Dicksons/Dillards

A roving photographer took this photo after my great-grandparents (seated), W.B. and Ann Harris Dickson) had moved in with their daughter, Orpha Maria and her husband, Samual Augustus Dillard (standing). A family friend is seated to the right. All of the children but Herman had been born at this point. My mother is the little towhead in the photo. The others are my aunt and three of my uncles.

Dickson Family

The couple in back were my great grandparents, W.B. and Anne Harris Dickson, with their children and some friends in the photo. The girl with the doll was my grandmother, Orpha Maria, whom I never knew. She died when my own mother was 13.

Uncle Herman Dillard

Mother's youngest brother. He and one other brother became ministers.

Becky meets Santa

Becky was the youngest child of my mother's youngest brother, Herman. She was a tot much like this when her older sister, Dee, and I were close cousins. Since mother had me late, his children were the only ones near my age. Three cousins were 18 and 20 years older than I was. Becky died a few years ago at age 49 of cancer.

Pris turns Five

This is my fifth birthday party. I'm holding the presents, of course. My first cousin, Dee Dee, one year younger, is mugging to my left. The others are little Pageland friends.

This photo was taken in 1959 in Columbia, South Carolina, in front of my Aunt Orpha's and Uncle Jim's house. The family had gathered for Uncle Harry's funeral, the oldest brother and first one to die. In this photo are my mother, Augusta D. Campbell, and her next oldest brother, Archer. Uncle Archer was a Presbyterian minister and was the second brother to die, only a few years after Uncle Harry. My mother always looked to Archer as her protector after the last of their parents was killed when she was 18 and her home sold.

My cousins

Archer Jr was 20 years older than I. He was also the oldest son of Uncle Archer, in the post below. An M.D., he and his wife, Ruth, also an M.D. sacrificed lucrative practices to donate much of their time to medical missionary work, even after their retirement. With them are their three children, Becky (oldest), Barbara, and Sandy. Because of our age differences, location differences, etc. I didn't meet Archer Jr. and Ruth until 1986 when my father was dying, but they had visited my parents nearly every year after their retirement. They both wanted their children to grow up knowing my parents.

Archer was old enough to remember mother coming from college for brief visits, since, with both parents dead, there was no home for her to return to. He described her as 'the belle of the ball' and adored her. When she was dying and I was only able to be with her short periods of time each day, due to my own health problems, Archer and Ruth came down and stayed in shifts with her around the clock the last 10 days of her life in the hospital, then Hospice. That's love. That's dedication.

EDIT: Archer Jr. died two years ago of a heart attack. Ruth died in September 2007 of a cerebral hemmorage.

My maternal grandfather and uncle when young

Samual Augustus Dillard, Sr, was killed when my mother was 18, but I've heard so many stories about him that I feel as if I knew him. I wish I had. Standing beside him is my Uncle Archer, whom I worshipped as a child. A kind man, he took the time to listen to children and show his love. He died at age 60 of a heart attack. Both of his sons, Archer, Jr. and Dick had become doctors by then and had families of their own.

I heard this following story a few years ago from my cousin, Ann Dillard, whose father, Baylus had been driving when the drunk driver drove them off the road, killing their father. She said that her father always felt guilty, even though the accident was by no means his fault. He never took his family anywhere in a car, as a result. They lived in Belleville, across the river from St. Louis, and they took the bus or train wherever they went.

Some music from a link from a fellow blogger...this site discontinued

Sorry about that.

Two shots of a Wedding

Back to my father's side of the family. I'm the flower girl in these two photos in the marriage of my first cousin Ginny to Marion Uldrick. Marion recently passed away. I still remember how, when I was an ugly duckly teenager, he always made me feel pretty and special.

Uncle Harry

Taken during World War One. Uncle Harry was my mother's oldest brother. In his youth, he was so handsome, he was called 'pretty boy'. He never married. My mother told me that he'd been in love with a gal who married someone else. After that, he never asked anyone to marry him again, though he did have someone he saw regularly until he died at the age of 60.

Uncle Bayle

The third youngest of four of my mother's brothers (and older than she was), this was taken when he was a young man in the service. At around age 22, he was driving the car when a drunk driver crossed the line, forcing the vehicle with Uncle Bayle, my maternal grandfather and the youngest brother, then 8, off the road into a ditch. My grandfather was killed.

In an earlier post, I describe how Uncle Bayle blamed himself. I hope he eventually forgave himself.

The Preacher comes to Sunday Dinner

Mother would roll over if she knew I posted this photo since she later hated that sofa covering, plus the curtains had been taken down for washing. This was taken in the fifties, during a time in small towns when it was traditional for the preacher (yes, we called them that rather than ministers) rotated where he was invited for Sunday dinner after the sermon. Usually one of the chickens would get killed and the meal was fried chicken, gravy, bisquits, and at least a couple of vegetables.

Mother and Me...age five

This photo was taken in our neighbor's yard. The house I grew up in is in the background. I usually wore pigtails and never a dress, except Sundays, but for some photos, mother tried her best to make me look like a little lady:-)

My Father's Garden

These days are long gone now, but this was my father's garden in my old hometown in South Carolina. This had been a hobby all through his years as Superintendant of schools and the garden simply grew in size next to their retirement home afterwards. He grew such difficult things as asparagus, which takes two years to bear, every vegetable you can think of, melons...In fact he was so good at it that the town Horticultural Association invited him to give several guest speeches on tending the soil, rotating crops properly and not leeching out the necessary nutrients by planting the wrong plant where another had been before.

He grew up on a farm in a teeeeny town called Honea Path, South Carolina, and the farmer inside never left him.

I still miss him so much, though it's been 21 years now since he died the day after Christmas in 1986. I was fortunate to be by his rented hospital bed at our parents' home when he took his last breath and left us.

Pris, Mother and Gandolph

Taken the year I got CFIDS, at Christmas. Gandolph was my first dog. He lived until age 12. Did I ever love that dog! Bright and loving. He had mother eating out of his paws:-)

Uncle Herman as a young man

Herman was the youngest of six children, eight years younger than my mother. He spoke fluent French and became a Presbyterian minister, an occupation that seems to run through much of my mother's side of the family--that and doctors/lawyers.

Lisa's Eye

My second cousin's eyes (on my father's side of the family, taken by her daughter, Nichole Payne.

Lisa Uldrick!

Dolph

My cousin Dolph, raised by my folks from age 8 to 18. He survived World War II, only to be killed by a drunk driver at age 26. I had a terrific crush on him as a child and planned to marry him when I grew up. . He was 18 years older than I was. Well, that opportunity never arose.

My Parents' Wedding Photo

My father was school principal when he hired a glamerous first grade teacher, just out of college, to teach in Richburg, South Carolina. A year later, they married. Best decision he ever made!
Mother coached basketball, as well as taught, and was great at both. Told they couldn't have children, they raised my older cousin from age 8 to 18, after my mother's sister divorced and felt he would be unsafe coming home to her apartment on a busline alone every day. The year he turned 18 and left for war, I came along as a surprise. My mother tells me I'd started to kick that late spring (I was born in July) but that every time she sat her children down for story time and said 'once upon a time' I became completely still. The kicking started again after the story was over. Later , when I had croup as an infant, and nothing stopped my crying, my mother impulsively tried telling me a story. As soon as the magic words came out, I was quiet again. I'm convinced that's where my love of reading and writing began. Thank you again, mother!