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The Perfect Picnic Spot,
the Better Memory
By Julie Terry Cartner
As usual, we carried our picnic lunch with us as we traveled through Ireland. Cheese, Irish, of course, Tuc’s Crackers, fruit, nuts, and maybe a digestive for dessert. And, also as usual, we searched for a scenic pull-off, somewhere we could continue to absorb the beauty and tranquility of Ireland.
On that day, we settled for a pull-off by a stone bridge over a flowing river, on the side of a small but semi-busy road. Scenic, yes, but maybe not as tranquil as some. As we got out of the car, Danny spoke to a man, clearly taking his lunch break at the same place. “May we join you?” Apparently thinking we just wanted to take in the view, he was welcoming, but when he saw us pulling out our lunch, he was so much more. “There’s a nice beach about 15 minutes up the road if you’re looking for a lunch spot,” he told us. Thinking that sounded nice, we thanked him and got back in the car. While we were loading up, we didn’t realize that he, with his half-eaten sandwich, also got into his work van.
He then proceeded to lead us down the road until we got near the beach. He pulled over to the side of the road and pointed down a small lane, clearly indicating the way. Finally, with a cheery wave as a response to our heart-felt thank yous, he made a U-turn and headed back the way we had just come.
I don’t know this man’s story. I have no idea if he had to drive all 15 kilometers back to where our guided tour started, or whether he was turning off along the way. It doesn’t matter. This total stranger went out of his way to help some Americans, some complete strangers, find a lovely, quiet place where we could enjoy our lunch. I will never forget him or that moment in time.
This, my friends, was the America of my childhood, in my tiny hometown in New York. I bet it was your childhood too, with people going out of their way to help others, taking the extra time to be kind, doing what they were meant to do. What has happened? Where has this kind of generosity gone?
I dream about moving to Ireland. I love the beauty of this wonderful country, the history, the music and the art. But mostly. I love the people. The kindness exhibited to a couple of strangers went above and beyond by today’s standards, but I can remember more than one occasion when I saw my dad exhibit that level of kindness to complete strangers. One time stands out. A young man asked Dad if he could camp overnight under our cherry tree. He was several legs into a quest to hike around the country. He wanted no help, no handouts. Dad offered a more substantial shelter, but the man declined. All he wanted was a safe place to lay his sleeping bag. Dad agreed, but in the morning, he brought the man a cup of hot coffee. “Surely, this won’t count as a hand-out, just a friendly gesture.” The men chatted while they sipped their cups, then, rolling up his sleeping bag and declining the offer of a hot shower, he headed down the road. I’ll never know if he accomplished his mission, but I do know he left my hometown feeling good about the kindness of a stranger, my dad.
Our beach stop was lovely, indeed. It was far more peaceful than leaning against a bridge on a well-traveled road. Instead, we found some rocks to sit on at Inch (meaning River Meadow) Beach, spread out our repast, and feasted in the sun, watching the waves roll in on turquoise water, listening to the calls of the gulls, and enjoying the antics of people taking a break from their busy days to play in the sand, splash along the coastline, and soak in some sunshine, as we did too. I even took a bit of time to take a brief swim, not being able to resist the appeal of those sea-green waves. I will probably always carry that memory with me, but greater still, I will carry that act of kindness, a gift with no expectation of repayment.
 Chasing Roots
By Gaye Hoots
I saw a Facebook post about my maternal ancestors whose cabin was restored and moved to Central Park in King, NC. A historical marker identifies a Spainhour who served in the Revolutionary War. He was an ancestor of my mother’s parents, who were distant cousins, though they never knew. My grandfather was a Fulk, and the German spelling was Volck. The first Volck settler’s daughter married a Spainhour, and they raised 13 children in the cabin in King Park. My grandmother was a Spainhour, whose ancestors were from Sweden.
I was aware that the first Hoots ancestor in the US settled in Yadkin County, changed his name from the German Huth to Hoots, and served in the Revolutionary War. He was granted over 700 acres in Yadkin for his service, and there are still descendants on this property.
My grandmother Hoots was a Williams, her mother a Hutchens, who descended from Strangeman Hutchins of English heritage. Most of his children spelled the name with an “i,” but his son John and a couple of others spelled Hutchens with an “e.” John served and was wounded in the Revolutionary War, and my grandmother is descended from this line. I traced the Williams line through Findagrave.com, back to Timothy Williams from England, simply by clicking on the father of each one back to Timothy.
Documents referring to mandatory tithes imposed by the Church of England were cited as a reason for leaving England and for their avoidance of continuing to use the name Timothy for descendants.Several ancestors were Quakers, and Strangeman Hutchins, whose name was a family surname, freed his slaves because of his beliefs.
My children’s family has deep roots. Some of the Potts family still live on land that was part of a land grant to Jerimah Potts. George Washington Potts and his brother Archibald married sisters by the name of Hilton, and most of the Potts families in Advance are descended from these families. They are buried at Advance United Methodist Church, and seven generations of my children’s family are buried there. Their grandmother Potts was a Foster, and the Fosters came from Rowan County before it was cut into smaller counties. A Brock married into this family, and the Fosters and Brocks have a rich history in Davie County.
On my mother’s side, her grandfather, Spainhour, was married to a Butner related to Adam Butner, whose house stands in Old Salem. His daughter married a Clemmons for whom Clemmons was named. A Stagecoach named Hattie Butner and Camp Butner were named after members of this family. The Hattie Butner can be viewed in Clemmons. I am descended from Adam’s son Jacob, and Janine Vogler Roberts and Mondell Ellis are descended from Adam Butner Jr.
My cousin sent me a family history of the Hoots dating back to the 14th Century. I have not read all of it. A Fulk from my mother’s side became King of Jerusalem by marriage. This was not a happy story as he tried to overrule his wife and exert control. He was originally from France.
On my mother’s side, there is a story of a Poindexter believed to have married an Indian for whom Donahoa was named, and the story was that his daughter left her husband, returned to the Cherokee nation, and was the mother of Junaluska. She could not be traced to the Cherokee and is possibly from another tribe. I was also told that I have Indian blood from the Plowmans on my grandfather Hoots’ side, but I could not document this, and it did not show up when Faye and I had our DNA done by 23andMe. I thoroughly enjoy tracing my roots. 
Front Porch Visits
By Marie Craig
Come sit on my front porch and let’s have a chat. There’s something so special about sharing the beautiful day – beach clouds on a bright blue sky, wind blowing very lightly, trees swaying, feeling of being satisfied and safe. While others are getting sunburned and tired from sports and races, we can be present in the moment and savor the afternoon. Around the world, people are dodging bullets, putting out forest fires, and recovering from storms. We are so fortunate to have this peace and stability. Some people grumble about things as mundane as grass in the yard being an eighth inch too tall, but really, is that your highest concern?
Did you hear that? It was a cardinal singing “wet, wet, wet” predicting that we might get some more rain. The little shower we had earlier was a nice surprise. Spring is here, and the pollen is just about gone. It’s a necessary part of procreation, but hard on allergies and front porch cleanliness.
Look at that teeny jet climbing in the sky. It’s hard to imagine that 200 or 300 people are in it so far away and going so fast. The cottonwood tree in front of us has grown leaves so quickly. I believe you could get close enough to watch them get bigger. Thanks for remembering that I wrote about that once. It’s a special, magic tree. How did it get here? There’s probably not another one within hundreds of miles. Soon, the dainty, tiny white fluffies will begin their airborne journey to try to replicate another tree. The ground will look like there was a snow shower.
In front of it, seven years ago, that area was mowed. I’m glad they quit; now we have blackberry bushes with blooms, a honey locust tree with their huge thorns and grape-shaped leaves, and several redbud trees that were waiting patiently to spring to life. A few days ago, I saw a bunny rabbit hopping along that area. I think it was too small for the Easter Rabbit.
I haven’t seen a hummingbird yet, but I’m sure I will soon. They know not to disappoint me. The irises have been spectacular this year.Daffodils, violets, pansies, and ornamental fruit trees are already through with their annual displays, but I sit here with gratitude in my heart for many wonderful things: a new great granddaughter, safe journeys for my big family, and a gorgeous springtime to share with friends.