I thought for a while after I'd finished my breakfast that Mr. Jones might have reconsidered his offer to assist me in my writing project. Was his salute when I pulled up a farewell? But just as I had that thought he appeared in the window, coming towards the door. He took the hat off his head with one hand and with the other, his cane held tight and vertical, he pushed open the glass door.

The regulars were about their business and the atmosphere-the smells and the feel of the place-was the same as the previous day. I'd bet that had been true during its near century of existence. As he approached my table, the fragrance of olden times came with him-cedar, boxwood, and honeysuckle. I was ready to begin work, with that incense blessing the experience.

As he settled in our booth, he began the conversation-dissertation-with a simple greeting. "Good morning and salutations, sir".

"And good morning to you, Mr. Jones," I said.

He began at his beginnings again, "The region of my birth, the tidewater counties of the west side of Chesapeake Bay, was an important and substantial source of pioneers for the newly opened lands of the frontier…Kentucky, Tennessee, and Ohio.

"In the early years, these areas were the western edges of the United States. Kentucky in 1792, Tennessee in 1796, and Ohio in 1803 entered the Union and, with their establishment, the availability of public land, veteran land grants, and reasonable land prices created a steady flow of migration from the Atlantic Coast states, the old colonies, and that movement continued for decades.

"Father was part of that; we were part of that." He paused, arranging his story's flow, then asked, "Why?" He answered is own question after a beat. "Because he had a claim to a Revolutionary War and War of 1812 veteran's land grant and he'd buried his wife. It was time to begin again. New opportunities are among life's most precious blessings, sir." His axiom I understood.

"In the spring of 1816, with four servants, one a Negro nursemaid for Sister, we traveled to the Shenandoah Valley, southwest to Knoxville, then west to Nashville on the Walton Road. Four wagons carried all we owned and us ten pilgrims. In Nashville, father laid claim to a 400-acre tract of land on the north side of the Elk River in Giles County.

"We lived in tents and lean-tos until father, my older brothers and the three field hands could build a fine log house. Will did a man's work. He was seventeen. Hank and Martin were able to be useful. I worked hard, but was only nine when we settled near Elkton. Be it what it would, I doubt I was of much use. Those years were hard, very hard. Will and Henry became men during those years, Martin too. Dick, a year younger than I, and baby Mary were assigned to my tending. Father, my brothers, and our field hands went about the making of a farm out of the vast cane bottoms and the thickets of great trees.




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