The "G" Labels for those currently coming to the reunion

80 people are now signed up for the November 13th reunion.  The "G" or generation totals are:

3G'ers -   3
4G'ers - 25
5G'ers - 24
6G'ers - 28

For all the details, click on the web based worksheet.

Black Titlest 7

By David W. McMillan, Ph.D.

(Written privately years ago and shared now for the reunion.)

          It was Saturday, 8 A.M., August 14, 1960. As I was waking I could hear the rumble of voices downstairs and the opening and closing of the front door. These were the same sounds of my parents having a large party, but it was eight in the morning. These sounds were exceptionally loud because I could hear them over the drone of my window air-conditioning unit.

          With the crystallized remains of sleep in the corners of my eyes I stumbled out of bed, put on some shorts and wandered slowly to the stairs in the hall outside my room with the fist knuckles of the back of my hand rotating in my eye sockets, scraping the sleep out of my eyes. I heard mother’s footsteps running up the stairs. When I pulled my fists out of my eyes my mother met me out of breath at the top of the steps.

          “What’s happening downstairs?” I asked.

          “David,” she replied, ignoring my question taking some time to look squarely at me. “Bill is dead.”

          “Oh mother, that’s not funny. What’s going on downstairs?”

          “David, Bill is dead. He and Jo Carol were parked out in the woods on the other side of the highway from the bluff. Apparently that was the place where they parked to be together. They had the engine on so the air conditioner would work and somehow the air conditioner pulled up the carbon monoxide from the exhaust and it killed them. They say it killed Bill first and then Jo Carol, because his body was more bloated.”

          “Mother what are those people doing downstairs? Bill’s not dead! This is a bad joke. What’s really going on?”

          Eventually it became real to me. At 14 I had my first experience of losing to death someone I loved. Bill was 19. He was spending his summer between his freshman and sophomore college year at home. Bill Jr. was the oldest. Toney was one year younger. I was five years younger than Bill and my sister Betsy was six years younger than me.

          My father, Bill Senior, was an archetypal SOB lawyer. He could unpredictably fill our home with rage. My brother Bill was a classic good boy scout, salutatorian of his high school class, quarterback of his football team, president of the student body in high school, good student in his freshman year in college, best pledge in his fraternity. He was quiet, disciplined, hard working and much loved and respected. My brother Toney was not Bill. He had a temper. He was handsome and graceful.  I was the clown, the dramatic jokester, always wanting to play with my brothers, often in trouble for irritating my father. Mother was like Bill Jr. She was valedictorian of her high school and college classes. She was an expert pianist and vocalist. She put flowers in the church every Sunday. She had a roast at whoever’s home had an illness or death. And gave Betsy, who was born a Down’s baby, every opportunity to learn.

          Bill was especially important to me. In addition to being my idol, he was my protector. He would stand up for me when my father seemed to be on the verge of overpunishing me. Toney was often angry at me and Bill would take up for me.

          When my brothers were in high school we had ping-pong tournaments on the back porch. Toney would challenge Bill. Bill was the high school ping-pong champ. Toney was probably better than Bill but Toney was too impatient and often lost his temper and when he did, Bill easily defeated him. I was always allowed to play the winner. If it was Bill I would somehow manage to win and I would be the champion until Toney would pulverize me, often 21 to 10 or more. And the cycle would be repeated.

          Bill took up golf when he was sixteen. And of course I began to play too at age eleven. I got pretty good at it. We played on our small town’s nine-hole course. I thought I could compete with his cronies. He would never let me play with them because they gambled. But when he wasn’t around I would push myself into a game and always lose more money than I had. Bill would have to cover my losses. After he paid up I would always get a talking too.

          Two days before Bill died we played golf together. Bill had a job at Safeway and had money to buy golf balls. I had to use ones that I found or ones that he would give me because they were too banged up for him to use. Bill was driving his 1957 Chevrolet that he shared with Toney. When we got to the course we got out of the car, grabbed our golf bags, and walked toward the clubhouse and Bill said, “Wait here I’ve got to buy some golf balls.” I wasn’t going to miss this. I followed Bill into the pro shop.

          “Give me four balls from the ball jar and a sleeve of Black Titlest 7’s. Seven is my lucky number,” he said. A Black Titlest was a 100-compression ball. It was the ball most pros used. It was more solid and when hit with great power would go further. Seven was simply one number in nine that golf ball companies used to identify their golf balls.

          I watched as he released the flap of the small box holding the brand new balls. “Here,” he said, as he noticed me ogling these new Black Titlests. He handed me one of the three balls that rolled out of the box. “Black Titlest 7. You can have one.” I grabbed it quickly before he could change his mind.

          “Thanks,” I said. I’m sure my face beamed in appreciation and excitement. I had to play with it since it was the one the pros used and by the third hole I had lost it. Bill lost one of these three new balls on the sixth hole.

          After Bill’s funeral I began searching for Bill’s golf bag. I finally found it in the trunk of his 1957 Chevrolet. He was left-handed so I didn’t inherit his clubs. But I rifled through the pockets on the golf bag. I found a few old balls and the brand new Black Titlest 7.

          It was my treasure. I carried it in my pocket much like boys do with lucky buckeyes. I would reach in my pockets and rub the concave dimples with my thumb, carefully feeling the texture of the many circular bridges that formed those small indentions. I loved to turn the ball until I could feel the carved script. I would feel T-i-t-l-e-s-t spelled out on my thumb like Braille and then the 7 below. As I felt it I imagined the black ink instead of the black and red of the 90-compression ball and I would feel strong – as if Bill was sending me a jolt of confidence. 

          Sometimes when I would play I would think of it as magic. I would pull it out of my pocket and use it as my putting ball on the green. I held on to it, taking it out of my pocket and putting it on my dresser with my change at night. In the morning back in my pocket it went.

          One late afternoon I teed off by myself on the first hole without practicing. I sliced my first ball way right. I hooked my second ball to the left. I hit a third tree shot to the right again into the trees. The only ball I had left was the Black Titlest 7. So I hit it. It went in the woods to the right too. I gathered my golf bag and went off to find my golf balls. The one I hooked to the left was the best play ball. So I found it and hit it toward the green for my second shot. Then I went looking for the balls I hit on the right, especially the Black Titlest 7.

          As I walked over to the woods and creek on the right side of the fairway it occurred to me that I might not find the Black Titlest 7. I went right to the Sycamore tree that I used to mark the line of the flight of the ball. I walked all around the tree using the soles of my tennis shoes to feel for round bumps in the ground that I hoped would be Bill’s ball. I used my nine iron to whack at the tall grass and push down into the small creek that oozed among those trees. I felt bumps and reached to find rocks. I found one of the balls I hit there but not the Black Titlest 7. I became frantic, slashing at the underbrush and poking into the water with my nine iron. Tears formed in my eyes and moans began to emerge from my mouth. Suddenly I heard someone shout “fore.” There was a twosome on the tee. I waved them through, hoping they were too far away to see me crying. I was humiliated, ashamed. I could hear my brother lecturing me about my impulsiveness, my poor judgment and immaturity. It was all true. Losing the Black Titlest 7 proved the point. How could I have even considered hitting it? And now it’s lost. After forty-five minutes I gave up the search. I walked away toward the green wanting to go back and look some more. I felt like I had lost Bill again and this time it was my fault. I will never get over losing that Black Titlest 7.

Elsie Taylor - one of the Papa Taylor's five daughters.

She and her husband Gilbert Gammill lived in El Dorado, AR. "Uncle Gilbert" owned a lumber yard. Their son Porter died in the latter days of WWII. Their daughter-in-law Mary Louise (Gammill) Goodloe lives in Staunton, Virginia where her son John Porter lives.  Mary Louise married Breck Goodloe.  Their daughter Kim Goodloe Rochow lives now in Atlanta, Georgia and her three daughters Breck, Lindsey and Somer live near.

John Porter and Kim are coming to the Taylor Reunion!

Who is coming and when! (LINK)

NOTE: This worksheet is not intended to be a family tree.  It CONTINUES to be used to keep up with the specific interests shown and commitments made regarding attending the Papa Taylor Family Reunion. 

So, if you need your own worksheet line, it is up to you!

Martha Jean Taylor and Dub DeLaughter. Their children and grandchildren. (Dub's birthday October 11th! Thanks Gail DeLaughter Pennington.

SOME of the 5G'ers in the Taylor strand! An amazing collage the 3Gs and 4Gs are proudly invested in!

Remember, clicking on a blog picture makes it LARGER. A second time, even LARGER!

P.H. Taylor serves on 1929 Sparkman School Board

Martha Jean Taylor and George W "Dub" DeLaughter wed April 28, 1946 at Sardis Methodist Church, Pine Grove, Arkansas

Toney and Elizabeth Taylor Daniel a.k.a. "HiPop" and "Bobbobbie"

 

Shopping in Hot Springs

Elizabeth, Elizabeth Taylor Daniel and Jane

Toney the salesman with order book on right.

5G'ers - Pictures gathered here and there.



Not totally up to date. But some indications are that Kevin & Paige McMilland (Martin, TN) and Susan & Justin Morgan (Denver) are trying to see how their work obligations might be accomodated.  Same is true for Sarah and Zach Cude (Lubbock).

This 5G group and children will form the core of those doing our Sunday FUN RUN.  Don't take your training lightly as Dr. Ashley Sloan Ross has been on the C25K regimen.  Also, 2G Rowland Pattillo has his ankle immobilized in theraputic preparation of our "marathon"(his term).  I may push Maribeth's wheel chair so as to lock up last place relieving all the 5G'ers of any dead last phobias.

    

The 1974 Taylor Reunion in Arkadelphia. A search is on for the group picture that Thase took. HELP!!

 


1975 picture at Jerry and Sharrylon's Garland, TX home. Jerry was an Eckerd Drug Store manager and Sharrylon in her early years of teaching.  Bill and Maribeth's son-in-laws Dr. Fred Hegi (U.T. business) and soon to be Dr. Jim Burkhalter (U of GA higher education) there with dad and Jerry. (The antique faux velvet couch is still in use!)

 


The 1974 reunion, Bill and Maribeth's children and grandchildren at that time. GranGran now has 6 grand children and 14 great grand children. Dad died in 1976.

 

Selma Taylor Pattillo and Dorothy "Dot" Taylor



Dot and Selma



Dorothy Taylor




One of many devotional books Dot inscribed and gave to Jerry.



Anybody know this to be a Taylor group? Appears to be 1900 +/-. David sent a computer "thumb drive" full of great pictures.

Elizabeth and Bill McMillan - Collection of items to be shared



Henry William McMillan



Elizabeth Daniel

Blog "Comments"

Come on.  Give it a try. You can do it. I know you can!

Test your abilities here!  Unless you have a google gmail account (user name and password) the easiest way is to sign in as "anonymous" but include your name so we know it's you!

Papa Taylor and Mary Francis Taylor's Grave Marker at Sardis

Gaylord Texan Resort for Your Reservations - Link below

Our block of 25 rooms at the $129 rate good to October 10th

Gaylord Texan Resort - RESERVATIONS LINK

Our special rate is $129 plus a $15 "resort fee" for all kinds of Gaylord ammenities.  The Gaylord will group our 25 room block together before the event.

We also have two Delux suites for conversations that go on late Saturday night.  Our meeting room is available to us until 11:00 pm Saturday.

As for the costs of the big banquet Saturday evening, we are soliciting people to help underwrite this "main event."  If you want in on this, be in contact with Jerry by email or phone 214-673-3554.  We don't want the 5th Generation families to feel like the cost our Gaylord Texan Reunion would keep them from attending.  For most of the 5G'ers, it is a simple "no brainer" when faced with the cost of a family reunion with people they don't know and probably will never see again OR  fixing the car or getting the air conditioner repaired! The 3Gs and 4Gs have all been there!

We are having amazingly complete interest in our Taylor Reunion!  We have a block of 25 rooms 30 rooms now and can expand it if needed until October 10th.  Our rates are good for 3 days before and after November 13th.

Mrs. William Arthur Vestal on the 2008 Thanksgiving celebration of her 85th birthday. (Rowland and Dodie and Daphna Ann all knew her when she was Maribeth Evans.)

Maribeth is surrounded by children Jan Hegi, Beth Burkhalter & Jerry Vestal and THE CLAN.

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Many of you have similar group pictures. Email them to me with comments you want included.

Carol Cole shares these pictures of her mother and grandparents Cole and Daniel.

William Arthur "Billy" Vestal & Mary Elizabeth "Maribeth" marry at First Methodist Church, Arkadelphia - Dec 27, 1942

Many Taylors involved in wedding party.  Best man: Jack Vestal; Groomsmen: Roland and John Pattillo; Junior Bridesmaid: Daphna Ann Daniel; Soloist: Mrs. H. W. Elizabeth McMillan.  On page one of wedding guest signing in: Dorothy Taylor, Mr. and Mrs. H. W. McMillan, Daphna Ann (age 5 or 6?)

The DNA Treads weaving the Papa Taylor "Reunion cloth" is being imported from . . . .

Atlanta, Georgia - Kim Goodloe Rochow

Denver, Colorado - Dapha Ann Daniel Warner
Nashville, Tennessee - David McMillan
Staunton, Virginia - John Porter Gammill
Waco, Texas - Rowland Pattillo and Spike, et al
Hot Springs, Arkansas - Jill (Toney) McMillan, Laura Pennington
Dallas, Texas - Thread scraps like Maribeth (Bill) Vestal, Jerry Vestal, Jan Vestal Hegi, John Vestal, and lots of et als.
Arkadelphia, Arkansas - Martha Jean Taylor DeLaughter samples like Susan Young and Gail Pennington
Greensboro, North Carolina - artistic mammory dye from Carol Cole.
Little Rock, Arkansas - Pattern material through Jane Daniel Cole like Elisa Cole  and Ashley Ross II, possibly Ashley Ross III with his et als.
New Orleans, Louisiana - More Cole material in Susan Cole Noble.
Lubbock, Texas - Elizabeth Taylor Vestal Burkhalter and sample case.
El Dorado, Arkansas - Dodie (Jack) Vestal
======================
Ever wishing for DNA dye from other cities like:
Birmingham, Alabama - Caroline Vestal Ponsford
San Antonio, Texas - Caroline Taylor Merritt
Los Angeles, California - Daniel Ross
Sparkman, Cave Springs, Jacksonville, Conway & others in Arkansas
San Antonio, Amarillo and Austin, Texas
Atlanta, Nashville, Arkadelphia, Jackson, MS, Kansas City - others leading on to others :-))

Unofficial Picture of Papa Taylor Descendents (random updates)

Anyone is urged to re-copy this in a more readable format. John Vestal says my handwriting is as poor as his!

Click to enlarge. Clicking again makes it really big!

Notice! No further updates. Run out of room! See the reunion worksheet for other details.

Arkadelphia, Arkansas: Home. By David W. McMillan.

Arkadelphia, Arkansas: Home

                                                                                September 2010

            To me Arkadelphia is the family’s home. This is the place where most of Poppa Taylor and Mary Francis’ children lived. Though I don’t know, it appears to me that Horace took over things in Sparkman after Poppa Taylor’s death and prospects in Sparkman were not the best for the Taylor women. Perhaps someone who knew Sparkman can tell the story of that place and how it was dear to them.

In my novel I describe Arkadelphia this way:

            The Caddo River joins the Ouachita River right outside of town. The Ozark Mountains dwindle down to rolling hills in southwest Arkansas. At Arkadelphia the last of those hills roll into flat land at the Ouachita River. Arkadelphia has the green beauty of the Ozark hills and bluffs and it has the good rich farm land of the Ouachita River delta. The hills west of town grow tall strong pine and red oak timber. Arkadelphia is home to an active logging industry. There are fine farms along the river and east. Flooding can be a problem southeast of town but Arkadelphia itself is built on a bluff that looks down on the river above the Ouachita River and the Missouri Pacific Railroad line from Chicago to Dallas.

John Allen Adams did a much better job in his description of the Ouachita River:

On a summer day just a stone’s throw upstream from the Caddo Street Bridge a fat brown moccasin slides silently from a low hanging willow branch into the current and sinuously swims down stream angling toward the shore until it hits a patch of slack water where it parts floating willow cotton sending it tumbling and spreading like smoke before it disappears into the shadow of a grassy overhang. Three turtles sunning nearly in single file on a bone-white fallen cottonwood take no notice of the snake.  On a leafless twig at the tip of the tree now only two feet above the water a dragonfly with multiple river images in his compound eyes is poised on point while a squadron of his brothers fly above him, alternately darting from side to side then holding still in air while below them a bluegill with orange belly and blue-tipped “ears” hovers above a platter-sized patch of bright burnished stones on the river bottom diligently guarding the eggs resting there.

Several under yards further upstream high atop De Soto Bluff, sweet gum and hickory stand on tiptoe where the river has eaten away at the cliff and exposed their roots to the air and hardened them into elaborate bracings and cage-like scaffolds as they struggle to hold their purchase in the red dirt and so keep from plummeting in the river and joining the trees fallen from earlier seasons. Below them and up and down the water’s edge other trees stand like soldiers marching into battle, the front rank already lying strewn along the bank, casualties of earlier spring torrents, many in the following tier wounded and headed for the ground in a slow fall while the upright ranks behind stoically wait their turn to contend with the implacable Ouachita.

And so the river runs as it has for centuries, for mellenia, since long before red or white men followed its course seeking game and fertile spots of ground to plant their seed.

            As I think of Arkadelphia, I too see trees, giant pin oaks, hovering over the streets all over town, especially providing the sanctuary of cool shade and soft filtered light to 210 N. 5^th Street, my home and Aunt Margie’s driveway across the street. Sanctuary is the word, isn’t it? The tops of the oak trees on each side of the street met in the air some 100 feet over the center of the street. These trees created a gentle cathedral ceiling all the way down 5^th Street to Ouachita and the white columns of Cone-bottom dormitory.

            The color I see, as one I imagine Arkadelphia is green. Green above in the trees and below in the St. Augustine or bermuda grass. In between were splashes of pink azaleas and pink and white crepe myrtle. In my mind the image of the crepe myrtle merges into watermelon red and that moves into orange day lilies.

            My mother planted her garden so that all year around, except for a period deep in the winter, there were flowers in our yard that she might use to provide for flowers every Sunday at Church. Camellias and gardenias played important roles in this project. Then in the Spring daffodils, tulips and dogwoods were the centerpieces of her arrangements. But green was the taken for granted frame for the plentiful flowers.

            I remember my parents talking about spending summers in the swimming hole in the Ouachita River just above the Caddo Street Bridge. Apparently the river was the setting of a great deal of mischief. Jane once confessed that she went skinny-dipping with Dolly Winburn in the river. My father used to challenge Martha Thomas, one of mother’s good friends, to a race across the river and back. John T. often told of his struggle to row a boat up the river against the current. He would fight the current for what seemed forever to him for the purchase of a quarter-mile upstream.

            My father dreamed that he could one day make Arkadelphia into a major metropolis by politicking the Army Corps of Engineers to dredge and maintain a river channel up from Camden to Arkadelphia. But river transport was succeeded by rail and now by interstate roads and Arkadelphia is on a major interstate and the population has remained at around 10,000 people for sixty plus years.

            My father’s dreams for the Ouachita came in part from the Charlie Richardson painting that he had of a river scene at what is called beaver’s nose. This is the southeastern corner formed by the intersection of the Caddo and the Ouachita. As I write this, I am looking at the painting. The river flows in the foreground. The bank slopes gently down some ten feet above the river making an excellent landing for a small canoe or paddle boat. Above the bank is a forest mix of pine, oak, hickory and maple trees. In the background is a wooden picket fence.

            De Soto Bluff is downstream just on the edge of what in 1960 was Arkadelphia’s city limits. This was and is Arkadelphia’s most scenic spot, a must picnic spot for all young lovers. From the top of the bluff you can see for miles over verdant forests, to the south and east across the river the land is flat, north and west the hills roll into the Hotsprings mountains. Jack Mountain, some ten miles north, is clearly visible. The river’s ribbon winds softly below, south and east to Arkadelphia and Camden and northwest to Malvern and Hotsprings.

            Standing on the bluff looking out one imagines being an Indian looking for bears, and deer, or Hernando De Soto looking out over the land drawing a map of his discoveries or an eagle flying high over the earth or an ant following a trail from under the red clay and gravel to a persimmon that has fallen from a tree.

            In the fall the countryside around Arkadelphia mergers from greens to oranges, reds and shades of brown. I wish I knew the name of that scrub tree that was everywhere along any road. It turned bright red during fall.

            I haven’t mentioned the kudzu in the ravines. It seemed to grow a foot a day in my Grandmother McMillan’s ravine. We would run down to the creek behind on a path, kudzu vines beneath our feet and kudzu leaves on either side, not noticing the screams of the cicadas that seemed to be part of the landscape. The kudzu grew over the small trees and formed a cave or a tent for us to use as a pretend wigwam or a place in which to take cover in a short summer shower.

            The topography of the land and the prolific vegetation was only part of Arkadelphia’s blessings. Arkadelphia was the Athens of Arkansas. As early as 1851 Arkadelphia was an educational center in Arkansas. At that time the town had only 250 residents and Rev. Samuel Stevenson founded the Arkadelphia Institute.  A Baptist minister, Rev. Hauke, lobbied the state legislature to create the Arkansas Institute for the Blind.

            The Civil War ended support for higher education all over the South, but in 1886 Dr. J.W. Conger established Ouachita Baptist College. In 1890 across the ravine and 10^th street Arkadelphia Methodist College was established. These colleges became the educational foundation for most of our families.

            As I think about college at the time my parents were students, there was not as much information to learn. Latin was an important subject. Japanese was not part of the curriculum. Perhaps the subject that required more of its students than any other was music. Ouachita’s and Henderson’s music department contained perhaps the largest segment of the faculty.

            The colleges’ music emphasis along with churches and the community’s general interest in music created many social settings around music in Arkadelphia. There were recitals and visiting musical acts coming to Arkadelphia to perform on campus. Citizens of Arkadelphia had opportunities to be exposed to art, talent and ideas of the day that citizens of Sparkman, Camden, Hope, Prescott or Hotsprings did not.

            I went along with my mother to musical performances and plays at Ouachita and Henderson auditoriums. Then there were activities at all of the local churches.

            The colleges and the high school had baseball, football and basketball games. There were track meets, and tennis matches. John T. was a member of Ouachita’s marching band. My father played on the tennis and baseball teams at Ouachita.

            Because of the Colleges there was a greater tolerance and openness in Arkadelphia. Though racism was clearly present there, it was not like Amity where there were signs telling negroes to be gone from town by dark.

            I have always been proud that my mother was valedictorian of her Arkadelphia High School and Ouachita College graduating classes. But one day when I looked at her year books, I saw that her graduating class at both schools was much smaller than I imagined. On the McMillan side of my family two great aunts and two aunts were teachers at Ouachita. My grandfather David McMillan was on the board. I think my kin the Williams and the McMillan families may have had something to do with the founding of Ouachita. John T. was on its board from many years. My father received an honorary doctorate from Ouachita for his many years of service to the school. A.J. Vestal was a significant contributor to the school.

            In the 1950’s and 60’s when I was growing up in Arkadelphia the Caddo and the Ouachita River were not social scenes. The summer social scene had shifted to the Arkadelphia Country Club swimming pool. My mother could drop us off there and leave us for hours. When she returned she would pick up tired children, well exercised, ready for supper, a game of kick-the-can and the bed by 9:00 P.M.

            The two colleges were great settings for riding bikes, exploring and making mischief. I especially loved the ravine behind my Grandmother McMillan’s house. The ravine merged into the ravine that separated Ouachita from Henderson.

            As I remember it, the small creek that ran through the ravine was once a clear, pure stream that became a polluted mess later. In that ravine my cousins and I played cowboys and indians, Tarzan and Jane. We would swing across the creek on grape vines. We smoked grape vine cigarettes and we imagined finding lions and tigers among the giant pine trees there.

            Jerry Vestal remembers a time when we walked on the bridge over the ravine behind the Ouachita gym in order to explode cherry bombs. We would stand on the bridge, light the cherry bomb, hold it until its fuse was burned near the bottom and let it go so that they would explode before it hit the ground, creating huge reverberating echoes from the blasts. As I talked to Jerry recently, he wondered who we might have disturbed. That thought had never crossed my mind.

            As a ten year old boy I would wake up at 6:45, ride my bike down to the Ouachita tennis courts and practice hitting the ball against the backboard there. I enjoyed having the girls watch me and compliment me as they walked to morning breakfast in the cafeteria.

            In a three block radius of my home lived four grandparents, three great aunts, three aunts and nineteen cousins ranging in age from eighty to four. Three or four times a week in the summer Aunt Margie would pull up in front of our house in her black 1951 Plymouth and honk the horn. My mother would yell at us boys to go get whatever vegetables Aunt Margie was delivering from her harvest at her farm on the Ouachita River. I would run and get one or two large paper sacks filled with some assortment string beans, lima beans, corn, black-eyed peas, okra, tomatoes and figs later in the summer.

            Cousins would come from out of town to visit every summer and when there were funerals. Jan Vestal would go in mother’s closet, play dress up and make Jerry and I play some part in a bizarre wedding. Jerry and I would explore Aunt Margie’s house and be sure to sneak into Uncle Arthur’s forbidden study and tinker with his ticker tape. We would have sleepovers together on Aunt Margie’s sleeping porch with the windows cranked wide open.

            Daphna Ann would come and so would the Cole sisters, Lisa, Carol and Susan. My mother would do her best to entertain them, embarrassed that my father could not take some time off from work to entertain Uncle Wilbur.

            There were great feasts at Aunt Margie’s. The adults would sit at her giant dining room table. We children would sit at the round table in the smaller dining room. Under each table Aunt Margie had a button for a buzzer that would go off in the kitchen when pushed. It was fun for me to use the button to make noise. At every one of these meals pickled peaches were an option.

            The floors in Aunt Margie’s home were made of wide elegant boards I believe tongue in groove constructed and held to the floor with pegs, not nails. Oriental rugs filled the downstairs. Brass tiffany-like lamps were everywhere. Light switches were round buttons. When you pushed one in, the other popped out. The house was steam heated with radiators hissing.

            Bobbobie’s home was a white clapboard house with a large front porch and a porch swing. Many days, especially just after Betsy was born, my mother would dress us boys and send us down the street one block to Bobbobie’s for breakfast. The best oatmeal in the world  awaited us. It was cooked with real cream. It was rich in fruit, bananas, peaches, or blackberries. In the winter the fruit was boiled prunes.

            We ate with Hippop who poured his coffee in a saucer and sipped it from the saucer’s edge, not from the cup. Hippop had a morning regimen that included drinking eight glasses of water before breakfast. It was his notion that he was cleansing his system. And soon after breakfast he lit his corncob pipe filled with Prince Edward tobacco.

            Aunt Selma’s house contained (I believe) her apartment and two others. One downstairs and one upstairs. Her apartment contained a bedroom, a bath, a small kitchen between her bedroom and her living room. The living room and the dining room were one room. One entered her part of the house from the side, I think into her bedroom.

            The smell that emanated from her house was always of something baking. She was, of course, famous for her angel food cakes but she baked pies, cookies, rolls and biscuits. And she smiled with delight when you walked in her door.

            Arkadelphia was my home and a place that many of you came home to. It was a generous kind community filled with loving friends. Anywhere I would go, I was known. The community accepted and nurtured my sister Betsy. She was the first child with special needs to go to school there.

            The story of the life of John Allen Adams perhaps best represents the character of this small town. John Allen was a good friend of Bill Vestals. In the fall of 1938 he was injured in a football game at age sixteen and paralyzed for life from his neck down. He lived out his life of 64 years in Arkadelphia. When I knew him, he and his aunt ran a small bookstore. We and everybody else in town bought our magazine subscriptions and our Christmas cards from him. Though his Aunt Bessie and later his wife Joy were his primary supports, the whole community saw it as its responsibility to see to it that Bessie and John Allen had a means to support themselves. As his biography Fortune Teller’s Blessing portrays Arkadelphia’s kindness and generosity allowed John Allen to have an independent, dignified and stimulating existence.

Arkadelphia was a good place to call home for our family and many others.

G. Porter Gammill was Elsie Taylor and Gilbert Gammill's son, his young wife Mary Louise. At the time of Porter's WWII death, his son John was 18 months old. John and his step sister Kim Goodloe Rochow ARE COMING TO THE REUNION!

This War Memorial is located in El Dorado, Union County, Arkansas.

Porter Gammill was shot by a German sniper April 1, 1945, Easter Sunday.  Thirty-seven days later the Allies declared Victory In Europe (VE Day) on May 8th .  (This memory is credited to Daphna Ann Daniel Warner who was 8 at the time in El Dorado.)

Porter's wife, Mary Louise (Gammill) Goodloe, is now 90 living in Staunton, Virginia.  Porter and Mary Louise's son is John P. Gammill (18 months old when his father was killed) is recently retired in Staunton.  Mary Louise remarried Breck Goodloe whose career was as an attorney and judge.  Their daughter Kim Goodloe Rochow lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

Thase Daniel's Photography Collection at OBU

http://library.obu.edu/specialcollections.html

The Thase Daniel collection of wildlife photography and field notes are housed in the library's Special Collections. In addition, Special Collections serves as the official depository for the archives of the Clark County Historical Association.

Susan DeLaughter Young will be investigating this collection for the possibility of "people pictures" that may include family.  Dr. Ray Granade, OBU professor of history and Director of Library Services,  as well as Executive Director of the Clark County Historical Society, takes great interest in the Papa Taylor Reunion's interest in Thase's collection.  There may be 250,000 slides that have been indexed.  Ms. Phyllis Kinnison, Library Archivist,  oversees Special Collections.

We will look forward to hearing what Susan learns.

Below is Thase's Brown Thrasher found online in the Encyclopedia Britanica.

Thase Ferguson Daniel