Neither of my parents spoke much about their families while I was growing up. They may have indulged in family history with my siblings, particularly my sister, but not me. Of course, I did not ask any questions either. My understanding of the family was quite limited. As I have previously written, there were a few stories on my mother’s side. I assumed we were a small family. All my cousins on my mother’s side seemed to be second cousins to me. On that side of the family, I don’t remember a first cousin until my uncle, who happened to be a step-uncle, got married later in life. Then I inherited my newly acquired aunt’s daughter and then later another daughter that was born into that marriage. Outside of that . . . well, there were no first cousins on my mother’s side.
On my father’s side . . . well, that is a story I still don’t know or understand completely. My father just never spoke about his family. Growing up we rarely saw any of the family. Though I imagine there were more encounters that I remember, I can only remember three. Once my grandparents, my aunt Wanda, and Michelle--who I assumed was my only cousin, came out to visit us in Colorado. In one day, out the other. At least that is how I remember it. The second time was when my parents threw all of us kids into a station wagon and we headed east to see all the family on both sides.
I remember that trip for two reasons. No one packed any underwear for me on the trip. I only had the pair I had on. After several days it was, well we could say, crusty. At that age . . . it was embarrassing. Too bashful to let anyone know . . . I endured. It wasn’t until the second week of the trip when we hit North Carolina and my mother’s family did I confess to my situation. It was probably why none of my siblings wanted to willingly sit next to me on the trip and why they always made me sit by the window.
The other reason I remember that trip is because I felt like a fish out of water. Though my parents were born and raised in the South, I had never been around a lot of Southerners. They spoke funny. Heavy accents. A drawl. Different phrasing. Different meanings of words. I was lost whenever I was spoken to. At my grandparents’ house I slept out on the sun porch. The first night my grandfather asked if I needed “another pillar”. Where I came from a “pillar” was something that held the roof of a building. I stared dumbfoundedly at my grandfather thinking, “What in the world am I going to do with a pillar!” I think he thought I was a little slow.
The last time I remember seeing my grandparents was when my wife and I visited them in Albertville, Alabama. We wanted to introduce them to their first two great-grandchildren (two more would follow) from our union. My wife and I were clergy in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) denomination. My grandparents and Aunt Wanda were Southern Baptist. We were sojourners in a strange land.
That was it. My assumptions from I could deduct for the limited information my father shared over the years was much different than the reality I know now. On my father’s side I thought I had the one first cousin. Turns out that I have a whole bunch of first cousins that I was never aware of. My father rarely spoke about his sisters and their families. Shoot! For the longest time I believed that I only had two aunts—Billie and Wanda. Imagine the shock I experienced when I received a package from Atlanta, Georgia from Ann Keener when we had our first born.
At the time my father was stationed in San Jose. As far as I knew, my mother was there too. With a quick phone call, I learned that my father actually had three sisters, thus giving me a third aunt on his side of the family. Little did I know then.
With the birth of our first child, I learned how important the Keener family name was. The only phone call I ever got personally from my grandfather came the day our son was born.
The phone rang and I answered, “Hello.”
A thick Southern drawl spoke, “Well, what was it?”
“A boy.”
Click! The call was over, and the “Keener” name was safe for another generation. I can proudly say that the youngest son picked up the mantle to secure the “Keener” name for yet another generation. The “Keener” name will not die on our branch of the family tree. He had a son also. In that I feel that I have honored the family name and the desire of my grandfather. The Keener legacy continues.
There seem to be a lot of stories on my father’s side of the family I had never known. There are lots of relatives I have never met. Through social media I have discovered a few relatives . . . cousins mostly. At the same time there looks like there are a whole bunch more!
Years ago, while working on a master’s degree in mental health counseling, I had to write a genealogy or family tree report. Through limited family connections I discovered my great-uncle Elmo Keener. After contacting him, he shared a wealth of family history . . . and what a history it turned out to be!
Down the genealogical hole I descended. This is what I learned:
Casper Keener. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. He traveled to the New World and its colonies from Germany (from the Black Forest area located near Hamburg) in 1738. He would be the starting point of the Keener journey.
Abraham Keener. This would be my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather. He moved to the colonies from Germany in 1741. Was an indentured servant until 1772.
Martin Keener. With my middle name being “Martin”, I wonder if this great-great-great-great-great grandfather had anything to do with that. I don’t know, but I can tell you it took me forever to learn how to spell it . . . I always added an “A” to the name—MARTIAN. He was born in Germany and moved to the colonies prior to the Revolutionary War. Served on the side of the colonists, serving in Bentley’s Company out of North Carolina. I was able to find records of his service as a private in the company. He is listed on this document on page 1099. Though he started on the Patriots’ side during the war, he was forced by the German government to fight on England’s side as a Troy. At the end of the war, he lost his land for having fought on the side of the Troys.
Pleasant Earl Keener. This was my great-great-great grandfather. Moving to Alabama from Georgia he drove his team of oxen so hard that at Blue Pond—which was known to be bottomless, they smelled the water and started to run. Oxen, cart, and belongings went into the pond and sunk. They were never seen again.
During the Civil War, Union soldiers razed Pleasants farm while he was working at the Corn Wall Furnace. They killed his hogs, and his daughter was raped. Pleasant vowed to kill the man who raped his daughter. They caught up with the man in Tennessee. My great-great-great grandmother identified the man. Seeing them, the man ran. Pleasant followed. Three days later Pleasant returned covered in blood and his clothes tattered. He never spoke about it again.
On one farm he farmed corn. Somehow a horse kept getting into the fenced field and eating the corn. Pleasant and his son staked out the field one night and saw a man, Bacon John Mitchel, come riding up on his horse. He dismounted, let down the fence, and told the horse to “eat up.” Then he left while the horse gorged itself on Pleasant’s corn. Pleasant and his son caught the horse and proceeded to ride it up the road a ways . . . Then they shot it. The man returned the next and asked Pleasant if he knew anything about his horse. Pleasant proceeded to tell the man what happened to the horse. The man challenged Pleasant to a duel at sunrise the next day.
Pleasant and his son went out that evening to wait. Pleasant gave his son a whistle with the instructions to let him know when the man was coming. When the man got to a certain place, Pleasant let Bacon John Mitchel have it in the rear end with a load of bird shot. By the time the man had gotten all the shot removed and healed up, the statue of limitations had expired—by one day. Pleasant was never charged.
Martin Dewitt Keener. My great-great grandfather was a justice of the peace for years and fought the Klu Klux Klan (KKK). According to family lore he never bent to their will despite having been harassed with crosses burned on his yard.
Whew! And I thought there wasn’t much there on the Keener side of the family. Little did I know. This is just the tip of the genealogical iceberg that is my family’s story. There is a lot more out there waiting to be learned. I am forever grateful for my Great-uncle Elmo for sharing the story as he collected it . . . thankful for those members of the family who pointed to him years ago . . . and, thankful for the doors it opened to a family I never knew. As I stated earlier, through social media, I have come to meet relations I never knew existed . . . lots of cousins. From what I understand, there are a whole bunch more out there.
As I get older, I want my children and grandchildren to know their family roots . . . to know where they come from . . . and add to the family tree. It won’t be easy, but it is attainable. Getting closer to real retirement, I know that I will have more time to explore the family tree. If I was famous, I would just have Henry Louis Gates, Jr. of Finding Your Roots on the Public Broadcasting System (PBS) do the research. But I am not famous, nor am I rich. I will have to rely upon research . . . and family—both old and new. I will probably shake a few branches and see what falls out. As I have said, genealogy is a great big rabbit hole . . . and I have fallen and can’t get out! Let the fun begin!
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