“I think I found him, Junior,” he told the old man, who smiled widely.
“That so?”
“I’m sure it is—it’s my grandfather, Benjamin. It says he was the son of David Evan Rhys and Marian Rose Walters.”
“Wal, could be. I never knowed much about them, and I’d plumb fergot their names. But you know, I b’lieve they might’ve lived over in Lee County. I recall hearin’ my daddy talk about havin’ some kin over there, but we didn’t visit back and forth, not that I can call to mind. Well. That’s mighty fine. I’m sure glad ya’ll come back this mornin’!”
“Oh, so am I, Junior! So am I. Now, I wonder if I dare ask you a really big favor? And if you say no, I’ll surely understand. But I wonder if there’s any way you could trust us to take these pages and have copies made? I’d send them back to you right away, at the care center you’re going to.”
Junior puckered his face and consulted the sky. The bishop breathed a silent prayer and knew that Trish was doing the same.
When Junior spoke, it was in a low voice, as if he were talking to himself. “Dovie Jane’s done gone to her reward. I don’t never hear from none of her young ’uns. Ernie’s so far gone it’s like he ain’t even hisself no more. I got neither chick nor child to leave these to. I tell you what,” he added, his voice louder. “I’d like to have these records to look at, onc’t I get settled at the home, but I could do that just as well with copies, if you can get good ones made. I b’lieve I’d like y’all to have these. Reckon you care more about the fam’ly and all than anybody else I can think of, and I b’lieve you’d take good care of ’em.”
“Junior, I assure you I would take excellent care of these—they’re priceless. And I’d be more than happy to make copies for you. But are you sure you want to let us keep the originals?”
The old man considered again, then slowly nodded. “Cain’t say exactly why, but yessir, I b’lieve that’d be the best thang. Tell you what, though—you write down your name and address and put it with them copies, so’s if anybody comes lookin’, I can tell ’em where the pages have got to.”
The bishop nodded deeply, and momentarily unable to speak, reached to clasp the old man’s hand in both of his. Tiffani had wandered up, her book in hand, to see what had been found, and Trish showed her Benjamin’s name. Mallory, meantime, had taken Jamie around back to view the offensive privy.
Just then, a blue van with a flowery sign painted on the side that read “Restful Years Retirement Center” pulled up behind the bishop’s car, and a young woman got out.
“Mr. Rhys?” she asked, pronouncing it like “Rice.”
“It’s Rhys,” Junior said loudly, correcting the mistake. “Junior Rhys is my name. What’s yours, young lady?”
“I’m Jennifer, from Restful Years. It looks like you’re all packed up and ready to go, is that right? Is this your family?”
Junior looked them over. “Wal, yes, I reckon they are,” he said proudly.
“We’re his cousins,” the bishop said. “Visiting from Alabama. We’re glad we found Junior here before he moved.”
“Well, how nice. Next time, you’ll have to come see him at the center. We welcome visitors. They’re good for the residents’ morale.”
“We’d love to,” the bishop said firmly. “We’ll pop in whenever we can.”
“So are you ready, Mr. er—Rhys? Are these the things you’re taking?” Jennifer asked.
“I’ll help you move them,” the bishop said, and lifted a box while the young woman went to open the back door to the van.
The bishop stacked the boxes in the vehicle, while Junior stood to one side and looked over his land and his little home.
“Is that everything then, Mr. Rhys?” asked Jennifer. “We want to be sure and get there in time for lunch today. We’re having fried catfish. Do you like catfish?”
He ignored her, and stumped back inside his house, emerging a moment later, stuffing a small snuff can in his shirt pocket. He turned a key in the door and slipped the key under a rag rug on the porch.
“Don’t you want to take the key, Mr. Rhys?” asked Jennifer.
“What fer? I won’t have need of it at the home.”
“But someone might get in and cause trouble!”
“Around here? It’ll be two weeks afore anybody realizes they ain’t seen me lately! And nobody never bothers nothin’, anyway. Never have. Besides . . .” his voice grew quieter. “Reckon one day soon the real estate lady’ll want to go inside and have a look, and I’ll just tell her where to find the key.”
“All right, then—if you’re sure. Now—ready to go get some catfish?”
The bishop hadn’t known Junior Rhys for long, but he knew him well enough to sense the mixed emotions the old man was experiencing in leaving his home.
“Junior, good luck to you,” he said, enveloping the old man in a hug. “God bless you for your kindness. Keep well.”
“Yessir, I’ll try to do that,” Junior said. “Ya’ll have a good safe trip, you hear?”
“Junior, it’s been a pleasure,” Trish said, kissing the bristly cheek. “We’re glad you’re part of our family.”
“Well, now. I thank you for that. Y’all young ’uns be good, now! I gotta go. Miss Jennifer here says I’ve got fried catfish waitin’ on me.” He turned and went to the van, his chin high, not looking back. Jennifer fussed over his seat belt, apparently insisting that he use it, and then waved as she climbed into the driver’s seat.
The bishop looked at his wife. She stood with her arm around Tiffani’s shoulders, and both had tears running down their cheeks.
“Daddy, I’m so sorry,” Tiffani wailed, throwing her arms around him. “I was being a selfish little beast, and I’m glad you didn’t listen to me! I wasn’t in tune at all, and you were.”
He hugged her tightly. “We all have times when we’re not in tune with the Spirit,” he told her softly. “It’s good when we can recognize the difference.”
“It’s just so neat, what he gave you. I can’t believe it!”
He hugged his wife next.
“I can’t, either,” he said. “It’s only thanks to the good Lord, I can tell you that, because when I went to sleep last night I didn’t have the faintest inclination to come visit Junior again today. But the Lord knew what was in that box, and He brought it to Junior’s remembrance.”
“It’s amazing,” Trish said, wiping her eyes. “I’m glad we came back today for Junior’s sake, too. Poor old fellow—it was hard for him to leave.”
“We’ll keep in touch with him,” the bishop vowed. “It’s the least we can do.”
“What is the matter with you guys?” Jamie demanded. “Why’s everybody crying, for Pete’s sake?”
His mother reached out and drew him to her for a quick hug. “Everything’s fine, Jamie. We’re crying because we’re happy, and thankful.”
“Oh, like at testimony meeting, huh?”
“Pretty much. Daddy just got a whole lot of information about his grandpa and his family.”
“And if he’d listened to me, and gone on home today, we wouldn’t ever have gotten it,” Tiffani explained. “The Holy Ghost told him to come back here, because Mr.—Junior—just remembered he had it.”
“That’s cool,” Jamie opined. “I just don’t get why you want to cry about it. I mean, Mom cries at a lot of stuff, but you don’t, Dad, and Tiff mostly cries when she’s mad, and Mal cries if she gets hurt, but I haven’t cried since I was a little kid, so—”
“Oh, right,” Tiffani said. “You cried when T-Rex got hurt, and when—”
“I did not!”
The bishop intervened. “The thing is, Jamie, the Spirit touches our minds with information and our hearts with feelings. It’s the feelings that get to you and make tears come—even for grown men, sometimes. And intense happiness or gratitude can be one of those feelings.”
Jamie looked unconvinced. “I don’t think I ever want to be that happy,” he said.
&n
bsp; “You will,” his parents spoke together, then looked at each other and chuckled. Jamie rolled his eyes in a manner befitting his elder sister and headed for the car.
The bishop got his camera and jogged across the highway.
“What’re you doing, Daddy?” Mallory asked.
“I’m taking some pictures of Junior’s house to send him,” her father replied.
“Why?”
“Because Junior’s moving away, and he’ll want to remember this place. And so will we,” Trish said softly.
They had a prayer of thanksgiving before they continued their journey.
Chapter Seven
* * *
“ . . . O home belov’d, where’er I wander”
“So, hon—I’m sure you’ll want to check out the Lee County courthouse while we’re this close, won’t you?” Trish asked, as her husband slid in behind the wheel and put away his camera.
“It’s the best chance we’ll have for a while,” he responded. “How about it, troops?”
“Go ahead, Dad,” Tiffani answered. “I think you should, now that you’re hot on the trail of these people.” To Tiffani’s credit, the bishop noted, she didn’t even heave a regretful sigh about the missed square dance.
They determined the route to Leesburg, the county seat, and headed in that direction. While they drove, Trish took the opportunity to examine more carefully the precious pages obtained from Junior Rhys.
“What’re you finding, babe?” her husband asked, as she looked up from the pages and took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly.
“Whew! I’m finding that I can’t read while riding in a car like I used to do. Being pregnant may have something to do with that. But anyway, from what I could see, it looks like you’ve got at least a partial record of about four generations here. That’s amazing.”
“Yeah, it is! I just can’t get over how that happened.”
“I think it’s called faith and prayer, sweetheart.”
“The Lord really came through for us, didn’t He? Beyond my wildest expectations.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “You know, I have a testimony of the gospel on a lot of fronts—overall, of course, and of things like the value of tithing, and guidance in our callings or our families, and the need for a restoration through the Prophet Joseph—and now I can add a real witness of family history. I’m absolutely positive now that the Lord wants these records found and preserved—and used, of course—to provide temple ordinances. I don’t mean that I ever doubted other people’s testimonies of that fact, but now it’s real to me in a way it never was before.”
“Me, too,” Trish agreed. “It’s pretty humbling, isn’t it?”
“It’s both humbling and gloriously happifying!”
“Um, Dad? Is that a word?” asked Tiffani from the backseat.
“In my new vocabulary, it is!” he replied. “It means I’m excited and delighted and surprised and tickled pink.”
“I can tell. Hey, Mom—can I please look at those pages?”
“Sure, Tiff—carefully, I don’t need to say.”
“Well, duh—it’s not like I’m going to crumble them and throw them to the birds.”
“I know. But they are kind of fragile.”
Bishop Shepherd didn’t care for “duh,” either in word or tone, when the children spoke to their parents, but he let it go. “First thing I’m going to do is make copies and put them all in sheet protectors,” he stated. “And mail a set to Junior, of course.”
“With a little box of goodies,” his wife added. “I’ll bet there’s nobody else to do something like that for him.”
“You gonna put some snuff in for him?” Jamie queried, grinning.
“Not on your life, funny boy,” his mother replied. “I’m thinking little boxes of candy and homemade cookies.”
* * *
Lee County also turned out to be a “burnt county,” having suffered courthouse fires in 1857 and again in 1874.
“What is it with courthouses burning?” the bishop wondered aloud, and the clerk behind the desk nodded sympathetically.
“My friend who’s a researcher says burning courthouses is the devil’s hobby,” she replied. “Personally, I think it has more to do with crooks destroying evidence and getting back at the judge and officers of the court. Though in some cases, lightning’s to blame, especially in the older courthouses. Often the courthouse was the biggest building in town, with the tallest steeple, and I reckon maybe they didn’t know about grounding them. It’s too bad. Lots of records have been lost that way. We’re lucky in that we still have most of our records from the 1874 blaze, but we sure lost a bunch of early ones in the first fire.”
She directed the bishop to the deeds and marriage records and also suggested their fine collection of wills and probate records. Trish opted to study the probates, and the bishop headed for deeds and marriages, while Tiffani supervised the younger children outside in the shade of the trees surrounding the courthouse.
A couple of hours later, thanks to helpful clerks and the miracle of copy machines, they emerged clutching more booty—several deeds, four Rhys marriages, and a copy of the last will and testament of Robert Rhys Sr., who died before the 1857 fire, but whose will was brought forward for probate afterwards, and thus barely missed being destroyed. The woman who helped Trish with the probate records suggested a visit to the local library and a chat with a certain librarian there who had created a local and family history collection that, she opined, might be of help to them.
“We barely have time to make a quick visit before the library closes,” Trish advised the children as she hurried them to the car. “These are our last few minutes of research time on this trip, and we don’t want to waste a second.”
They were grateful to find the librarian in question still at work, and she was delighted to show them items of interest. She was aware of a book of tombstone inscriptions, including some photographs of interesting stones, and she thought she recalled a picture of a Rhys marker in the collection. While she was looking for that, she pointed them toward a volume entitled Lee County Heritage, from which they were able to copy several references to the Rhys family and their origins. The grave marker, once located in the first book, was in obelisk shape, and turned out to have been erected in honor of one Llewellyn ap-Rhys, born 1787 in Wales, died 1849 in Georgia.
“What does this ‘ap’ mean?” inquired Trish, frowning at the photograph.
“I believe that’s something like ‘son of,’ rather like ‘Mc’ or ‘Mac’ in Scottish and Irish names,” the librarian replied. “In fact, I recall reading that sometimes it was retained in family names as a ‘p,’ which in this case would make the name ‘P-R-H-Y-S,’ or as we would say, ‘Price,’ or ‘Preece.’”
“So do you think we might have relatives around who go by those names?” the bishop asked, and the lady nodded.
“It’s quite possible, since your emigrant ancestor here, if that’s who he is, used the ‘ap.’”
“Well, that’s really good to know! And where is this marker located?”
She wrote down for them the location of the marker and the cemetery that contained it, and then regretfully told them that the library was closing. Then she took pity on their disappointed expressions and gave them her card, saying that if they had questions or anything that she could look up for them in her spare time, she would be glad to do so.
“People are so nice,” Trish mused as they headed back to the car. “Everyone’s been such a help to us—even Leanore St. John. And Miss Susie, even though she didn’t agree with our purpose in doing research.”
“We’ve been well and truly blessed, and I’m grateful beyond measure,” her husband agreed. “Now let’s find a good room for the night!”
“And a pool, Dad,” reminded Jamie.
“And some supper,” added Tiffani. “My chicken sandwich is long gone.”
“All the above,” agreed their father.
* * *
“I
already know, you don’t have to break it to me gently, that we have to locate that tombstone thing this morning before we can leave for home,” Tiffani stated the next morning.
“Surprise, Tiff,” her father said, smiling at her affectionately. “In appreciation for your being such a good sport yesterday, I went out and found it this morning while you guys were still snoring. It didn’t take long.”
“I wondered where you went,” Trish remarked. “I thought maybe you were getting some exercise before we have to sit in the car for hours.”
“Well, that too,” he admitted. “I jogged around the cemetery until I found and photographed the marker—and a few other interesting ones next to it—and then I jogged some more before I came back. Now I’m hungry as a bear.”
* * *
It was an interesting phenomenon, the bishop reflected. The closer they got to Fairhaven, the more his thoughts and concerns turned to his home, his ward, and his store. Five days away had been a nice break, and his mind had been sufficiently occupied with their mission that he hadn’t worried overmuch about things at home, but now he couldn’t wait to get there. The traffic tie-ups around Birmingham annoyed him more than usual. It had been a pleasant respite, too, to drive around mostly country lanes and small-town streets for a few days.
“I’m first in the shower,” Tiffani announced as they pulled into their driveway. She had been communing with her friends on her dad’s cell phone, announcing her imminent arrival, and plans for the evening were set. “Claire says Billy twisted his ankle, so he didn’t go to the square dance last night after all,” she confided with a measure of satisfaction.
“Hope it doesn’t keep him from work too long,” her dad said mildly. “He’s going to need his paycheck to contribute to all the fun times you and Claire have planned for him and Ricky.”
“Oh, Dad—we’re not high-maintenance dates,” his daughter informed him. “Most of the time, we think of fun, cheap stuff to do—even free stuff.”
He thought of the elaborate plan she had concocted to ask Billy Newton to Girls’ Preference the previous school year. “So, all those fancy balloon invitations and acceptances, they’re only occasional deals?”
The Thorny Path Page 8