THE GIFT OF HIS PRESENCE

Whether well thought out, (or as Forrest Gump might say) “more accidental like” my daddy left stuff behind. I have several of his paintings on my walls. He loved to paint barns, and swamps, and trees and such things on large canvasses. And once he completed a work, he would either frame it with a two-tone, store bought frame of natural wood, and gold trim, or he’d envelope the painting with his own hand made frame of pecky cypress. To my knowledge, he never painted from “real life,” but copied existing paintings in art magazines.

In his 50’s, my Father got involved in genealogy. At the time there was no internet, or ancestry.com, since Al Gore hadn’t yet thought of the idea. (The last sentence should merit a smile.) Everything daddy did in the area of genealogy was done using actual source documents. Over the course of several years, Henry Jr. compiled an exquisite volume which contained data on all the descendants of Isham McDonald, his great great Grandfather, through John McDonald, his grandson. That volume has been distributed to numerous extended family members.

Speaking of Isham McDonald, my dad and I once took a trip together, in the late 90’s, or early 2000’s, to the old Orangeburgh District of South Carolina. Isham had settled in this area prior to the time of the American Revolution on, (as I recall) the Little Pee Dee Creek. Daddy and I hoped to find the approximate location of our Scottish grandfather’s original homestead.

Having arrived in that part of South Carolina, since my dad was an exterminator, he looked up a local man who was involved with the same vocation, and we sat down with him. My Father explained our purpose for being in the area, and Mr. Carter informed us that he knew an old man who he felt sure could assist us.

The local exterminator led the way, and after about fifteen minutes, we rolled up in the old fella’s yard. Mr. Brown was 90 years of age, (and no doubt he has passed from the scene by now).

He was a lively old guy, and obviously enjoyed having company. My dad, Mr. Carter and I sat in the living room with the kindly old man, and his wife for thirty minutes or more, as we discussed Isham McDonald, his Revolutionary War service, and his South Carolina homestead.

   

Daddy had long known that he would never find the exact site of Isham’s property, since Gen. Sherman had burned nearby Southern courthouses during the Civil War, and records such as land deeds, and last wills and testaments had been lost forever.

However, Mr. Brown proceeded to tell us that when he was a young man, he hunted raccoon along the Pee Dee Creek, and at one time it was easily 40 feet wide. His eyes twinkled, as he reminisced that on one particular hunt, he and his dogs were tracking a coon, when he stumbled and fell into that creek. Of course, we all laughed with him as he shared that poignant memory.

As he approached the end of his story, the old fella mused, “You know, I can tell you where that creek is, the one your Granddaddy Isham lived on. It’s not the fast moving river it used to be though. It’s nothing more than a culvert under the road today.”

And so Mr. Brown told us how to find our way to what remained of the creek, and thanking him, we took our leave. As we walked into the front yard, Mr. Carter “left us to our own devices” as he, no doubt, realized that this was a father and son moment. Daddy also thanked this fine man, and so we boarded our separate vehicles and went our way.

 (If I recalled the name of his business and the city where it was located, I’d enjoy chatting with Mr. Carter again. I would update him on our visit to what was left of that creek, and share with him the details of my dad’s passing).

Well, my readers, as I alluded above, we found the creek, or as Mr. Brown and I have previously implied, what was left of it. And indeed, it was no more than a culvert which ran under that old country road; perhaps three feet wide and only a trickle of brown water. Daddy and I got out, and walked down the embankment. I suppose we took a few pictures, but if so, ten or twelve years later, I have no idea where they’re located, and I regret it.

We may have lingered there all of six or eight minutes, and my dad mused that Isham’s homestead would have been within a mile or two from where we stood. The trees and undergrowth in this area prevented us from following the path of the creek, and I doubt we would have discovered anything of further significance, had we been able to do so.

Nevertheless, the bond between my dad and I was strengthened that day, and the time we spent together that week allowed us to reconcile any unspoken differences which may have existed between us.

I will be eternally grateful that my Father and I were given the opportunity to say some things to one another we’d never said before, to spend the quality time together that we’d never spent before, and to go where we’d never gone in pursuit of those whose very flesh and blood we shared.

William Royce McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 

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