
your own young mother,
taken by Scarlet fever.
Terrible, to gain your own life
while your mother lost hers,
a burden you carried all your days.

Your father was honored in his sorrow,
but useless in his grief,
to care for an infant,
wandering the country for three years
seeking answers, or his own death,
which nearly took him more than once.

She was first of six Bowers girls
to go. Her family became
death-obsessed. Her picture
was placed above the piano,
to make sure all revered
her memory; altar-like, a shrine
to her saintly status…
by virtue of having died.

And you, by virtue of being her child,
became a half -saint as well, because
if you were sent to take her place
how could you be otherwise, and
what was there to do but treat you well,
while living in fear for your fragility?

Montage Images and Writing are the property of Ruth Zachary.