My story traces back to the ancient Tretower Castle and Court in Wales, built before the Romans came to Britain. 

In roughly 1100 A.D. a Norman Knight named Picard constructed the initial motte and bailey of Tretower.  Over the next 300 years the castle with its living quarters, keep, and three towers rising up into the Chrickhowell country side changed hands from the Welsh to the English and back again during the pre-Renaissance.  Listed in 1403 as a defense stronghold for Henry IV, the owner Sir James Berkley (who had withstood attacks in Tretower) passed the title and rights to Sir Roger Vaughan.  Sir Roger Vaughan was considered one of the more prestigious commoners in Wales during this period by most historical accounts however I am unsure if he purchased Tretower or was appointed a post from King Edward.  A Yorkist, Vaughan supported King Edward IV and was a decisive leader in the famous Wars of the Roses.  Listed in battle records, Sir Roger along with Thomas and Philip Vaughan were present at the battle of Mortimer’s Cross (February 2, 1461) and the Battle at Towton (March 29, 1461), which has been said to be the bloodiest clash on British soil. It was the fundamental differences of the Yorks and Lancastrians that would eventually cost Sir Roger Vaughan his life.  He was executed in 1471 by Jaspor Tudor.  Roger’s maternal Grandfather was Sir David Gam, who is mentioned in Shakespeare’s Henry V. 

Morris, Rev. F. O. (c. 1880) A Series of Picturesque Views of Seats of the Noblemen and Gentlemen of Great Britain and Ireland, William Mackenzie, London.

His son, Sir Thomas Vaughan eventually took possession of Tretower in the late 15th Century.  Sir Thomas and Denise Morgan gave birth to twins Henry and Thomas in 1621.  In 1628 William, their third son was born and lived a mere 20 years before his death.  Henry and Thomas entered Oxford University in 1638 and both men flourished in their respective studies.  Thomas gained fame as a hermetic philosopher and alchemist while Henry clearly excelled in law, literature and poetry.  Henry eventually studied law in London but was interrupted when Civil War broke out back home in 1642.  In 1646 Henry married Catherine Wise and had a son, Thomas, and three daughters, Lucy, Frances and Catherine.  By 1652 Henry had published The Mount of Olives and Solitary, bringing nearly immediate critical acclaim.  In 1655 he married his second wife, Elizabeth Wise (Catherine’s sister) and had another son, Henry, and three daughters, Grisell, Lucy and Rachel.  Recognized as one of the most influential Welsh poets of all time, Henry was the Christian voice of a Nation.  I particularly found Silex Scintillans (meaning ‘The Fiery Flint’ which “refers to the stony hardness of his heart, from which divine steel strikes fire”) to be an inspiration and a window into the existential fire that burns in much of my family today.  In 1658 Sir Thomas, Henry’s father, was beheaded on the orders of Richard III.  Thomas died in February of 1666 near Oxford and Henry died April 23, 1695.  Other Vaughans remained at Tretower until as late as 1783, which provides an overlap to where the story picks up across the pond.

Part the Second.  The New World

A particular lawsuit in the 1960’s over an oil estate in Oklahoma became the focus of the Vaughan lineage, in so much that it was necessary for a one Nellie Burchett to prove she had Indian blood through the line of Leroy Vaughan.  At stake was a fortune.  Through this litigation and the painstaking work of many men before be, first hand accounts have made it possible to see my history come alive.

The story picks up with William Patrick Vaughan, my Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather, who was born approximately in 1710.  The place of his birth I have not uncovered, however the historical accounts begin at the time he met his bride, a full blooded Osage Indian.  William Patrick was traveling through the Western North Carolina hills with a string of pack horses and supplies for trading when he came upon an Indian settlement.  Scores of tepees dotted the countryside, surrounded by a single log house known as a council house.  No doubt this house was inspired by the white man, and though the Osage still dwelled in their traditional tents, the cabin was likely a place for trading, council meetings and various gatherings.  As the account goes, Vaughan was taken by the grace and poise of a young Indian girl called “Fair-a-bee-Lunah”, a phrase of broken English and French meaning “as fair as the moon”.  Fair-a-bee-Lunah spoke little English, which was more than most of her tribe, yet she and Vaughan struck an immediate attraction that crossed the language barrier.  In that same visit, Vaughan took her to be his bride at the delight of the Osage council.  Tying a blanket around them in the traditional Osage wedding ceremony, their love was consummated as the tribe celebrated into the night, apparently consuming much of Vaughan’s resources, though I doubt he minded. 

Two sons from this union were William and Ayres.  William pioneered parts of the Tennessee valley and finally Northwest Arkansas, pushing West with Phillip Harp.  Joining them were several relatives, African slaves, sheep and herds of cattle.  It is written that the Vaughan clan had a particular affection for the slaves, treating them more as family than indentured help.  One story that struck me was the separation of 11 year-old Molly Vaughan from a slave “mammy” who could not join the party to Arkansas.  Molly cried herself to sleep, night after night as the wagon creaked west. 

William Patrick, or ‘Old William’ as he became known, also migrated from the Tennessee Valley to Northwest Arkansas (then part of the Missouri Territory).  His Osage family and friends, as well as Indians he traded with would tell fascinating tales of a land where medicinal springs were curing savages of ‘pain in the bone’ and even blindness.  One night two Osage, Itching Feet and Black Dog, told Old William of the most potent spring of all, the Magic Healing Spring.  They took a stick at a tribal fire and drew in the dirt a diagram of its location and form.  They called Arkansas ‘the Land of Blue Skies and Laughing Waters’.  Old William also had heard of this land that “flowed with milk and honey” from trappers and long-hunters.  It was a hunter’s paradise he couldn’t pass up.  Old William and several Indians from Osage, Sioux, Chickasaw, Choctaw and Creek tribes headed to the Ozark hills and enjoyed several weeks of hunting big game and camping under the open sky.  They returned home with plans to migrate the entire tribe however Old William was getting along in years and the migration was deferred again and again due to age-related ailments.  Time moved swiftly and Old William passed away, never returning to the Ozarks. 

Kentucky

The beginning of my Eastern Kentucky roots is Old William’s son, Ayres Vaughan, born in 1742; my Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather.  Ayres had left the ancestral acres of the Vaughan’s long before his brothers and sisters migrated to Arkansas.  He had disappeared on the frontier and most suspected he had been killed by either a wild animal or hostile Indians.  As it turned out he was very much alive in Virginia territory.  His eyes were fixed on ‘Kaintuck’ where the climate was conducive to growing crops and the game was plentiful.  The landscape in Kaintuck was renowned and Ayres was anxious to hunt the open, hilly expanse where the grass appeared blue on misty mornings and sun drenched dawns.  Ayres and his wife came to the Big Sandy River and settled near Blockhouse Bottom, founded by the Harmon’s and Auxiers in the early 1790’s.  Ayres was the patriarch of the Big Sandy Vaughans – his descendants called him “Grandsire Vaughan”, which over time became “Groncer” in Appalachian vernacular.  Ayres being born to a full blooded Osage was well versed in Indian ways and spoke better Osage than he did English.  He would sit with children gathered around him and tell Cherokee folk tales with a delightful enthusiasm and wit. 

Ayres was a farmer.  He also did some logging, but his passion was hunting.  With Indian blood coursing through his veins he was drawn to the thrill of the chase and the deep solitudes of the woods.  Big and small game were plentiful in the Big Sandy valley that first quarter of the nineteenth century and he spent days of every season on the hunt. 

Born to Ayres was William W., whom I have not been able to find much fact, but William’s children were numerous, including Patrick, my Great-Great-Great Grandfather.  Patrick’s brothers and sisters were Susannah (also the name of Patrick’s eventual wife, Susannah Hatfield), Elizabeth, Leroy and Burwell. 

It is written that of all Ayres’ Grandchildren Leroy was favored, having the most prominent Indian traits of his brothers and sisters.  In the Floyd County Court Clerk’s office there is a deed in which Grandsire bequeathed a young colt to Leroy.  An expression one might hear today in Eastern Kentucky is, “Roy wants it all,” though most could not tell you the origin. Quite a few first hand stories were told in litigation about old Roy that has made him come to life in this research.  William Crider worked at the Post Office on Buffalo Creek; Roy lived about six miles up the creek and would come down to visit him and his wife Elizabeth, sometimes just staying the night.  Roy was described as “tricky, deceitful, and full of deviltry.”  Endless tales were told of his dark sense of humor, often at the expense of whoever found themselves at the other end of his jokes.  One story was of a traveler (a common victim, I’m sure) who was outwitted by Roy at the cost of a fine horse.  During the Civil War a wayward horseman found himself on Roy’s land and kindly asked for accommodations for the night.  Always obliging and fond of company, Roy set him up for the night.  In the middle of the night Roy went to the barn and removed the nails from the shoes of the gentleman’s horse.   He replaced them with longer ones, temporarily inflicting enough pain on the animal for it to appear lame.  After the following morning’s feed and realizing a problem with his horse, the horseman, eager to continue on without any delay, asked Roy if he’d mind trading an old work mare for his lame quarter horse.  Roy played it out nicely and said sure, but only because the horseman was in need.  An hour after his departure Roy’s new horse was ‘healed’ when the former nails were returned.  Another story that became a favorite of the old men on Buffalo Creek occurred when Roy’s mother lay on her deathbed.  All the children had been called to her side and they sat silently, smelling death in the air.  Suddenly Roy jumped up and went to her side saying in a hushed voice, “Shh… I think Mother wants to say something.”  He was hovered over her with his ear to her face and finally one of the sisters asked, “What did she say?”  Unabashed Roy spoke solemnly, “She said I could have everything she owned but the little broke-leg calf and you can have that.”

 

Grandsire died at the home of one of his sons on the river farm north of Prestonsburg.  He was buried in what is now called the Old Vaughan Graveyard, found less than a mile from the Jerry’s Restaurant I know so well from my childhood, on a wide spot in the road called Patrick Swirl, a former Indian encampment.  Grandsire’s sandstone marker is engraved with the following:

A.T.V. Age 100 DSD, Feb. 18, 1842

It has been written that Grandsire’s grave became a “shrine of mystic attraction”, widely visited by hundreds of kin and locals, paying homage to a half-blooded Cherokee centenarian who often jabbered on in his native tongue for the amusement of the grandkids.  According to Patrick Vaughan it was likely the first grave in the graveyard: “If you noticed (when you were there) it was down on a little point.  I imagine it was the first grave there.”

And so my direct line follows that William Patrick Vaughan and Fair-a-Bee-Lunah gave birth to Ayres “Grandsire” Vaughan and William. Ayres and his wife gave birth to William W.  William W. fathered Patrick.  Patrick and Susanna Hatfield gave birth to John Jefferson Vaughan.  John Jefferson and Cynthia Alice Hill were the parents of William J. Vaughan, born February 30, 1864.  At the time of William’s birth, John J. was a prisoner of the Federals, taken captive as a member of the 10th Kentucky Calvary CSA.  A rebel officer according to papers Uncle Ron found, John Jefferson had attempted a journey home back to his sweetheart, Cynthia, and was caught by Union soldiers.  He was taken to Cincinnati and then to Columbus, and then eventually to Johnson Island, a Union POW camp located just outside Sandusky.  Papers have been found that document his purchase of some apples, and paper and pencil for writing letters.  From Johnson Island the trail picks up at Point Lookout in Maryland.  Point Lookout had been run by a Black Union company and this was probably the hardest trial for a White Rebel to endure.  John was eventually released from Point Lookout on a Presidential pardon.  He was making his way home when he was arrested by Union soldiers again in Louisa, Kentucky.  A letter has been found on file where the soldiers wrote to Point Lookout to verify John’s pardon, likely not believing his story.  He was eventually released to return to Eastern Kentucky.  William J. Vaughan was well thought of in Prestonsburg.  He and John Osbourne, his Father-in-law, started the Horne Chapel Methodist Church a few miles below Prestonsburg.  An account from one of Uncle Ronnie’s letters described my Great Grandfather:

“I remember him and particularly how he dressed.  He wore a black suit, white shirt and tie, and walked with a cane.  He had a full head of grey hair and looked very distinguished.  He usually had a vest with a pocket watch and chain.  He was well liked and I remember Grandpa Prater mentioning him and speaking favorably of him.  He always had a mustache quite full and grey.  I recall Dad (David) telling about him going to raid a still up some hollow in the county and was in need of a horse (the terrain and lack of roads required one) and [he] asked Dick Ball, his son in law, to borrow his.  Dick did not want him to use his horse because it most likely would be the thing they would shoot.  Dad said he finally got a horse but it wasn’t Dick’s.  I have heard Dad say he was not afraid of anything.  He was an elected capacity at the time, holding some office that had law enforcement responsibilities.  I remember one story was about his gun falling from his shoulder holster when he bent over to pick up a slot machine that was being confiscated.  The gun fired and he was grazed by the bullet.”

William J. Vaughan and Lily Mae Osbourne gave birth to David J. Vaughan.  David, or Dove as he was affectionately known, and Orbie Prater gave birth to Luke, John, Ron and Joe Larry.  Orbie’s parents were Columbus Prater and Carolina Johnson of Alum Lick.  Columbus Prater’s parents were Adam Prater and Louisa Barnett.  Joe Larry and Betty Crisp gave birth to Joe Larry II, Phillip, and me.

My mother, Betty, was born to Obie Berkley Crisp and Ursula Jones, respectively Grandmom and Granddad.  Obie’s parents were Felix (born April 1895) and Etta Boyd Akers, whom I knew well as “Dadi and Mamaw”.  Etta Boyd Akers was raised on Prater Creek by Jim Bob Akers and Mary Fairandy.    Sue Jones’ parents were George Jones, killed in the mines, and Dora.  Felix’s father was Alexander Crisp born July 16, 1847 in Martin, who married Mary Salyers on August 17th, 1871.  They had Felix, Sol, Adam and Mary.  Alexander has been described to me as a Santa Claus figure, almost always wearing a suit…even while mowing the lawn in the middle of a summer day.  Adam taught Dadi to cut hair at a young age and this became his profession in Allen.  Alexander’s father was William Crisp, my Great-Great-Great Grandfather, whose date of birth I have not found, but he passed on January 30, 1880. 

My personal account picks up in Eastern Kentucky where David and Orbie, or Granny and Pawpaw, settled at the farm on Alum Lick near Prestonsburg, located South of Risner and East of David in Floyd County.  Part of an original land grant, it was generally called “the lower place”, as their land extended up a hollow and was divided into three separate plots.  Each stead having its own personality and scenery.  As you traveled back into the mountain the modern conveniences dwindled, serving as a living timeline of progression in the mountains.  The upper place, primitive, had no running water or electricity.  The middle place had one or the other, plus a blacksmith shop, and the lower was the ideal country farm, complete with house and barn, smokehouse and some fertile earth to turn.   My memory is of a quiet holler with scenery out of a Hemingway novel, boasting deep carved hills covered with Dogwoods and Apple trees.  A white farm house meticulously kept inside and out and a small creek running up near the country road.  The bridge was built by Papaw’s hands and fashioned by Granny’s mind; she was a wizard not only in the kitchen but with just about whatever she set herself to.  The bridge was designed with architectural and geological soundness, complete with concrete foundation and railroad trestle crossbeams.  It withstood cars and floods for years without wavering.  It was on that bridge one afternoon that I have the first memory.  No more than five or six, I had been playing and lost my balance, tumbling over into the cold water below.  It couldn’t have been more than waist deep for a little boy, but Pawpaw had sprung into immediate action coming in after me.  The family said they hadn’t seen the old man move that fast in a long time.  I was scared, but Pawpaw’s presence comforted me. 

Pawpaw had a bullwhip that I would always seek out on my visits.  I learned to crack the whip and there was no better delight to a little boy than to run around that farmhouse, pretending to ward off wild animals and drive a fictitious herd of horses or cattle.   

Inside the house there usually hovered an intoxicating aroma of white half runner green beans, pork, and other delights that matriculated from the kitchen.   A strong memory of mine is being upstairs in an attic-like perch as the ladies cooked below while Pawpaw showed me some of his treasures he’d collected over the years.  A cane, which he extended out at me and hooked around my neck, “that’s to round up grandchildren,” he laughed as he gently pulled me close.  It was all fascinating to a five year-old; a traveler’s kit for cleaning up and shaving, horse tack and leather gear, and a particular gold pocket watch that inevitably one day became mine. 

I could see Pawpaw, a miner, coming home to the lower place after a long day at the Princess Elkhorn Coal Company in David, dusted with soot, and looking for a hot meal.  These snapshots of my past have inescapably molded me in some way and have rooted deeply my affection for Appalachia.  Every story seems to have all the elements – struggle, faith and hope.

Seven miles Northeast of Alum Lick in the Cumberland Plateau a small town is situated outside Prestonsburg called Allen, nestled in the confluence of the Levisa Fork and Right Fork rivers that make up the Big Sandy.  Allen is a mining encampment Southeast of Prestonsburg, originally Preston’s Station named after John Preston.  Highway 23 connected the Mountain Parkway to Allen by a two mile left hand bend as you came into the town of 229 residents.  From my earliest memory Obie Crisp held the office of Mayor, taking the position sometime after serving in the Philippines during the second War.  Obie and Sue lived on at least two different plots of land before buying the house on Allen-Banner Road in the late 60’s.  The house was a castle of mystery and magnificence, the largest in town, sitting on a hill overlooking the main traffic intersection.  The estate sat on an acre of land, half of which was a large, sloping hill.  Inside there were three stories, six bedrooms, and a large garage.

A minute and a half walk’s away lived Felix and Etta.  Their house, which they had built shortly after their marriage, had seen two boys go off to war, a daughter uprooted to New Mexico married to a GI, the depression, and at least two floods waist high in the living room.  Mamaw was a nervous woman by the time I was able to walk. 

“Do ye wont a Pop?” she asked but then answered herself, “Daddy get Marty a pop, I bet he wants a pop.”  Daddi comes in, “Laaawww, that Dolly needs a hair cut.”  He was a rail thin man with silver hair and a warm smile.  Bright eyes revealed both compassion and intelligence.  He usually wore worsted wool dress slacks, navy, black, or grey flannel, and a dress shirt.  The outfit was complete with a gold pocket watch chain dangling at his side.

In the back room of the house, utility in nature, Daddi would have a step stool and his barber’s kit out.  I remember loving those haircuts; not exactly the horrific experience I see kids today having at Supercuts where some girl named “Sally” is about to manhandle them with sharp scissors and electric shears loud enough to pass for a hedge trimmer.  No, Daddi was gentle and kind and funny.  A scissor man.  I must have had my haircuts in the morning there in Allen because I remember usually having hot oatmeal and milk afterwards, still sitting on that stool. 

“The key to good oats is the sugar.”  Daddi would say as he heaped it on.  In hindsight I know he was fully aware what sugar does to a kid, but these were Great Grandparents and I simply couldn’t do any wrong, and mostly I didn’t.  Maybe steal a kiss from a cousin or throw some rocks at a passing train but I was drawn to these old folks and their way of looking at life. 

Next door on more or less the same plot of land lived Ray and Jo Crisp, Uncle Ray and Aunt Jo.  Ray is the youngest son of Felix and Etta.  Aunt Jo and I were very close and it wasn’t unusual for me to run across the backyard to her house several times a day while Ray and Obie were at the machine shop.  She would just light up when I would come through the back door and we’d spend the hours talking about everything – she’d clean house, make sandwiches and talk to me as if I was a peer, a long lost friend that she had to catch up with.  Jo was killed in a car crash when I was thirteen.

Ray and Obie worked at McJunkin until Obie opened his own oil, gas and mining supply business, Allen Machine Shop.  When I wasn’t running around Prestonsburg with Grandmom or visiting with Mamaw and Dadi, I would be at the machine shop.  Granddad would be turning or milling on a large CNC lathe and I would ‘run the office’.  A dusty, metallic environment complete with pin up girls, a foul-mouthed assistant named Bobby and more tools than a boy knew what to do with.

These days were impressionable.  It put deep in my fabric an Eastern Kentucky thread, woven with bluegrass and home cooked food and blistered hands.