I'm Getting There: Number Three

Dear Descendant,

I'm going to try to write more frequently. Actually, right now I have a lot of "irons in the fire" (remember that talk about speaking in 'Idiom'?).  I'm going to get some of them out of that fire. They are all collectively keeping me from doing more of what I really want to do. But, enough about me.  You can piece me together rather easily so I'm not wasting time.

Ancestor #3 that I'd like to have a sit-down with is my 3rd great-grandfather, James F. Jenkins.  I suspect the "F" stands for Francis. So far, I've not been able to find out for sure but that name shows up here and there in the family.  If you don't believe me that he is Number Three or you can't find the original post, here it is.

I'll warn you up front, James is a brick wall. I can't find a marriage record for him. In fact, I don't find much about him. Much of what I have depended on is family oral tradition passed down from my great-grandfather, Milton Minturn Jenkins, known as "Minton" and as "M.M.", who was the grandson of James F. Jenkins. Grandpa told the story he remembered to my grandmother, , his daughter, Monta Lee Jenkins Kells. She wrote it in one of those stenographer's notepads.  (You'll have to look that occupation up; stenographers have been gone for a long time already.) I have also done a lot of looking here and there for this family.  There are apparently some holes in the story, hence the looking around part. The upside is that you won't get very much incorrect information from Ancestry trees (if they still have them) because there isn't much on this line in the family out there and much of what is on Ancestry, came from me.  One thing for sure, the Jenkins tribe will get in touch and nobody knows any more than I know. They will gladly share anything they have with you about their particular families.  They are "giving" and cooperative folks. I like to think that's a quality that was passed down through James' line.

Know that my grandfather's people were good people. Take that to the bank. Their word was gold. They weren't ones to intentionally tell a lie. They told what they knew and they ALL knew the story I'll relate here. I've talked to some of Grandpa's nieces and nephews and some of their children and grandchildren and even though their parents gave some incorrect information to E.E. Barton, they tell the family tradition EXACTLY the same. So much the same, I can hear Grandpa Minton saying the words. Sometimes, however, I think they left out the unpleasant facts. Actually,  I KNOW they did. I think that came from Grandpa Mathew, James' son.  I think there were just things he didn't want to talk about concerning the Civil War and the family's role. It was just easier to let that part of our history be unspoken. I hope you will find that story fascinating and not be ashamed of our family's part in this era of history. Contrary, I hope you will be proud of them. We are currently in a social climate that is particularly harsh on the Confederates.

Above all, know that I consider us among the luckiest people in the world to have descended from this group of people. Also, know that I refer to M.M. Jenkins as "Grandpa". I do so because he raised my mother and she, like her mother and her uncles, called him "Pop". Both of my grandfathers (Carr & Kells) were either long dead by the time I was born or died shortly after and Grandpa was the only grandfather I ever knew. The summer that I finished the third grade, he and Grandma Kells came back to the family farm he sold my parents in 1959 to live next door to my parents, my siblings, and me. He was living there at the time of his death. To date, the farm is still in the family.  Grandpa bought it in the 1920's so that's closing in on a hundred years.

The Old Farm Truck

I saw this list of the "Top 10 Reasons Farm Trucks are Never Stolen" on Facebook and was instantly reminded of a truck my dad had on the farm when I was in high school.

When my dad decided to replace his work truck, "Whitey" became the farm truck.  Whitey was so named because he was a white Ford F-150.  I think he was 1970 something model but he could have been older. By the time he retired to become a farm truck he was more like white and rust and the color of dirt and road tar.  Whitey didn't go to the car wash often but he did go across creeks, up and down steep hills, and across flat, freshly plowed bottom land.

Whitey's parking place, once he was no longer the work truck, was in the side yard near the house.  He'd be driven to town if he was needed. He'd also be driven around the farm.  My brother became the principal driver once he got his license.  Oh, my! That's a story!  My brother was allergic to paying for his own gasoline.  Seriously.  If you could and would pay for it, he was willing.  He'd siphon Whitey dry if he needed gas.  Sometimes that backfired.  Sometimes Brother had to drive Whitey and if Whitey was empty... well, you see the problem.  My brother, being quick thinking and allergic to buying gasoline as I've already stated, would then siphon gasoline out of somebody's vehicle. None were safe.  You had to be vigilant around him.  I'm sure he wasn't above sneaking out in the middle of night to siphon gas so he wouldn't get caught.  I've had a few sleepless nights knowing he was on the loose and I had to get off the hill the next morning. He'd also get the heating fuel and put it in the tractor but that's another good story.

My brother also collected Mt. Dew cans.  The problem with that is that he never recycled them nor did he turn them into art.  He just stashed them in Whitey (or any other vehicle he was driving for that matter).  As his collection grew, there was less and less space in the passenger seat and you literally had to be careful getting in and out because your feet had to go on top of the cans.  He'd also stash some in the bed, just in case, you know.  At one point they were so deep, I'm sure my knees were even with the dashboard!  You didn't want to have to go far in that condition.  He also collected paper bags from carry-out at the Stop-and-Tell Restaurant, the Dairy Treet, and the Dairy Queen. They got wadded up and tossed in the seat, the floor, or in the bed. My dad added to Whitey's misery by always keeping a change of clothes, a jacket, and several long sleeved shirts in the cab because "you never know when you'll need 'em, Frenchman", as he said when I questioned the necessity.  There were also bulldozer caps of all kinds and small hand tools.  The tools presented a problem because you couldn't see them under the clothes and  if you sat on the clothes you could be stabbed by a claw hammer, claw up.

One day my brother took Snoopy, our dog, to the vet in Falmouth. Whitey's services were needed.  As Brother, the dog, and Whitey went down the road the floor mats began to blow.  You see, the floor board, like the bed, was rusting out. Snoopy was surprised and decided he needed to sit somewhere else.  I'm sure he realized he was just one mud puddle short of a bath or maybe even one bump short of falling through.  He jumped up in the seat.  God love his little heart!  I just don't know how he managed it. The seat was nearly impossible to sit in.  He started barking and continued to bark every time the mat blew up for the entire twelve mile ride.  I'm sure he was hoarse when the vet saw him.

Whitey sat in his place of importance with the keys in the ignition when not needed.  One thing is for certain, no one ever stole him.

An Arial shot showing Whitey in his place of honor. 

The picture was taken around 1979/1980. 

A closeup reveals all the valuable items in the bed and the tank to the left that was likely in the bed sometime before the picture was taken. Well, you never know when you'll need a tank, right? It belongs threre.