Carnett: It was westward ho! — with U.S. heartland still in the blood
Relatives on my mother’s side of the family tend to be as restive as a double shot of espresso.
Though some were born in Arkansas, the majority hail from a little southeastern Kansas town aptly named Coffeyville.
There they went to school, chewed tobacco, plowed fields and farmlands, raised youngins, worked long hours for the railroad and, on occasion, enjoyed a shot of hooch. They also served their country in large numbers.
They never got rich.
Located on the Verdigris River, Coffeyville has no direct connection to caffeine. It was established by Col. James A. Coffey as a trading post in 1869. It’s situated in Montgomery County, a half-mile from the Oklahoma border, 75 miles north of Tulsa.
Coffeyville, by the way, is known for an interesting bit of American history. It was there, on Oct. 5, 1892, that the notorious Dalton Gang attempted to rob two banks. It proved a disaster.
The gang rode into town on horseback that fateful morning wearing false beards. Four gang members died in the shootout. Their remains are interred in Coffeyville’s Elmwood Cemetery.
With the arrival of the railroad, the town prospered. My great grandfather, William B. Ragsdale, worked for the railroad for 40 years and exhibited a beautiful ringing tenor voice every Sunday morning in church.
My grandfather, William M. Thomlinson, had itchy feet. He’d long wanted to move to California after visiting the Golden State as a young man. He convinced my grandmother to relocate in 1935. They never regretted it.
In 1942, they relocated from Santa Monica to inexpensive (at the time!) Balboa Island.
When mom left Coffeyville, it had a population of 17,000. Today it has less than 10,000. I visited the town as an infant and again as a high school student. I hope to return once again before shuffling off this mortal coil. My eldest daughter visited a decade ago.
Most likely because of her Kansas upbringing, mom has colorful phrases for every occasion. I remember when I was in eighth grade and she advised me to choose my friends wisely.
“Birds of feather flock together,” she cautioned.
I had no earthly idea what that meant, but I knew it was profound. A Kansan by birth and acculturation, mom claimed a natural entitlement to imbuing her speech with head-scratching aphorisms.
She said things like (and I’ve since deciphered their meanings): “I’m caught between a rock and a hard place” (there are no good alternatives); “Beggars can’t be choosers” (you’ve got no choice in the matter); “The pot calling the kettle black” (being guilty of the thing you accuse another); and “Bite your tongue!” (be silent).
She has a million such expressions and today, at 91 years of age, continues to pepper her language with them.
She regularly drops such gems as: “Once in a blue moon” (rarely); “She bought a pig in a poke” (something purchased sight unseen); and “By hook or by crook” (one way or the other).
Mom migrated to California with my grandparents when she was 12. In the six years before she graduated from Santa Monica High School, she returned to Kansas a couple of times for extended stays.
She loved California but she also loved her large family in the heart of America. There, she had her grandparents, five aunts and five uncles and a passel of cousins and second cousins living all around her. She also had a backyard storm shelter –- available for tornadoes.
Mom and my grandparents were the only family members to move to California, but over the decades some left Coffeyville for Independence or Tulsa.
As I was growing up, relatives often came to California for lengthy visits. They marveled at Orange County’s sunshine and lovely orange groves. We lived on Balboa Island and were considered gentrified by our family — though we were anything but.
All my aunts and uncles are gone now. Mom frequently evokes their memories. She likes to tell their stories.
Like the Dalton Gang, many rest in the rich Montgomery County soil.
JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.