To them that be uh readin’ these words, to the best of my recollection, they be the truth. Well, I guess the truth as much as any man can be a sayin’ when tellin’ about his life, especially when young. My mom took great pride in teachin’ me to read the words put down by others. She understood that man possessed a great ability, that ability was to pass on that which is good in our world. Words contain the greatest power of all, the power of knowledge. She gave me the understandin’, that if I were to write down my words, those who come after would know of my life. If I were to do well in my life it would be a gift to those who followed. I would guess no man can foresee which decisions in his life would make a difference to others. I consider myself to be a common man and cannot know if my life will be judged good or bad. I believe each day we can choose to go left or right and hope that which is chosen is the right one. Mom taught me, with words we each can live on in those writin’. Those who follow can judge if I made the right choices by the words I leave behind.

Mom kept a small journal that told of her family and its struggles. Its cover was made of leather and finished in red with silver trim. She never spoke of how she came to possess such a fine book on the frontier. But none finer, have I seen then nor since. Each night as our family slept, she would sit by the fire and chronicle in her mind the events of the day. Then with great care she would write the words that kept memories of her life with my family. When I grew older, she would let me sit by the fireplace and she would read the words she had written to me. I learned of the struggles my family endured through her eyes as our family built a new life in this land.

As I grew older, she taught me to write my own words. Infact, she taught me to do more than just write words, she taught me to put the essence of my thoughts on paper. In those early days paper was a luxury that we could not afford for such a young boy. I wrote on anything I could find. Sometimes I wrote on the white bark from the birch trees. Those early years were mostly filled with the dreams of a young boy and his family on the frontier of the wilderness. Days filled with hard work as we struggled to keep my family alive in a beautiful land, but unforgiving at a moment’s notice. As I grew, I began to create my world in words, mostly in my mind at first. But I knew one day I would be able to afford a real ledger. Not as fine as mom’s, but it would contain my words and life within its pages. Little did I know that my life would be filled with so much adventure along the way. I have also experienced great pain in my travels in life, mostly during that terrible war. I witnessed pain and sufferin’ of those who fought for a cause. Some fought to preserve a way of life that enslaved others. Others fought as if it were to be a great adventure. In the end they fought to survive and return home and peace.

My dear saintly Mom, God rest her soul, was called Johnny. Born in 1817 on a flatboat coming down the Ohio River. Best I be rememberin’ her family came over from England. In early 1817 they built a flatboat and headed down river. Not known for sure where they were going. They just hope to build a life down river. Don’t reckon I ever heard how she came by that name. Most be thinkin’ it was a feller’s name, but that was her name by all that being known her. Her people, the Stapleton’s, came out of Kentucky back in 1810. They heard tell of land good for farmin’ in a valley along the southern border of the state. Her Papa found land to settle. He figured he’d settled in a valley still in Kentucky, but he had traveled further south than he figured. He had not realized that he had taken his family across the frontier border into the state of Tennessee. In the end it made no difference. Whether in Kentucky or Tennessee, land was free for the taken and that was about all you got free in them days. Keepin’ it was far harder than gettin’ it.

Land was rich in soil but full of dam-de-able rocks. Her folks were of a mind to farm and make a life in the hills. They settled alongside a river that flowed through a long, rich, green valley. Bottomland soil was good for farmin’ and not as full of rocks as the hills along the valley. Wild game was plentiful in the woods and meadows of the valley.

Biggest problem were the Indians that figured we were taken their land. The land had been purchased by the government and most Cherrokee moved west to Arkansas. But them that didn’t, believed the white man’s government, had no rights to tell their people where to live. As long as the red man did not cause problems, they were mostly forgotten about.

It didn’t take long before my parents befriended a couple of the Indians family’s when they took sick, and came down with a fever. Mom made a poultice and boiled willow bark into a foul tasting tea to help with their fever. Before long the fevers broke and the Indians recovered. They pretended to allow us to live along the river in peace. We all knew it was a way for them to save face in a land that was once theirs. The white man’s treatment of the native peoples of our country was fair only in words. But in practice they never got fair treatment. The government made them trespassers in their own lands. We would see the Indian families from time to time when they wanted to trade for something. But for the most part they left us alone and we did the same. They were a good people of honor and decency, even after all they had been through.

The Indians called the river that ran through the valley, Clinch. It was said that many years ago, an Indian was chased by a couple of French trappers hopin’ to take his scalp. That Indian without fear crossed the river on the thin spring ice. They say the ice was meltin’ and not of a good quality for a feller to put his life in danger of crossin’. Well, after the indian crossed he looked back at them cowardly frenchies, they were afraid to cross the thinnin’ ice fearing they would plunge through into the cold water. The Indian felt brave seein’ they were not going to pursue him across the river. He stood on the far side and clinched his fist in defiance of the trappers who did not follow. After that it was called the Clinch River. The story of the brave Indian was told around many campfires over the years.

Mom’s family settled in a small trapper’s settlement along that same river. Its name be called Greasy Rock. It got its name from the trappers who used to use a large smooth rock near the river to flesh their animal pelts of skin fat. By the time spring came each year the rock was coated in a thick layer of animal fat. Possums and all sorts of critters could be seen licking the fat from the stone far into the spring of each year.

My Pa’s people were called Melungeon. They came out of the Carolinas in the late 1700’s. Pa was part Cherokee, that much I did know. The other part I wasn’t sure I ever knew. He was a big man and wore his dark hair pulled back. It was smooth and fine in quality. I remember seeing it shine in the sun as he worked the fields. The men down at the settlement used to tell him that some injuin’ would love to have Pa’s hair as a trophy. Pa would tell those fellers, “No man alive, red, white or colored is man enough to be takin’ it.” Pa wasn’t a man much for words, but when he spoke’ he be meanium’.

Mother told me the first time she saw my Pa she knew that was the man she would be a marrin’. She reckoned by the way he looked at her, he be feelin’ the same way. Pa was near 19. Mother was to turn sixteen her next birthday. She did not want to grow old and lose chance of gettin’ a good man. Pa’s name was Benjamin Jackson. Most people just called him, Catfish Jackson.

Catfish born in June 1834

Parents Father Benjamin and his mother Johnny

Married in May 1833

1817 mother born

1814 father born