The Lake (a/k/a Summer Magic) by Gail Roughton

A few years back, Alan Jackson sang of  "...an old plywood boat, with a 75 Johnson with electric choke". I love that song, love its poignant lyrics that hark back to childhood for all of us born in a far-away time warp when there was enough technology to make life pretty dang sweet but not so much that it'd taken over the world to the extent everybody posted pictures of their meals on Facebook.  There was no Facebook, there was no such thing as a smart phone, cause there was no such thing as the internet. Heck, there was no such thing as a cell phone, and texts as a means of communication were far in the distant future. Life was simpler then. Nobody had to tell kids to play an hour a day. Mothers hollered out the doors for us to "get in outta that hot sun a minute 'fore y'all fry alive!" But it was modern enough that suppers were cooked on electric or gas ranges rather than wood burning stoves and refrigerators had replaced iceboxes, even if folks still called them iceboxes and would continue to do so for years. Ice was plentiful to chill beverages even if came from ice trays and not ice makers and milk and diary products were actually delivered to your door should anyone so desire and most folks did.  Air conditioning wasn't yet a standard in homes but oscillating fans twirled overhead and in windows. There was a television set in almost every home even if it was only one, and even if it was still black and white and not technicolor, and America unwound in front of it every night. After Walter Cronkite advised us "That's the way it is...", we watched sitcoms with far more innocent humor than the sitcoms of today, cheered on heroes in white hats (or law enforcement hats or military helmets), and booed the villains, for whom no one had any sympathy at all, 'cause they were clearly villains and not victims of anybody's society. 

I grew up in the heart of Georgia, raised a country girl in the very center of the state. In Middle Georgia, when you say "the Lake", you mean Lake Sinclair, a man-made lake engineered by Georgia Power Company. It's a major, major source of hydroelectric power for the Middle Georgia region, has  roughly 400 miles of shoreline and spreads over 15,000 acres. Nothing compared to the Great Lakes, of course, but we'll take it. Its shores are lined with lake houses and boat houses and in my childhood, those houses were mostly little cottages, cabins or trailers used as summer or weekend houses, most of which were accessible only over a series of turns onto dirt road after dirt road. Nowadays, a high proportion of Sinclair Lake houses are extremely nice year round residences and I'm not sure if a dirt road even exists anymore in the general vicinity of the Lake.  

I don't remember how old I was when Daddy built his own old plywood boat (not that it was old at the time of construction, of course), around ten or eleven, I'd guess. Daddy was a master carpenter, so there wasn't anything half-done or half-finished about that boat. It was absolutely water-worthy, complete with steering wheel and windshield. I remember early morning fishing trips with Daddy and Mr. Emory, our next-door neighbor without whom no father-daughter excursion was complete. We didn't have a lake cabin ourselves, but the owner of the construction company Daddy worked for did, and as he was getting on up there in age and seldom, if ever, went to the Lake at all, we had full permission to use it at any time. We didn't, in fact, ever use the cabin proper, mostly because boarded up cabins have a very distinctive smell that's not all that pleasant, but we made frequent use of the property itself for family cookouts. That was pretty much standard Sunday afternoons, boat rides and cookouts at the Lake. Nothing fancy. Just good food, good company, good fun. Like I said, a simpler time and place.

Then "life"--whatever that means--got in the way, and before I knew it, it'd been a minimum of forty plus years since I'd been on any boat at all, let alone on Lake Sinclair, and just as many for my husband, who'd also spent the weekends of his teen years at the Lake, though he was more athletic (it doesn't take much to be more athletic than me) and had been a heck of a slalom skier.

I'm happy to say that situation's been rectified for us now. A few years back, my husband bought an older, used boat. He didn't get a lot of use out of it the first couple of years after its purchase, mostly because until this spring when I retired, I was too tired to even think spending a whole day of my two day weekend manhandling a boat in and out of the water even sounded good. This year, though? Ah, this year, we rented a boat slip at a lake marina right off the main road to the Lake, and put the boat in the water for the summer. It just sits right there and waits on us, and we're there at least once a week. It's great when we're with the kids and grandkids. Sinclair's a lake where you just jump right off the boat into the water (with life vest, of course).  You don't see too many folks skiing these days, the big thing's "tubing" and I admit, even I might be able to tube, though I haven't gotten up quite the nerve yet. So far I've left the jumping into the water and the tubing to the young folks. 

It's just as great when it's just us. We love riding up and down and exploring the lake but I confess I think my favorite's when hubby turns off the engine, sets up the trolling motor, and we just putt up and down the shoreline while he throws out his fishing line. Oh, he hasn't caught a thing yet, and we don't even go when it's actually a "good fishing time" so there's pretty much not even a chance he'll catch a fish, but that's not the point. I come from a long line of fishermen who don't fish to catch fish; i.e., my Daddy and Mr. Emory. They fished to enjoy the outdoors and the company they were in, and that sure works for me. I slather on the sunblock and sometimes I read (that Kindle App on the smartphone, don't you know?) and sometimes reading's just too much trouble. I just look at the shoreline, listen to the whooooossshhh of hubby's line as it swishes out into the water and the slow criiiiikcriiiiik of the reel as it comes back to the boat. I drink in the peace, the smell of the water, the sound of contentment. And I go back. Back to a simpler time and place.

I must have subconsciously missed the Lake more than I realized in the forty plus years I spent away from it, because it certainly plays a part in the one of the books written in my years away from it.  In fact, it's the scene where the heroes of said book take down their villain.  Okay, yes. I love, love, love the lake, it's idyllic and quiet and peaceful but some parts of it are pretty dang remote. Back in the day, they were even isolated, especially in the winter, and I ask you. What kind of writer would I be if I passed that up as a setting in a Southern Gothic horror story?

my name be Cain...and my color be Se'ben

Because evil never dies. It just--waits.

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Family Trees by Gail Roughton

I've never been one to think knowing the names of one's great-great-great grandparents or the dates of their birth, or the name of the ship they left their ports of origin on made any family's lineage one bit better than the next.  After all, everybody has two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, sixteen great-great parents, thirty-two great-great-great grandparents, etcetera etcetera all the way back to Moses, whether they know all their names or not, now don't they?  

But don't get me wrong--I think family trees are fascinating and I applaud all who have the patience and fortitude to research their own. I don't. The names and dates start running together about the next generation back, especially when I hit the 1800's and big families were the norm, even up to those with fifteen and sixteen children. I know, because a few weeks ago, my husband got curious about a family legend passed down through one line of his family tree and was lucky enough to actually find some records which didn't provide any proof at all the family legend was true, but certainly established that one of his great-great (or was there another great thrown in?) grandmothers had sixteen kids in twenty-five years, bless her heart, and that's the southern bless your heart meaning "Oh, my Lord! That poor, poor woman!"

He didn't last all that long before his eyes started crossing, and just for the heck of it, I asked him to google my paternal grandfather's name because--you guessed it--my family'd passed down a story about that man and his two brothers. It seems that my grandfather (I'd always thought his name was Charlie William, but it turns out it was Charlie Wayne) and one of his brothers were walking into town to arrange for the funeral of another brother who'd just died when they were both electrocuted in a freak accident involving a downed power line, thereby necessitating three funerals instead of one.  Now, that's a story a writer'd never use in a novel 'cause they'd be afraid readers would consider it just too unbelievable.  I found it unbelievable myself, simply because realistically speaking, just how many power lines were up in rural Alabama in 1918 to get knocked down?! Surely all that story couldn't be true.  But that story, dear friends, that story's the absolute truth and nothing but the truth. And nobody's as surprised as me to make that discovery. Some kind soul, undoubtedly a relative of mine in some form or fashion, had kindly posted his obituary online, along with a picture that sits up on one of my bookcases, right  by my father's.  

Birth:	Feb. 14, 1882
Death:	Jan. 11, 1918
January 16, 1918 LaFayette Sun Tragedy at Shawmut Two brothers, Charlie and Abesco Roughton, of Shawmut, were instantly killed last Friday when they stepped into a pool of water which had been charged by a fallen electric wire carrying 55,000 volts. The young men were on their way to West Point to make arrangements for the funeral of their brother, John Roughton, who had just died of pneumonia. All three of the brothers were buried in the same grave at Shawmut. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Corrections: Abesco Roughton is Jacob Sebastian Roughton. Raughton is spelled Raughton, Roughton and Rotton. Sebastian's headstone does not list Jacob in his name and he was known by family as simply Sebastian. Jacob is listed on his life insurance policy. John T Raughton may have died of TB rather than pneumonia. Family oral history indicates a rain storm was in progress as Charlie and Sebastian left to make the funeral arrangement, planning on walking to West Point from Shawmut. One of the brothers stepped into a pool of water and was being electrocuted and the other brother tried to rescue him and both were killed. They are not buried in the same grave but next to each other. The headstones have a Masonic emblem. I was told that one or two of the brothers were Masons but due to the circumstance of their death, all were given a Masonic funeral.

This old article from The LaFayette Sun was under the obituary.

January 23, 1918 issue of The LaFayette Sun
Resolutions of Shawmut Lodge No. 798 A.F. & A. M.

Whereas, our Heavenly Father in his infinite wisdom has removed to the life beyond, two of our beloved friends and co-workers, Brother John T. Raughton, Worship Master and Charles W. Raughton, Junior Warden of Shawmut Lodge No. 798 A.F. & A.M. As husbands and fathers they were affectionate and true, as Masons, they were loyal and true to the principles and tenets of our order, and in their removal to the Celestial Lodge above we realize the great loss which we have sustained and our hearts are greatly moved; therefore be it resolved:

First - That although having sustained an irreparable loss we bow in humble submission to God, whom we know makes no mistakes.

Second - That in their death we have lost two noble men, two generous friends, two genial companions, men of true, sound judgment, prompt in action and faithful in matters of trust.

Third - That we reserve the memory of their useful lives and commend their examples worthy of emulation.

Fourth - That we extend to their sorrowing loved ones our heartfelt sympathy, beseeching the Father in Heaven to grant them consolation which they so much need, and which He alone can give.

Fifth - That a copy of these resolutions be spread on the records of our Lodge, and a copy be presented to the families, and a copy sent to the LaFayette Sun and to the Chattahoochee Valley Times for publication.

L. A. Cleveland, J. S. Wallis, C. H. Cole, Jr., Committee 

The links in that online article also provided me with pictures of my great-grandparents, Georgia Ann Anderson Raughton and Alonzo A. Raughton, and my great-uncle John T. Raughton. (I guess you noticed nobody in my family thought consistency in spelling was all that important.)

 I've actually seen all those graves, as well a few more, but that was way back in my younger days, when my daddy was alive and nothing was better than a day spent just driving around on Alabama country backroads, exploring old abandoned farmhouses and even older cemeteries. Certainly I'd never noticed/didn't remember/probably didn't even know that my grandfather and great uncles had Masonic headstones and for sure I didn't know the significance of that. There wasn't a picture of my grandmother, but there was a picture of her headstone. 

These little nuggets of family history are especially sweet since not only did I never know my paternal grandparents, for all intents and purposes my Daddy didn't either.  Charlie Wayne Roughton died three weeks before my father was born, and my grandmother died when Daddy was five, leaving him to be raised by his older sisters.  Mostly though, my Daddy raised himself in that Alabama Valley where men were either textile mill workers or sharecroppers and usually both, and he grew up fast. When he was twelve, he walked into one of those mills and worked one whole day. He swore at the end of that day he'd never set foot in another mill and he never did. He got a job as a carpenter's assistant and learned the construction trade. I'd say that decision qualified that twelve year old boy a man, wouldn't you?  He joined the Army during WWII and ended up in Macon, Georgia as a prison guard at Camp Wheeler. He never moved his family back to Alabama other than to visit.  When I was small, he supervised the construction of many buildings and facilities that still stand in Macon, and even today, passing by one of the sites where he oversaw construction makes my heart sing.  Had he had the chance for higher education, I've no doubt he'd have been one top-notch architect. Country roots are strong, sure, and they run deep. I'm from a long line of country, just like my Daddy. And country roots go deep. Speaking of which....

Small town Southern

Coming Soon

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