BLANTON - TATE CONNECTIONS, JUST TO CONFUSE EVERYTHING

It appears the Blantons and Tates go back quite a long way.

 

A William Blanton witnessed the sale of land by Wm/Elizabeth Tate in 1765 in Mecklenburg County VA.

 

In 1782 William Blanton sold 247 acres to Reuben Blanton in Brunswick Co VA. 

In 1786 Reuben Blanton witnessed a land transaction for William Tate Sr. in Spartanburg County, SC.

Edmund Blanton and Delilah Tate: 

 

Edmund's father was Lewis, mother was Frances Hester.  Lewis was the son of Reuben Blanton and Martha Johnson.

Delilah’s father was Wm Tate Jr. and her mother’s name was Mary.

Wm Tate Sr was Delilah's grandfather; his wife’s name was Elizabeth Hester.

Delilah's grandmother Elizabeth’s parents were James and Frances Hester.

 

(Is anyone else a little confused by the repetition of names in families, or is it just me?)

 

Census of Rutherford Co., Burwell Bradford Blanton married Mary Caroline "Polly"Tate, b. 1810

MARGARET TATE, b. 1827, Monroe County, Tennessee; m. CLAYBORN BLANTON, Abt. 1846.

Sue Blanton 1917-1995 married Haskell Tate 1916-1997. Both are buried Oak Grove United Methodist Church Cemetery. Sue Blanton is a descendant of Jeremia and Sarah Womack Blanton

David Tate, married Nancy Blanton, daughter of Reuben Blanton, Sr. David died ca 1812 in Rutherford/Cleveland Co, NC.

"My gg-grandmother was Delilah Tate, sister to your Henry Howe Tate. She married Edmund Blanton. Her sister Martha (Patsy) Tate married Edmund's uncle, Herod Blanton."

 

Blanton, Paul (*1905 - ) - male
father: Blanton, William Thomas(*1874 - 1932)
mother: O'Brien, Ida(1874 - 1941)
spouse: Tate, Laura (*1909 - )

 

        Interesting:  Not our line that I can see, but interesting!

The last known child of Martha and George was (8) Alsey Blanton b. 1822 m. Madison "Mattney" Blanton. He may have m. 1. Rebecca Blanton, dau of John Blanton, in Green Co. TN and had four children named John, Cyrene, Martha, and Delila. It is told that Madison migrated to western Kentucky and Arkansas and brought back a child named James Blanton who first shows in 1860 Magoffin census at age 17. His mother is said to have been an Indian.

This James Blanton (though not a descendant of Martha) was the eldest child in that census. Madison Blanton then m. Alsy Blanton b. 1822, youngest dau of Martha and George

 

The above little story has nothing to do with the Tate's but seems to have a lot to do with Blantons! 

 

 

BLANTON INTRODUCTORY OUTLINE

1.

Reuben Blanton married Martha Johnson and they had six children including Lewis (1785—1862)

2.

Lewis Blanton m. Frances Hester (b.1790); they had 11 children including Edmund.

(William Tate Jr. had a daughter named Delilah with his wife Mary.)

3.

Edmund Blanton (1806-1881) married Delilah Tate (1805-1880).  They had 15 children, five of whom died in the Civil War.  One of these was William Newton, d.11/3/1863.

(Other Tates married other Blantons, check the data.)

4.

Wm. Newton Blanton m. Nancy Allen (1832-1912) in 1852; they had three children, one of whom was John Allen Blanton, all born < 1863. 

(The family moved to Choctaw County, Mississippi, but apparently Nancy and the three kids spent the war years in Gaffney SC with Wm. Newton’s parents Edmund and Delilah Tate Blanton.  There are copies of letters from Wm to Nancy, and a photo of him in his Confederate uniform.

Sometime before 1870 (after William Newton died in the war in 1863) Nancy Allen Blanton met and married Perry Moore, ‘an American Indian’ (b.1830 in Alabama) and they lived in ‘the Indian Territory’.  Also < 1870 John Allen and his sisters left OK with their mother Nancy and Mr. Moore and settled in the Rockwall area of TX.) 

5.

In 1880 John Allen owned land in the area (Rockwall Kaufman County TX).  He married Mary Fagan and had two children while in TX, William Thomas and May Louise. 

(They returned to OK where Mary Fagan Blanton and a third child died. 

John Allen Blanton and the two children, William Thomas and May Louise, went back to TX and again settled in the Rockwall (Forney) area.)

John Allen Blanton married second a niece of (his deceased wife) Mary’s, Josephine B. Styles and they had three children.

(The family moved back to OK and returned again to TX < 12/24/1895 where they had three more children at ‘the old home place’ in the Warsaw Community of Kaufman County TX.)

Josie died of TB in 1905 at the age of 33.

John Allen Blanton died 10/11/1927 and the land was divided among the living children.

6.

William Thomas Blanton (7/18/1881-7/3/1940), son of John Allen Blanton (12/24/1855-10/11/1927) and Mary Fagan Blanton (9/3/26-1884) married Mary Addie Kidd in 1907.  They had ten children, including Riley Eugene (Bill) Blanton (7/2/1910-12/12/1949).

7.

Riley Eugene Blanton married Johnnie Lee Duran (3/6/1918---) on 11/1/1936.  They had five children including Wauna Lee Blanton. 

8.

Wauna Lee Blanton (b. 11/26/1937) married Robert Samuel Branson (b, 3/3/33) on 9/3/1955.  They had four daughters – Beverly Ann(10/56, TX), Shiela Lynnett(4/58, TX), Deronda Gail(9/59, TX), and Mary Louise(7/63, AK). 

UPDATE ! Plan A: New Kitchen Door Replaces Window/Screen Door, Winter Wood, Screen Room in Front Porch, Wallpaper in Bathroom, Guitar, Ceiling Above Bay Window

I reckon it's about time for an update on how my Plan A is progressing in an orderly fashion. 

It's weak and limping but still orderly and progressing. 

The new kitchen door is in place, which is a relief since the Long Dark Cold is right around the corner and a simple screen door would mean things would be a mite breezy in my house. 

 

Amazingly, the opening was exactly right for this pre-hung door once I got the two by fours in place on the sides and top, with about half an inch on each side.  The door assembly slid right into place.  If you look, you'll see that it's put in inside out.  That's because if I had put it in 'right', so that it opened to the inside, you'd be stuck in the corner and running smack into the stove as you came in the door.  So I put it in to open out.  And YES I know I was not supposed to do that, but I did it anyway.  If someone wants to take the hinges off the door to get in, so be it.  Now that I think of it, if you know me at all you'll be laughing because most likely it will be ME who locks herself out, loses the 'keys' to the other doors, and has to break in.  So it's just as well.  Besides, it seems to me that there might be codes that require an exterior door to open toward the outside (don't quote me but I think I read that somewhere).  AND it was just TOO EASY to slide it directly into place rather than pushing and pulling it outside and fighting to get it lifted and straightened without dropping and breaking it.  So there you have it. 

 

Onward with my update. 

 

I've been organizing my winter wood.  I've got that antique wood range in my old kitchen, remember, and have been experimenting with different combinations of wood to see what effect I get with what combinations. 

 

Since one of my goals for this winter is to learn to cook with that stove (if my ancestors could do it I ought to be able to figure it out) I need to have a bunch of accessible wood to burn in it. 

 

Since I have no idea what this winter will bring in terms of snow, I threw the wood pile from the north side of the house down the basement steps through the side door that opens right at the head of those steps.  It was halfway organized before I threw it all down the steps, a mix of kindles, small pieces, long pieces, split oak, and a few biggish logs. 

 

I didn't take a photo of the result of my throwing spree, but it's taken me a couple of days to work my way down the steps, sorting it all out again as I went. 

 

To be cut to length.

Mess of kindles and small stuff.  This I just shoved over to the side at the bottom of the steps.

My sadly small stack of split oak and a few other little pieces.

 

Those are the stacks that are in the basement.  In the old kitchen itself I have some other stuff. 

 



An old wash tub of split oak.

A few miscellaneous pieces on top of some other stuff by the cold cupboard.

 

Some cedar and a couple of sticks between the stove and the back door.  Duke wants to go outside.

 

Part of my Plan A is to move all of this down to the basement, leaving just enough for one fire.  I'll get on that in a bit here. 

 

On other fronts, I got the screen wall in the front porch done so the north end of the porch is now a room unto itself - sort of.  Remember this? 

 

 

Here's the screening.

 

What with one thing and another my time, energy, and money have been needed elsewhere besides getting and putting up plexi to seal the little room on the north end of the front porch.  This great big quilt is my temporary solution.  It provides more privacy and keeps the heat generated by the little heater in the room IN the room when it's chilly outside.  It actually works pretty darned well!

 

The rest of the Plan is to get plexi on both the insides and outsides of the screen door and windows, as well as the insides of the seven porch windows the room encompasses; the morning sunshine warms the front porch even on the coldest of days and a space heater in that little room ought to keep it plenty snug and warm for when I want to enjoy the sunny benefits of all those windows!  The plexi will be simply screwed or latched into place, easily removable come next spring when I'm going to want the screens letting in the breezes. 

 

Let's see ... what else have I gotten done around here?  Hmm ...

 

Oh yes, I wall-paperd the bathroom. 

 

 

 

Now I have to get new shower curtains.

 

And I bought a guitar.

 







 



No, the guitar doesn't really exactly have anything much to do with Plan A except possibly as a survival tool to maybe help get me through this coming Long Dark so I'll be able to continue on my way with Plan A.  I haven't played at ALL in many years, and was never any good to begin with, but I got it for my sister to play, not me.  Now she's back halfway across the country and I've got this guitar sitting here. 

 

Personally, I'd rather have a harmonica.  Or a wooden flute. 

 

Otherwise, it's been mostly rearranging so that everything has a home, including a bunch more stuff that I got from my folks. 

 

I'm working my way toward having only antiques or vintage items in my old kitchen. 

 

One of my next projects is going to be fixing the ceiling above the bay window in the work room where it leaked and made a huge mess.  Remember I switched from tearing off my back porch to working on the roof above the bay window?  I didn't get to it fast enough. 

 

It's awful, posting such ugly pictures, but I figure unless someone sees the 'before' they aren't going to be able to appreciate the 'after'!

 

That yellow thing you see is my little scaffolding.  I finally got it into place so I'll be able to get up there and see if I can figure out what can be done to fix that god-awful mess. 

 

This is going to be a challenge, no doubt about it. 

 

And I think that's just about enough of an update for the moment.  No doubt I'll find a dozen more things that I've forgotten to mention, but this will do for now. 



 



 







2012 OCTOBER 13 SLEEPY WOOLY BEAR

Yes I know it's a fuzzy photo.  And the little guy was sound asleep so I couldn't get him to unwind.  If he did, I reckon he would be about average in length. 

Even all curled up, it's pretty easy to see that he's got a darned wide stripe around his middle. 

The fact that I found him on October 13th doesn't really mean much; he's been asleep for a while already.  But I did see some crossing the road just last week, which is kind of amazing to me as it's past their bedtime. 

Did you know that wooly bears hibernate through the winter?  Well yes, I suppose that would be pretty obvious since this guy is sleeping instead of flying south. 

But did you know that the reason they CAN sleep through our winters is that their little bodies produce a substance that acts like anti-freeze? 

If someone put anti-freeze into our systems we wouldn't sleep through the winter.  We'd die.  But we aren't wooly bears! 

Anyway, last year I found my little friend in September; the first ones I noticed this year were probably right around that same time. 

Another Dakota Winter is right around the corner now.  It will be something to keep in mind as the season develops, whether it will be like last year (fingers crossed), or 'normal', or horrendous as the three in a row were before we got a break last year. 

Once again the wooly bears I've seen say it will NOT be horrible. 

Once again I hope they're right. 



WELLS COUNTY, NORTH DAKOTA, USA

Rock Pile

The same rock pile.

Sunflowers.

The same sunflowers.

Kinda short, but sturdy ... the sunflowers.

Wells County is not all totally table top flat.

Pretty little view.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



AT THE RIVER WHILE GRAMPS SLEEPS

 

Sitting on the bank of a river, with the trees rustling their drying leaves behind us on a blue sky kind of day, we were quiet.

Sheltered by the big trees around us, we didn’t really need the jackets we had along.  It was a beautiful fall day but we weren’t roistering about or kicking up the fallen leaves.  We had walked quietly over and through them, not really noticing them on our way to sit beside the river. 

A gentle ripple of current blurred reflected trees just a little; maybe it was the tears in our eyes but we’ll blame the current. 

A few birds sailed around in the currents of that bright clear sky.  We watched them disappear behind the trees of the far bank.  Maybe they’d be back; maybe they wouldn’t.  They were on business of their own. 

An errant breeze dropped down from the currents of the sky and from the tops of the trees above us came leaves.  They had lived on the trees for the spring and summer months but now had weakened through the chill of fall nights, the vigor of their lives far enough gone that this little breeze was enough to break their hold on the tree and send them into the air. 

Watching them in the open sky between our trees and those on the far side of the bank, they seemed to have been given a different kind of life.  No longer tethered to the trees, they moved with the currents in the air as though choosing their routes independently. 

One soared high, almost out of sight, mimicking the birds.  It flew high across the width of the river only to turn at the last moment and come down slowly spiraling at the end to land in the water by the other bank. 

One shot straight up, turned sharply in mid-air, and shot straight down again into the water near us. 

One drifted first this way and then that way, meandering its way along.  It lifted a little in a small current and floated along in the air for a short time until it gradually floated down to water level. 

One flew out over the center of the river before it turned stem down and twirled like a tiny tornado on its way to the river. 

One rode the air in a glide that took it downstream for a good way before ending its glide in the reflected trees. 

Each leaf seemed to find its own way of making that final descent. 

Life as they had known it was attached to the trees which had grown them. 

This brief new life was of a different sort.  It gave them wings.  For the first time they had movement of their own.  They could ride the currents of the sky. 

As they settled into the river most of them rested in the reflections of the trees, as though reconnecting to their origins.  Even the ones that landed in the center of the river made their way into the masses of leaves reflected in the river. 

Ripples from the wind distorted the water trees; floating leaves danced a bit, both in the air and in the river.  Beached leaves gathered on fallen twigs along the shoreline. 

Throughout our quiet vigil by the river breezes of assorted strengths sent bunches of leaves into the air over the river and we watched their individual flights. 

They all landed in the water.

At the end of their brief sky life, they continued their journeys, going the way of the water, settling for a bit along the shore here and there before the currents dislodged them to take them further along their way. 

When all is said and done they will become sustenance for another generation of leaves.  

And so the wind takes the leaves from tethering trees, gives them a push and a spin in the sky, and turns them over to the river to take floating and drifting and spinning to wherever they will come to rest finally.  They and the trees have sustained each other through their year of growth and maturity, but now it has come time for them to let go.

It’s a fanciful notion but maybe some of those leaves, if they could feel, would find excitement in the changes (the ones who flit here and there, up and down, soaring and twisting and just extending their sky life); maybe some of them would find relief (resting softly on the gentle breezes and floating on down peacefully); maybe some of them would be angry or afraid (the ones that made abrupt little juts in direction as though irritable); maybe some were eager and in a hurry (no willy-nilly flitting, just a fast straight line to the river); maybe some were curious (the ones who flew so high and far as though to see everything possible).

We sat in contemplative silence on the bank next to the river, with the trees sheltering us and others across the way. 

Maybe, just maybe, death isn’t as abrupt as we think.  Maybe we too are given a brief time (and time is relative) to ride the wind once we’re un-tethered, to indulge the excitement, or relief, or anger or fear, or eagerness, or curiosity, or whatever else may come, before we settle.  Nobody knows. 

Or, maybe, just maybe, the untethering comes at birth.  Maybe each of us gets to ride the currents and that brief journey is our life. 

EARL FIKE

2012 OCTOBER 6 EARL FIKE

This man Earl, my step-dad, had already raised his three daughters by the time he found himself with four more, three of whom were still in school and living at home.  I can well imagine that many more than a few times he asked himself, ‘WHAT am I DOING?’  

He did it anyway. 

Things at our house weren’t always peaches and roses, no more so than any home that includes even one adolescent female, let alone multiple ones. 

He never quit on us, not once.  He did the job he had taken on.

We never knew him before we were half-grown girls but the fact that our community respected him and many called him ‘Chief’ did not escape our notice.  Our telephone rang often.  At all hours of the day and night it rang and he would leave to help someone or fix something.  It was standard operating procedure at our house and we just took it for granted.  I’m pretty sure the people on the other end of the phone line took it for granted too.

If something needed doing or fixing it didn’t matter if the weather was terrible or if he had other plans or was already exhausted. 

He did it anyway.

None of us can begin to recount the stories about this man who loved his community and spent his life doing for and fixing for and taking care of the people who have lived here.  Many of his acts of kindness were of his own volition.  How many of us ever thanked him enough? 

He did it anyway.

As we all grew up and the little ones started coming, it was Gramps who listened to them talk his ears off.  It was Gramps who had a little head beside him in the pickup wherever he went if there was a little one around.  They lit up his eyes and his life.

He never said much at any time, no doubt because having spent decades with females he had long since abandoned the hope of getting a word in edge-wise. 

But whenever anyone had a problem all we had to do was ask him and he would either know or come up with an answer that would work.  We have learned a lot from him, most of it by osmosis. 

These past days I have found myself, selfishly, wanting to poke him and wake him from his hospital sleep, and even more from this last sleep - to consult on some of the issues I’m struggling with here; to remind him that hey there are still little ones around who have never gotten to drive around with him or help him putter with fixing stuff that others had long ago given up on fixing.  Who’s going to do that stuff with this new crop of little ones? 

Who will show them that if something needs fixing and you can help, it doesn’t matter the weather or how tired you are or what you might rather be doing – you do it anyway. 

Who among us is big enough to fill his boots? 

Nobody.  Those boots will never pinch anyone’s feet.  

One of the littlest ones of us has this to say, ‘Gramps is my best Gramps EVER!’  She adds, ‘He’s sleeping now, maybe we should go and check on him.’  It breaks our hearts, hearing the words from such a very tiny little person, and oh how I wish she could grow up knowing and loving him. 

In a way, I reckon she and the other little ones probably WILL grow up knowing and loving him.  We can share him with them. 

That has already begun. 

Those young men did not just decide to hand dig Gramps’ grave out of the clear blue sky.  They didn’t just happen to know where to find his tools and how to use them.  

There are other tools he has shared with the lot of us, things we are only just barely beginning to see and appreciate. 

He spent his life caring for others, and quietly standing by just in case anyone might need or want something from him, ready at a moment’s notice to take on any problem anyone might have. 

That is the Earl I have come to realize I’m going to miss quite very much. 

I JUST WANT TO WAKE HIM

     The grandboys decided that they were the only ones who were going to prepare Gramps' piece of ground for him.  There being nothing in this world that any of us can do for him any more, aside from making sure he's as comfortable as humanly possible, they came up with this as a gift that he would surely understand and appreciate. 

     In addition to being Chief of Police and City Supervisor for all of his adult life, he hand dug many a grave out in the community's cemetery.  He was eighty years old when he finally gave it up.  Now the job is done with a backhoe but the men that 'his boys' have grown into were having none of that. 

     'He wouldn't want that,' they said.  'We'll do it ourselves.  Nobody can talk us out of it.  Nobody had better try to stop us.  We are going to do it.  For Gramps.  Because he deserves the best we can give him and we're going to do this for him.  He's done so much for us, we just want to do it.' 

     And they have gotten it done.  In the midst of the bone-breaking task, the young men's faces were sometimes grim, sometimes tear-streaked, sometimes alive with laughter as they used their together time to yarn stories about the man they have all loved. 

     They have done themselves proud, and they have done Gramps proud.  That little piece of ground is straight and true, cleanly and neatly finished, the dirt hauled and piled away from the site until later.  They used Gramps' own tools to do the job and, much as Gramps loved his community and the people in it, those tools have never been used with as much love, respect, and admiration.

I really do want to just go into that blasted hospital room and wake him up.

I want to tell him, ‘Come on!  We have places to go, things to do, people to see!  You have to see what those crazy grandboys of yours did!’

Of course I can’t do that.

But I still want to.