I originated from some hardscrabble, ragtag, farming, barbering, honky tonkying, rough knuckled sons of guns, and that’s just my feminine heritage. There were no genteel manners, dowry chests, or office jobs bestowed upon my ancestors. There was no family money, no vast expanses of land, and no palatial summer homes. I have uncles nicknamed after farm animals and insects. That would be Goat & Spider, respectively. My Gramps played the fiddle at all the local watering holes each night, while his flat tops and baby bottom shaves were known far and wide during the day. My other grandfather had a 3rd grade education, hunted squirrels for food, and operated a bulldozer with enough accuracy to catch the eyes of the original Hunt Brothers. Long before either of my parents were twinkles in anyone’s eye, my maternal great and great great grandfathers both died after the flatbed truck carrying that season’s cotton was struck by a train near Seagoville. ‘Twas a rough life for all the Stilwells, Hitts, Pickards, and Davises. And, while we’re used to hearing gun slinging, moonshining, tobacco chewing, rabble rousing tales of the menfolk, I thought I’d switch it up today. Because, who runs this sucker? Girls, Beyonce. It’s all about the girls.
We don’t know much about Alice Warren’s life in the Henderson County, Texas that existed when she was born 1878. Those who could tell us about one of the 5 children born to David & Martha Warren are long gone. We know she would go on to have at least 5 children of her own, thanks to Find A Grave. From that point, we must lean heavily on the stories this author remembers from a long ago childhood in Wilmer, TX, where Alice’s daughter Annie Mae, my grandmother (the one married to the fiddle playing barber) and her sister, Dovie, would talk about their mother. I can’t recall which person was the sheriff of Henderson County, Alice’s father David, or a brother. My money is on 2nd Lieutenant David O. Warren of the Confederate 16th Alabama Infantry. Thanks, Find A Grave. I never knew my clan hailed from ‘ole Bamy. We do know that Alice would grow up and marry Thomas Jefferson Davis, son of Saphronia and William Davis, from Mississippi. My father did not have a fond recollection of his maternal grandpap. It could be that there were just too many relatives on that side to get to know a person well. Saphronia had 12 siblings, after all. But, if family scandal has anything to add, Alice herself decided not to rely on old TJ for much, either. Alice ran cattle: her own. She bought her own land, fed her own herds, rode her own horse (wearing pants, no less), & carried a pistol in her waistband and a shotgun in front of her saddle horn. She employed her own cowhands, drove her moo cows to market, and kept all the money for herself. Mind you, this was around the turn of the century and well into the 30’s, when the Trinity River in Ellis County, where Alice lived and ranched, was teeming with both alligators and moonshine stills, and all that implies. You go, Alice. Walk softly. Ride a tall horse.
Johnny Cornelia Pickard Cole had a reputation about as infamous as her mean streak. She was a 2nd set Pickard, born to Julia Curlee & Will Pickard. Julia’s 1st husband, John Alec Pickard, died unexpectedly, leaving her with the 1st set of Pickard offspring. Typical of the times, her bachelor brother-in-law stepped in to marry the widow. Hence, the coming of set 2 of the Pickard children, which included my bulldozer superstar grandfather, W.D. (Dub Dee), and his sister, Johnny. Nothing beats my grandmother’s tale about her sis-in-law. It was back in the 30’s. You could blame it on the recent end of prohibition, but I’m pretty sure Pickards and stills went hand in hand. The young, married couples were painting the town red: W.D. & Lucille, along with Johnny Cole & her husband, Odie. That’s where the trouble started. Dub cut a nice figure back in the day. Thanks to his French heritage, he was over 6 ft tall, had a head of glossy dark hair that curled down onto his forehead, and a piercing blue eyes that skipped 2 generations but landed smack dab in my oldest son’s head. Sweet little Cille was barely 5’2, and was, though she would mature into the best Aggie joke telling little woman this side of the Mason-Dixon, at that time, very shy. The story says my grandmother was accosted by a wicked city woman whose intent was to vamp my grandfather. Said temptress wasn’t taking no for an answer and began a seductive dance aimed at embarrassing young Lucille. Johnny, due to her basic demeanor and liquid bravery, came unglued. The men decided Johnny didn’t need any more public displays of fisticuffs, and began escorting her out to the car. As she bolted right before the exit door, her parting words to my grandmother were “tell them to start the car and unlock the back door.” 10 minutes later, she slid into the back seat, winked at my grandmother, and asked for a Kleenex. “Cille, look at this. That young woman left some of her red lipstick on my knuckles.” Rough women. Tough women. Brave women. May we love them. May we raise them. May we be them.
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