Friday, July 17, 2009

Friday Cat Blogging

Last September, I adopted a Maine Coon mix. He went without a name for about three months. According to his paperwork from the kill-shelter from which he was rescued, his name was Jack. However, he never responded to that name. The woman who fostered him for a couple of months called him Beau (because he's really a gorgeous cat), but he didn't respond to that either. My previous cat, Beauregard, responded to that and half a dozen other variations of it, including Beau, BeauBeau and BooBoo. He also would come when called "Chow Time," "Treat," and "Thewwich!" (that's the sound of a vacuum seal on a cat of catfood). I wasn't all that keen on calling this one by the same name as the previous one, so I didn't immediately start calling him Beau, although I did try it occasionally hoping he would respond. Nada. Zip. Then one day, I sort of accidentally called him BeauBeau and the little bastard responded like he'd always been called that. Since then, he's been BeauBeau.

When he first came to live with me, I placed his water and food dish upstairs in my bedroom where it remained for about four months. In those four months, I think the little bugger gained about five pounds, and he started at about 15 pounds. Using weight control concepts learned from Weight Watchers and others, I moved his food dish from my bedroom downstairs to the kitchen. You know what? It worked. He stopped gaining weight and settled in at a nice 17 to 18 pounds. Since he only eats dry cat food (his choice, not mine), I do not have to "feed" him every day.

Wednesday night, as I lay sleeping -- or rather, as I attempted to sleep, BeauBeau was at me all night. I would barely get to sleep and he'd be back standing on my chest, kneading me with his front paws, or putting his head in my hand in an attempt to force me to scratch his chin or behind his ears. This went on all night long! I woke up exhausted. I finally gave up on the idea of sleeping about 6:30 Thursday morning, and went down for some coffee. Once downstairs, I made a pot of coffee which was a challenge considering I had a 17-pound cat on the tops of my feet talking at me. Talking? More like nagging. Meow meow meow. Meow meow meow. And then I says, meow meow meow. Now, I'm not the sharpest tack on the board at 6:30 in the morning, but even I began to realize he wanted something, so you start with the basics. The first thing I noticed was the empty food dish. DOH! No problem. I filled it and he left me alone long enough to get half a cup of coffee into me.

When I went to check my email, this story was being featured on Yahoo: Cats Do Control Humans, Study Finds. Now, everyone surprised by this little factoid, raise your hand.



Devil cat!



Sunday, July 12, 2009


Bearhead Creek, Beauregard and Calcasieu Parishes, Louisiana
There is no group of people known as the Redbones of Bearhead Creek, although there are plenty of Redbones living along Bearhead Creek.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Louth, Ireland

Someone from Louth, Ireland has been visiting this blog on a fairly regular basis this past month or so. I'm just curious as to why. Hey there, visitor from Ireland. Introduce yourself.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Terry Jackson

We buried Terry on Friday, April 17.

It didn't rain until after we said our last good-byes to Terry. In the several hours between Good Hope and midnight, it rained six or seven inches. I sat out on Brenda's patio watching the lightning flashes and counting for the thunder the way I was taught to count as a kid, you know, "one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and so on." The lightning was never right over us, but the rain was. All of those old church songs about being washed kept coming to mind. You know, "washed in the blood," "wash my sins away," that sort of thing.

I did let the rain "wash" the sadness brought on by Terry's sudden death, at least as much as I could. I wanted to speak to Terry's family about his greatness. Sure, they know he's great, but did they appreciate the impact he had on hundreds of people close and far away? I wanted to thank him for so many gifts to his cousins, near and far. I did tell his widow that I wanted to speak, but the opportunity didn't happen.

We all have different ways of processing death. In my multi-cultural existence here in California, I have sang several dozen varieties of the same song. After a few, we develop a few favorites. I like it when family and friends are invited to speak spontaneously of the deceased. Terry's service did not provide that opportunity. I was very disappointed. I did not feel slighted, just disappointed.

The young man who delivered the eulogy was a nephew. I didn't get his name, and I didn't get a copy of the program. He was great, but talk about country! He began by reading the eulogy from the funeral home's website, word for word. Bless his heart, he hadn't a lot of experience at reading in front of a large crowd, but you know what? He did great! After he finished the reading part, he started talking about his uncle Terry, and as he talked, the Spirit filled him and he gave a passionate testament of love for his beloved Uncle.

I was a pall-bearer. It is one of the ways we honor the dead. It goes back a long way in our cultural history. It allows us to honor our friend by taking responsibility for the body. It's mostly symbolic nowadays, but it wasn't that many years ago that pallbearers would be those in the family and friends and neighbors that would dig the grave, build the casket, and cover it. Now it's largely symbolic. BUT, I would have been proud to take a shovel, build a casket, carry it to the grave, cover it, and do what I could beyond that to comfort Terry's family. The symbolism was very strong in my heart and mind on Friday. There was something right about seven of Terry's friends, family, and me, taking the casket out of the Hearse and carrying it over to the grave. Even as symbolic as it is these days, it still takes physical strength to lift that heavy casket and carry it over to the grave.

The minister who preached Terry's service was Michael Cole, a young, handsome, Pentecostal preacher who is married to one of my Redbone cousins. He told the most delightful story about an interaction he had with Terry. Michael worked at the Singer Pentecostal Church for a few years. In those years, he had several opportunities to interact with Terry. He told this story. One Sunday, after services, he noticed Terry had a big smile on his face, and the twinkle in Terry's eye told Michael that it had something to do with him, so he asked him what made him so happy that morning. Terry's answer: "I love a short-winded preacher!" I liked the humility Michael Cole brought to his part in the service, as he worked through his own feeling of loss.

Terry was a powerful person if one measures power by the effect one has on the lives of others. Terry was not drawn to the Internet because of something lacking in his own life. Terry was drawn to the Internet because he had an abundance in his heart that he felt compelled to share. While he was kind to strangers, once the bond of kinship was established, he became fiercely loyal in his affection.

His most generous gift to us was the tombstone project. Erlene and Terry traipsed through thickle and briar, snakes and mosquitoes, high water and flood, to photograph and catalogue the tombstones in almost every cemetery in southwest Louisiana. No matter who you are, you could go to the site and find a picture of the tombstone of your Redbone ancestor. Thank you, Terry. May your name be blessed by dozens of generations to come.

It is said that only the living suffer death. The dead themselves are at peace. It is we the living who suffer loss. There's a lot of us living who are hurting right now. God sent us an angel to dwell amongst us and we took him for granted too many years. We are all poorer now with Terry's death.

A couple of years ago, Terry wrote this:

In telling these old stories of these folks, there is one thing that is
confirmed time and time again for me about a wish I have had all of my
life. That wish being, that I would have been able to just meet and
sit and talk with these people of mind for just a week. Just imagine
the history and details of the different stories and tales we have
heart that has been told over and over. We could have learned the
truth, too. I would be willing to bet that the truth wouldn't be far
from the way we know the stories today.

We buried Terry at Good Hope Cemetery. There are six generations of his ancestors buried there. I want to imagine them sitting out on God's front porch in their rocking chairs, laughing and remembering their stories. Terry's going to get a proper welcome, I know that's a fact. While he's going to want to hear their versions of some of the stories he's heard, they're going to want to hear him telling about growing up in Redbone country in the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and 10s. Oh sure, they may watch down and look out for us, but nobody told a story like Terry. They're going to want to hear his version.


Rest in peace, Terry, rest in peace. I am a better man having known you.


It's going to take me awhile to get over losing you.





Wednesday, April 15, 2009




Royce "Terry" Jackson
August 5, 1958 - April 14, 2009
Rest in peace, dear cousin, rest in peace. The world is a poorer place now without you.




Friday, December 26, 2008

If you're still not sure about whether or not you're a Redbone, here's a few Redbone faces with Hershel Frazier's song, "I'm a Redbone."

Enjoy!

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Who are My Mother's People?

I had an email the other day from someone who asked me what names are generally considered Redbone names. That question begins more arguments than it settles.

To get to it, you first have to define what a Redbone is. Is it simply someone of mixed-race ancestry any where in the United States? Is it a combination of mixed-race ancestry and identity with place? Is it the remnants of a tribe of native Americans from the East Coast? Where did the word Redbone come from?

Except for a small group of families in South Carolina, there is no group that identifies itself as Redbone. The ones in South Carolina chose to call themselves Redbones because they considered the other names they were called, Issues or Old Issues, to be derogatory.

There are several concentrations of people with mixed-race ancestry in Louisiana who are called Redbones by others. They do not call themselves that. There may be people who are considered part of those groups who do call themselves Redbones, but there is no group identity, just individuals who identify with the idea and have adopted the name.

The closest you can come to having an identifiable group is the kinship among various family clans in southwest Louisiana who have shared the same geography for the past couple of hundred years. That kinship is based on family lines and not upon identification based on color or culture. These family clans have never called themselves Redbones, despite beling called that by others, and even then, seldom to our face.

Someone once asked me, if we didn’t call ourselves Redbones, what did we call ourselves? I answered that we called ourselves neighbors, friends, and cousins. Still, there is something there; something tenuous, but always present: an underlying acknowledgment of shared circumstance beyond family blood lines. A sense of belonging that is not easily quantifiable.

When used by the dominant culture, Redbone meant someone who looked Indian, was mostly White, but who also probably had some Black blood. The only people who were called Redbones were generally being called that by others. Is that alone enough to make someone a Redbone? I’m not so sure. Calling someone a bastard doesn’t make them a bastard. So you can see why it’s very difficult to determine who is and who isn’t a Redbone.

My family has been called Redbones at least since 1892 when the Lake Charles Press screamed in a banner headline “REDBONES RAMPANT!” It referred to a gunfight between my great-grandfather, a couple of his brothers and several cousins and neighbors because a crew chief referred to them as Redbones, a name to which they took exception. The story was picked up by various newspapers around the country, prompting a letter from McDonald Furman to Albert Rigmaiden, the Treasurer of Calcasieu Parish, which inquired about the people known as Redbones.

Rigmaiden referred very specifically to a small and isolated group of families in the area north and northwest of Lake Charles. He listed the names: Ashworth, Perkins, Drake, Hoozier, Buxton, Dial, Sweat, Johnson, and Goins. Rigmaiden told Furman that he didn’t know where the name came from. He speculated it was given to them by Blacks. The families he identified as Redbones were, according to Rigmaiden, originally from South Carolina.

There is no other record of any other group being called Redbones before that or even after that. There are a couple of place names where the word Redbone is used, but there is nothing in the record to link the word’s use in that context to mixed-race people.

The group Rigmaiden referred to as being from South Carolina are the ones from whom I descend. He got most of the names, but not all. LV Hayes, who is the most respected of Redbone genealogical researchers, thinks it is very important to identify those original names as the genus of who are real Redbones. From Marion County, in South Carolina, come the names Ashworth, Perkins, Dial/Doyle, Johnson, Sweat, and Goins. According to LV, The Buxton family came from South Carolina, but not the Marion District. The Bass, Bunch and Drake families came from Virginia via either North Carolina or Kentucky. The Nash and Willis families came out of North Carolina.

My regular readers know that I do not purport to be a genealogist. Genealogy is a tool I use (some might say poorly) to construct the historical timeline for the Redbones of southwest Louisiana. LV Hayes has been most generous in sharing his genealogical research. I also would like to thank the Starks Historical Society and its members for their help in researching and understanding the genealogy of our people in Louisiana and Texas.

While it’s popular to say how isolated and stand-offish the early Redbone settlers were, the facts just don’t support that conclusion. Within a generation, another dozen families had intermarried into that core group, giving birth to thousands of new mixed-race settlers and adding another dozen or so names to the list of what would become to be known as Redbones. Some of those other names Butler, Coward, Esclovan, Hayes, Jacobs, Thomas, and Strother were added almost immediately to the names associated with this group of mixed-race settlers from South Carolina. By the end of the 19th century, the names Berwick, McLeod, Droddy, Ozan, Myers, and Smith were also added. Miller became a Redbone name in the early 20th century when Nick Miller, originally from Bohemia, married Elizabeth Hoosier and founded a large and extended family of Redbones in the Starks area.

I may have missed a name or two, and others may have a different opinion about which names came first. I don’t think it matters too much. To be descended from one of those original names does not make one a Redbone. To have a name not on the list doesn’t mean that you’re not a Redbone.

All of these different names brought a unique combination of ethnicity to the mix. Some of the families were thought to have brought some African into the mix, but not having any African was a very important distinction emphasized among mixed-race families in southwest Louisiana. Most of the families believed their dark color came from a Portugese ancestor and maybe a little Indian somewhere way back. DNA suggests a strong South Asian component as well, but since there is no memory or myth of South Asian, nor any historical references to any possible source for South Asian, all dark genes were assumed to have come from American Indian. But each family brought a unique combination, and even today, 200 years after mixing it up, not all Redbones are related to each other, although it does seem that way sometimes.

Beginning in the 1990s, a popular movement started among people who are descended from those mixed-race families to rehabilitate the word Redbone and to use it as a collective noun for telling our stories. There hasn’t been much opposition from within the community of people who share the characteristics of the groups usually thought of as Redbone. Just the same, it’s still a slur to many people, especially those born before World War II. In another few years, there won’t be anyone who remembers the word as a racial slur.

There is an organization called The Redbone Heritage Foundation that has taken an aggressive approach to owning this term. It should be noted that these people do not have any identifiable ties to the people in southwest Louisiana who are still called Redbones by their neighbors. This organization does not represent any Redbones in Louisiana and has no right to speak on the behalf of anyone other than themselves. It can't be said strongly enough: these people have nothing to do with Louisiana's Redbones.

For two hundred years our struggle has been to live free, work hard, and practice our religion without the burden of being called a racial explicative. My 20,000 plus cousins in southwest Louisiana are proud to be called Americans, and some of us don’t even mind when you call us Redbones, but be sure to smile when you do, and it probably wouldn’t hurt if you can add cousin to it.