Making the Family Skeleton Dance

Welcome to The House on Harrison Street: The Gordon-Ritchie Saga.

Included on this Blog are tidbits of what you can expect when you hold in your own hands a copy of The House on Harrison Street.  It will not be an e-book nor will it be available on Kindle.  It is a family history saga, written in the creative non-fiction genre, and is published for you and for many, it is hoped, as a reference book regarding Camden, Arkansas social history and for use as inspiration for those who wish to tell their own family stories by bringing their ancestors to life through storytelling.

Margaret Jane when living at 134 Harrison

In one of the stories I share about my early years in school at Cleveland Avenue, Mother says to me, after I share my embarrassing day at school, "Well, Margaret Jane, you don't have to tell everything you know. You could have not raised your hand at all!"  Sorry, Mother, I'm still at it, still telling "everything I know." Not really; sometimes silence is the better part of the story, but not in this case.

The House on Harrison Street - 134 Harrison

While this volume will not be, nor do I propose for it to be, a best-seller, it is important for historic preservation. Children today do not have the same beautiful opportunity that we did. Most live far from their cousins and have no weekly dinner with Grandmother; they do not rip and romp with their cousins, hear family tales while shelling peas and snapping beans. Women today seem too busy to pull up a tall chair or a stool for their daughters, allowing the little mess-pots to learn how to make Tattee's Candy or how to make muscadine jelly or plum preserves, all the while sharing family stories. We, of our certain age, came in on the tail-end of that era and reaped the benefit of "home training."

My sons do not know the stories I have shared. Perhaps they are not interested. Not today. But when you and I are long gone from this world, they might wonder about the family, their ancestry. Contained within this volume are those stories, the questions, and most of the answers.

I always liked to read biography, autobiography, and books about families. It's like walking through the neighborhood, taking time to look through the open windows, checking out decor or other interesting elements. I like to read about other people, true stories, stories that confess, "Yep, us, too." Everybody has feet of clay.

1983 Gordon-Ritchie Family Reunion

Within the book are forty photos, some that have rarely, if ever, been seen. End notes, a bibliography, and an index are included.

 For the immediate family, I've also created a CD which contains Time Lines, Family Group Sheets, and Ancestry.com genealogy, family recipes, plus many more photos than the 40 contained within the book. Those of you who have responded via email, I have your order recorded. Thank you!

Starting February 1, 2016, approximately 3-4 times a week, I will post a little blurb on this Blog (www.houseonharrison.blogspot.com). The blurb is intended to whet your appetite for the book.

You can PRE-ORDER the book and CD from me (janegatewood@centurylink.net) or (ellajane.jg@gmail.com).  Each copy is $20 (before shipping). My immediate COUSINS who helped me compile this book will receive ABSOLUTELY FREE OF CHARGE the accompanying CD. Otherwise, the CD is an additional $10.  You can avoid the Shipping Expense by being in Camden March 11, 12, or 13 for the Daffodil Festival and I'll have your signed copy for you. Otherwise, the shipping expense is $5 and should be added to the price of the book and CD.

Thank you for your interest in this volume of Family and Camden History.
I look forward to sharing the Gordon-Ritchie stories with you.

The Coup de Grace

(Creative Non-Fiction: while the essence of the story is truthful, I have taken creative liberties to make the story move faster, strike the reader with humor; the story is the truth, but some of the details are enhanced.)

 A great road trip is comprised of a great car, a great destination, and a great story. A light blue Oldsmobile Cutlass with white leather interior, bucket seats, automatic on the floor, rear speaker radio, and two-door body style became our family sedan for that summer and, in hind sight, the worst vehicle purchase Daddy ever made. Great for glamour; not so great for a road trip.

The summer of 1965 included a family vacation to New Orleans. My younger brother and I folded ourselves into the back seat of our two-door sports sedan with Mother and Daddy in the front bucket seats. With full control of the radio, our parents, smoking like advertising executives for Viceroy, cruised down the highway in the sporty, head-turning Cutlass I had sported through the high school parking lot not a month previous.

After a week in New Orleans, a week of eating at fancy restaurants in the evening and buying Bourbon Street souvenirs during the day, it was time to pack the car, including the customary delicacy:  Mother and Daddy always brought home fresh shrimp after a visit to the Gulf coast.

As back seat passengers, my brother and I rested our feet on souvenir sacks; the small trunk was brim-filled with luggage, so the ice chest for the shrimp presented a dilemma. Daddy was pondering how he’d be able to transport the fresh shrimp; priorities had to be established.  I volunteered to stay behind. 

Since the vehicle was not equipped with a luggage rack, Daddy rigged one, swapping out luggage from the trunk to accommodate a large cooler of shrimp. Daddy covered the ousted luggage with a tarp and strapped it to the trunk. 

With speed and wind, the tarp began to shred and the luggage shook. The sound of the ripping and whipping tarp was deafening. Daddy could hardly keep his eyes on the road ahead for glancing in the rear-view mirrors to be sure we did not litter the highway. Stops along the side of the road to secure the tie-downs lengthened our journey. We looked like the Jed Clampets without the rocking chair. Indeed, heads were turning to gander at our vehicle as it sped toward home.

He did not see the flashing lights. So much noise surrounded the vehicle that Daddy, singular in his focus, also did not hear the siren of the Louisiana Highway Patrol car.

Daddy rarely cursed in the presence of women and children. He broke with tradition.

I slunk down in the back seat, praying the big, ugly trooper in a big, ugly hat would not take my father to jail. Mother lit another cigarette. My brother provided commentary on all the events as they unfolded. He was especially impressed with being pulled over by a Lee Marvin look-alike, hoping the trooper with unsteady swagger would serenade us with the happy birthday spectacle from Cat Ballou. The serenade he shared with us was not exactly what we expected.

We pulled into our driveway late that Sunday night with exhausted and cramped bodies, battered luggage, but fully intact, iced, fresh Gulf shrimp. And a ticket, the coup de grace. Daddy drove the Cutlass to the dealership the next day and I never saw that Dream Machine again.