The County Line

They always said my grandaddy was shot dead on the county line.

We took a visit to the county line.

As it turns out, it could have been anywhere on the county line, as the county line is a looong country road, that intersects with GA Hwy 112, and we were only on the North end of it. But, this end of it intersected in a spot right smack where Wilcox Co. meets Turner Co. Yes, we got pictures of those signs, too, on opposite sides of the road from one another.

I always heard that my granpa died in a gun fight. That he and another man shot one another over a land dispute. I'd even seen the gun that, it was said, my grandpa shot the other man with.















It seems that my grandpa had set out to meet with his daddies adversary, regarding a land dispute. Nasworthy was his name. Nasworthy was trying to encrouch upon my family's land and over-ride the boundaries, claiming a portion, of ours, as his own. My grandpa knew exactly where the property lines were. Soooo, the two men agree to meet at the county line. The tale goes that my grandpa got out of the car, but was not carrying a gun. There was a gun, in the car, however, and my granpa's brother-in-law was sitting in the car, along with that gun.

It is said that Nasworthy got out of his own car, walked towards my grandpa, pulled out his gun and shot my grandaddy, who fell dead on the spot. The adversary died later on that same night. The newspaper reported that the two men had shot one another over this land dispute. The field workers had reported that they'd heard two gun shots, and then saw my grandfather's brother-in-law place something in grandpa's hand. When it was enquired, later, of the brother-in-law, as to who had actually shot Nasworthy, he was said to have replied, "I didn't do anything for Gaston that he wouldn't have done for me."

Along the way of our quest to re-live some of this ancient family history, we were passing through numerous very small towns in the very deep of South Georgia, and we chanced to see the Wilcox County Courthouse, seated in Abbeville, Ga. During the last visit that my father would have with his last two remaining siblings, before he and one of them passed away, it was told that it had once been witnessed that another man had once beaten Nasworthy with a buggy whip, right there on the courthouse steps, in Abbeville.
















It was said that Nasworthy was a mean and disdainful man, hated by many. Enough, that he was shot and killed for it, in that final confrontation.

We listened to tales about pig turd hill and the Nappahaw River... and saw the gravesite of our great-grandpa Walker... who never claimed us, by name, for our decendent(my grandpa) was born out of wedlock, by the poor housekeeper who worked for him (my great-grandma) who was only 16 years old when she started having his young, so they tell... about 9 of 'em, I believe. Word of mouth had it that she'd often go walking off, down the road, with her brood in tow... and would only come back, with the whole passel of 'em if he'd promise to send them to school. He never did, it is told, and my grandpa only learned to read once he had married my grandmother, who, in time, taught him that all important skill. I'd like it to be noted that, even though my great-grandpa Walker never gave his children (the ones born from my great-grandma) his name... it was in protecting my great-grandpa Walker's land, that my own grandpa died.

Well, Grandpa died fairly young, in that gunfight... in any case, leaving behind his own brood of 8 or 9. Make that 10 or 11, two being from a previous marriage, but whose mother had died, early on. Those two would be raised by their aunt, and not allowed to grow up in the house that my own father was raised in. I only became aware of the existence of those two half-uncles when I was about 14 years old. It is said that they always wanted to be with their father, but the aunt hated the father so much that she threatened to deny the children as his own, if he tried to take them from her. Because of my grandfather's early death, my own father would leave school, in the 9th grade, in order to help put food on the table for the two sisters who still remained at home. One of the last bits of warm family reflection came from from my Aunt Nene (Nadine) who was one of those two remaining sisters. Though she was snaggledy toothed and her mind a bit tetched, at the time, her memory did not fail to remember that it was my Daddy who always gave them money to go out and buy new things with, when there was noone else who could. His family was always very close.

We saw old houses that some of us had never seen before, where my family had once lived in, and heard stories about the chickens getting after my brother, when he was very small. We saw spots where houses used to be, to include a long since gone log cabin, and one lovely referred to as 'the little house' which was, at some point in time, later moved into town. We are still searchingn for that house. We heard about times when the river would flood and my mama would run down to the ditch and rake the fish right out onto the yard. Fresh fish that night! We saw the old house we visited, often, as a child... and re-lived memories of days of out-door toilets... and water that ran from a hand pump, clothes that went through machines with hand-cranked wringers... and water drawn from an old well. Fires, that warmed our bones, and the deep deep warmth of the feather mattresses that snuggled us to sleep. Meals cooked on wood-burning stoves, milk fresh from the cows, butter freshly churned. The dog that ran with you, past the cows and down to the pond... and purplish clay hills, remembered well, as a child.

We posed in front of old buildings that are barely standing... and bought leather work gloves from the same store that my grandmother once frequented. We still have the receipts dating back to the 1930's. It is a very small town... hardly able to support it's population of farmers. It was from a share-cropper's roots that my heritage sprang. We visited the old Primitive Baptist church that my grandma once attended, as well. Still standing, after all these years. We took snapshots of the many graves in our family graveyard... now, somewhat outta place, at the front of someone's farm field.

The bottom line is that... had things been legal... my maiden name would not be what it is today. And makes me wonder about all the people that I might be related to, that otherwise would not have been considered.

Some of us plan to never again return. Some of us are already planning a return, to be digested at a much slower pace.

It was hot. As my dad would say, "It was mossy hot!" It was an expression that sprang from this strange land. And sometimes, food cooked to perfection, was, as we lovingly remember him having said, "mossy good!" There, in that foresaken land, it was swarming with nats that flew all about your face, in that stifling heat. It is the sorta place where the people have so little going on, that a slow driving car, moving along a stretch of country road, with people hanging out the windows, cameras in hand, is easily noticed and confronted. Some who come outside are friendly... some are not... and you get the feeling that you'd better move on. Some invited us out of the car, welcomed all the pictures we wanted to take, and welcomed long conversation.

My sister and I both came away feeling a bit more connected to our roots, than ever before. My sister and I plan to return.