Lamanac Brother: Franklin Lee, Philip Lester, and Kenneth Ray

The children of Hugh Lee and Sarah Bates Lamanac are the grandchildren of J.B. (Jay) and Lois Sims Bates. This photo was taken in 1955.

Vernie Grogan and His Cousin, Sarah Elizabeth Bates

As a child, Sarah Bates Lamanac (daughter of J.B. Bates and Lois Christine Sims) always watched over her cousin, Vernie Grogan. Vernie was the son of Tommy Grogan and Vada Bates. 

Lucious Ward and his wife Margie Henderson

Lucious Wilson and his wife Margie Henderson Wilson. Lucious is the son of Indiana Ward Wilson, who was the sister of our Big Granny Sarah Elizabeth Ward Bates.

Columnist Juanita Hughes Mentioning Bates Family Ancestry Book in Cherokee Tribute

I got an email from Juanita Hughes, a columnist for the Cherokee Tribune, asking for permission to use a couple of quotes from my ode to my grandfather, Fred A. Jackson. The entire poem is published in the book my cousin, Jenny Bates Meadows-Sauls, and I co-authored, Oh, Come, Angel Band ~ The Living Genealogy of the Charlton Bates Family. (I will also post it below.)

Jenny gave Juanita a personal copy of the book and included a copy for the Preservation Woodstock family files. Juanita loved reading about the families and the many priceless stories in the book. She said, "It's a shame that other families don't realize the need for preserving these stories." I agree. That is why a team of cousins is now working on the ancestry for my dad's side of the family.

Home is Where Pap Is

Loblolly pines

Standing like matchsticks in Georgia red clay

Pull their canopies up past their bellybuttons

to prevent children from climbing their long, lean, limber legs

On this terrain there were three in a row

partial acres that reared the clan

One-third an acre belonged to my parents but housed my aunt

One-third owned and occupied by Nanny and Pap

And one lot of red dirt where we

raised the garden that kept us fed

1965 was the year it began

when Nanny and Pap paid ten grand

for two bedrooms on Oak Road

Soon it was home for Sunday dinners

with all the grandkids stomping in the daffodils

and using the yellowbell bush as first base for our ballgame

A triangular bed of floral fantasies intermingled

with chickweed, wild onion, and Bermuda grass

was home to praying mantas that loved to hide there

This delighted Pap who thought it clever to take hostage

those green sticks with bulging eyes

and attach them to the inside of the screened-in front porch

He warned us that those bugs would eat children who got into mischief

A strange tree that never managed more stature than eight feet

had broad leaves that the catawba worms loved

and we loved to teach catawba worms to swim

with the catfish at Twin Lakes in Cumming

when we could talk Pap into taking the four of us fishing

I was disgraced in my high school days

Having to ride the bus to Nanny’s after school

Liberty Heights was known as a low-class sanctuary

But it was convenient to band rehearsal and little league practice

Since Mom worked a real job,

Pap chauffeured my cousins, my brother, and me

in his 1971 green Datsun pickup—

the same one in which he took his twelve intermarried Beagles hunting

The luxurious camper boasted of deluxe seating:

a two-by-six wedged atop the wheel wells

We slid from one side to the other as Pap never did quite get the hang of gearing down

or using brakes to turn a corner

One year, Economy Auto ran a sale on green paint

Pap painted everything:

the house trim,

the front porch,

the rocking chairs,

the metal glider,

the out house

all four dog houses,

and the open wound on the peach tree he’d butchered with a hand saw

I think he even touched up a few scratches on the Datsun.

It would snow at least once in a season just to make sure winter’s cold breath

equaled the steam and heat of the summer picnics at Stone Mountain

when the humidity was so thick you could cut it with the plastic knives

that nearly melted in the basket

In springtime, yellow pollen blanketed the entire state

One could tell the transplants from the natives by their sneezes

Fall colors were perfect and the weather still warm enough on Thanksgiving Day

to wear short sleeves while watching the young boys and old men

make a fool of themselves playing in the middle of the street

while playing football in the annual Turkey Bowl

Norcross grew a four-lane highway to honor Jimmy Carter

when he changed his name to Mr. President

I-285 spread to six-lanes near Spaghetti Junction,

reducing the drive time downtown to twenty minutes

Underground Atlanta awakened from hibernation

with a new face, and Marta could take you there for fifty cents

I’d married by then a man whose job made him a part-time resident,

and me a single parent with a wedding band

but I managed to bear him two young ‘ens

The second child was on her way when

the house on Oak Road next to Nanny and Pap

came to market with the garden lot we’d envied for years

We were hesitant to buy in the faltering ‘hood but the price was right and

my family of three plus one moved in

Living next to my grandparents had its advantages

Nanny cooked at five o’clock everyday

And if my kids did not like what I was having

They trotted across the garden to see what was on the neighbor’s table

Tuesdays after school was especially fine since

Nanny made cookies, or milkshakes to reward the kids for having to put up

with their Momma working a part-time job

on the days when Nanny would give her the day off from gardening

Urban renewal never occurred in Doraville

but minorities took a liking to the low land

My kids never needed diversity training

Barbie dolls and baseball with the Hispanics, Africans, and Puerto Ricans

was a daily multi-cultural experience for them

And since Mrs. Lopez cooked much better than me,

my kids had a third choice of menu at five o’clock

In spite of the commercialization, residential boom,

and industrial takeover of the rural land of Gwinnett County,

native dogwoods will spread their blossoms come April.

Roadsides will hail Queen Anne’s lace, ragweed, and goldenrod all summer.

And I suppose the yards we abandoned years ago will flower

with mums we planted to mark the day

Pap went home for good

(C) 2013 Yvonne Perry