Memories passed down in the family
It’s not often that families have such a clear and informative outline of their genealogical history, but that is precisely what Carolyn Renshaw devoted over 30 years of her life to. Renshaw, whose children include Sheri Avalos and Randy Strawn of Atlanta, is my grandmother. She celebrated her 83rd birthday on Saturday, May 10.
While not a native to the Atlanta area, my grandmother moved to Atlanta following my grandfather’s passing, and in recent years has been taken care of by our family due to declining health that’s left her bedridden. Several years ago, finally closing the chapter on a special project that had spanned 30 years and then some, she gifted our family with two very thick, leatherbound volumes on Christmas of our family history traced all the way back to the early 1700s in Scotland, to a man named Richard McNatt.
My grandmother, who earned the affectionate moniker of ‘Mom’ regardless of actual relation, has always had an eye and ear for genealogy and the significance of family memories. I have fond recollections of growing up listening to all the old stories about ancestors I never met or knew as she rocked me in that dusty pink recliner so reminiscent of the 90s. These stories have been passed down through the generations until they’ve become more like folklore than real-life events. But besides the stories, my grandma has kept an iron grip on many of their old possessions; tangible objects, mementos, photographs, and furniture pieces that speak of the incredible lives led before our own.
There are many stories I’ve heard over the years: the one of Little Ollie, my great-great-grandmother’s sister, whose haunting portrait in a shadow box display along with a lock of her hair, kept vigil in my grandparents’ house in my childhood.
From what I recall, Little Ollie died of an illness at just 12 years old.
There are stories of my great-great-grandmother, Lillie Gertrude Lytle (later McNatt)—born in 1891 and died in 1980—whom, like Carolyn, was called “Mama” by everyone who knew her. She raised my mother until she was 13 and is another figure in our history whose legacy still lives on in new generations and for whom the finished books were dedicated to.
But my personal favorite was always the story that I, as a child, simply called “The Flood.” The story begins with Lillie; her husband, William “Bill” Luther Lytle (b. 1887-d. 1967) ; Adelia (b.1915-d.1986)—my great-grandmother— and her sister, Thelma “Auntie” McNatt. It had been raining a lot, according to the retelling my grandmother always gave me. So much so that the family was preparing to go to the storm cellar.
“Back then, storm cellars were one of the first things that were built for homes. They weren’t fancy, and they held a lot of their food. Can you imagine? I don’t know how it stayed good, but that’s what they used it for. As it was raining, it was getting to be nighttime. They had kerosene lamps, but they didn’t have electricity. In fact, I kept one for a long time. Anyways, the rain was like what we’ve been having here lately.” According to my grandmother, Lillie kept insisting that they needed to get to the storm cellar because it looked bad, and with William being crippled, it would have been hard to get there. He’d lost his leg due to an infection and now had a wooden peg leg. “Papa put it off for a while until Mama finally said, ‘We’re going,’ and told him to hitch up the team [of mules].” she laughed. From what she remembers being told, the storm cellar had been dug a fair way from the house, and they hadn’t hitched up yet when the water was already getting close to the house.
“Mama grabbed my mother, who was a baby, and Auntie, who was five. Papa got them ready to go into the storm cellar. Mama said they did manage to get into it, even though Papa had trouble because of his leg; but the problem was how long they stayed. They didn’t know what the water was going to do. That’s when they started to wait out the storm. But this time, the water was out of control and it began to drip down through the door.”
“So, they sat there huddled together and Mama said ‘Papa, I think we better get out while we can with the waters rising.’ Papa would check it through the door. You could see it dripping down. They had been there a little bit, so Papa got them ready again. All they had was the clothing on their backs. He told Mama to hold onto my mother and Auntie. It was going to be really hard because the water was already trickling down the steps of the storm cellar by then.”
William must have known it was getting ready to flood, and if it did flood, they couldn’t fight it coming down the steps. My grandmother recalls how terrifying an ordeal it must have been for them. But William managed to get back up the steps while Lillie and the children waited for him to come back with the team of mules. My grandmother said, according to the story, the water had risen enough to flood the house and was on its way to the storm cellar.
“When he got back to the cellar, he threw the door open and reached for Mama, and Mama put the kids out first, of course. So, she got them out and he got them in the wagon. Mama took hold of his hand then and pulled her out, just as the storm cellar began to come apart. It was close. They all got in the wagon and got out of there. It saved their lives, because the storm cellar caved in just moments later.”
My grandmother told me she used to go to that cellar when she was growing up. It was, of course, rebuilt and strengthened by the time she was born, but she assured me even then it was a terrifying experience to go down there.
According to her, the cellar was originally round and packed with dirt; very primitive, but it worked. She said that her mother told her later in life that the flood caused them to lose everything, including the house.
These family stories do more than just retell a moment in time. They keep someone’s memory alive and remind us of the trials, the sacrifices, and the triumphs of those who came before us.