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Observations, musings and miscellany from an unapologetic sentimentalist.

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The Glue That Holds Us Together

on November 28, 2019

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Moonshine and Murder, A Tale of Charley and Jim Fortenberry

I never heard anyone talk about my great-grandfather. After digging into his past, I imagine that’s because his family probably thought it best left it unsaid. Charles B. “Charley” Fortenberry likely was born in January 1860, if that year’s census record is correct. He was five months old when the census taker came to take his count. Charley was the firstborn child of Henry P. and Nancy Fortenberry, who were 20 and 16. The family of three got a little extra income from Peter O’Bryan, a 33-year-old Irishman, who was boarding with Henry and Nancy. It’s doubtful anyone could have imagined that just a year or two after Charley was born, America would be divided, and Henry would be leaving his young family behind to fight with the rebels. Charley was just two years old when his father enlisted with the Cherokee Grays. Charley was born and raised in Alabama, one of the first Fortenberrys to be born an...

She Was Radiant

She was radiant. You would have said her hair was red, but it was not. It was copper, a brilliant, deep orange that caught the light and threw it back at you. It could easily be mistaken for a halo. Natalie Henderson Bates was an angel of an intern in our public relations department. She was perfect for the role. She was funny, engaging, professional and memorable. The team we worked with marveled at her perfect hair, perfect makeup and perfect wardrobe, all pulled off on a college student budget and a boat load of talent and instinct. It was a few years after her internship, after college and after she had married the love of her life when we found out she had leukemia. It seemed cruel and wrong, but if Natalie felt that way you wouldn't know it. Natalie braved the treatments and their side effects and turned them into an opportunity to shine and to inspire. She fought back with flair and panache, and ...

Lessons from Mexico: The Seed Planter

Emily Ann with some of the children of San Francisco, Mexico. The minute she walked into Brenda’s yard, Emily Ann Burger’s face broke out into a smile brighter than the Mexican sun. If Christian love has a facial expression, this is it. The reason for the smile was Ericka, Brenda’s 11-year-old daughter. Emily Ann spoke a few words in Spanish, and a grin spread across Ericka’s face. The shy Mayan girl and the American college student were instant friends. From that moment forward Emily Ann was our connection to the children of Ichmul, San Francisco and Chan Calotmul. A seed was planted. Whether drawing with chalk, playing with an oversized beach ball, painting fingernails or taking pictures on her iPhone, the children gravitated to Emily Ann, and she to them. I have never seen anything quite like it. At the end of that first full day in Mexico, when Eli, our leader, asked volunteers about their favorite part of the day, ...

The Life and Times of Henry P. Fortenberry

My wife gave me a DNA test for Christmas last year, and since then, I've developed an appetite to learn more about my ancestors. Over the past few months, I feel like I've finally gotten to know Henry Fortenberry, my great-great grandfather, just a little bit. Here is his story: Alabama 48th Soldier John P. Alldredge served in Company A. Henry served in Company H. I do not have a photo of Henry. Like his ancestors before him, my great-great grandfather, Henry Fortenberry, was a survivor. Life was hard for Charles and Alsey Fortenberry, when Henry, their second child was born. They were living in Spartanburg, South Carolina with two-year-old Isaac, their first born. America was reeling from the Panic of 1837, an economic depression that closed banks and cost many Americans their wealth. And, food was sparse following a severe drought in 1838, the worst ever recorded in the South. ...

Happy Birthday Pood

January 13 was my dad’s birthday. Pood, the nickname his 12 brothers and sisters gave him, would have been 84 years old. It has been more than 17 years since he died just a few days after Father’s Day, and I miss him, but not in the way I would have predicted. It’s not his voice, his laughter or the touch of his callused hands that I mourn. What brings the tears is that he did not know his grandchildren, and they do not know him. E was two when my dad died. They spent many Saturdays together, picking up pecans in our front yard, E holding tightly to my dad’s thick finger. Papa, as E called him, doted on him. E barely remembers. Pood always wanted a daughter, but that was not meant to be. If he had known my girl, oh my. I can only imagine. He would have never left her side. Pood didn’t have much, but he would have returned to collecting and selling scrap metal to earn money to spoil her. ...

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