Digging Up Dirt: My Top 5 Sites for the Beginning Genealogist

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

If you’ve read my blog for a while, you know that part of its focus is on genealogy. As I’ve said, I’m not a professional genealogist. Like most of you, I began with a curiosity about where I came from . . . where my roots are. My journey began back in the 1990s when we moved to Florida and I met the regent of my local DAR chapter, a fellow-member of our church choir.

I had no clue where the road would lead me but believe me when I tell you, I’ve been on more pot-hole-filled, back-woods-country-roads than I ever thought possible. I’ve gotten lost more than once. I’ve driven over rain-slicked, red clay roads, over briar and bramble, and trudged through the thickest, insect-infested woods in south Alabama. All for the sake of finding the final resting place of a long-forgotten ancestor.

Scripture and Hymns, The Gospel in Song

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

I don’t know why I should be surprised, but in the past couple of weeks, I have been by the number of scripture verses posted that are anthems or solos I’ve sung at one time or another in my lifetime. Now, granted, when you get to be my age and you’ve been singing in church since you were three, you should know a verse or two and not just Jesus Loves Me.

This got me to thinking of the tradition in which I was raised. My Daddy’s family worshiped in the Presbyterian church, my Mama in the Methodist. During WWII when Daddy was fighting over in the Pacific and Mama was home with Bobbie, Mama went to the Methodist church close to her home because it was too far to walk to the Presbyterian church where Daddy and his family had worshiped. Then, when Daddy came home from the war, the people at the Methodist church came by to welcome him home. Sadly, his home church didn’t do the same. That is how we became the only Methodists in the DuPree family.

My Patriot, One of Many

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

Since we celebrate our great country’s birthday this week, I spent a bit of time today looking up my great-great-great-great-grandfather’s Revolutionary War service. As we celebrate our independence, I couldn’t help but think about Grandpa Jeremiah Dupree.

Grandpa Jeremiah was born November 16, 1754, in Brunswick County, Virginia, which became Greensville County in 1780.  He entered the service in Greensville County in 1777 as a Volunteer and was Ensign of the Company. His commanding officer was Captain William Peterson.

Apparently, Grandpa went in and out of service. When he left, he was replaced by his brother, Cordell Dupree. It seems that they swapped places with one another from time to time. Terms of service were only three months. I suppose they thought the war wouldn’t last long. I have no clue and I am no historian. In 1780, Grandpa volunteered once again and entered the service within the same county.

Who's in Your Path?

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

Have you ever thought about the people you come across on a daily basis, or even those that seem to be chance encounters? I’ve thought about this a great deal lately—mostly in regards to this writing journey I’ve been on since 2014.

One of the main influences upon me back then, and even today, is my sister Bobbie. She’s been a big influence upon my life since the day I was born, but for the majority of my life, I wasn’t aware of just how significant a role she played. I knew she was my big sister and that she loved me and I loved her, but I was a kid, a teen, a young married woman, then a busy mother raising four sons. Who had time to think about the things she may or may not have been pouring into me?

Half-Baked Beats Blown to Bits

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

One thing about me that most people don’t know is that I have a super-sensitive nose. That’s right, I’ve been gifted with the nose of a blood hound.

To prove my point, here is a short story. Our youngest son and I were walking through a mall in Florida one day. We were coming from one end, exiting through one of the big anchors, level two, into the promenade inside the mall. I told my son that I smelled spearmint and that someone nearby was chewing spearmint gum. Now, we all know that very distinctive odor. You probably don’t smell it as I do, but you are familiar with it.

We made our way down the storefronts and the aroma grew stronger. Son, didn’t smell it. Yet. We make our way to the other end of the mall and took the escalator to the bottom floor. Now, the smell was almost overpowering. At the bottom of the escalator, on the first floor, all the way on the opposite end of the mall, stood a woman taking one of those familiar surveys. She was smacking away on none other than spearmint gum. And this is just one such story of which there are too many to count.

At the End of Your Rope?

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

Have you ever felt that you were at the end of your rope? I think most of us have. Sometimes life just throws so much at us that it’s hard to cope. We don’t know if the decisions we’ve made are the right ones, friends betray us, people say hurtful, cruel things to us or about us. The ones we thought would always be there either leave this world or they simply abandon us for one reason or another.

When I saw the man up in the tree in our back yard, I had to walk away. See, I’m deathly afraid of heights—Acrophobia. I have a case of that big time. I don’t do well on even a short step ladder. Forget the eight-foot one out in our garage. Nope. That little beauty is my husband’s domain.

We recently moved into our condo here in North Carolina. The actual move-in was at the end of January, but we weren’t really living here until the beginning of May. In January, there were no leaves on the trees outside our rear windows. We had a fairly unobstructed view of the golf course that lies beyond our boundary.

Voices of the Past

By Debra DuPree Williams @DDuPreeWilliams

The Headstone of my GGG Grandparents

Y’all know that I’m into charting the genealogies of my family. I’ve been working on some lines for as long as twenty years, maybe even more. With a few, I got lucky, or rather, blessed. There were people who did the foot work long before I became interested. And when I say foot work, I mean literal walking through courthouses, libraries, and cemeteries, not to mention, vacant fields where old homesteads once sat. I imagine they spent hours rummaging through dusty, old documents in search of that one paper that would tell them this is who you are.