Family Ties

I love my cousin Ola Mae. I just discovered her recently. Well, within the past couple of years. My father already knew her. We both agree she's as sweet as she can be, as we say in the South. She's my great-grandfather's niece, the daughter of his youngest brother, Sam. My father has met her. I haven't yet, but I enjoy visiting her by phone. I love to hear about the old times, and it's especially helpful to me where my book is concerned. Of course, Cousin Carrie doesn't remember my great-grandfather at all. He died in 1912 years before she was born (Cousin Ola Mae would appreciate my saying that). But she remembers visiting his house growing up. It was called the "home house" by the family long after he died leaving behind a wife and a young son. Cousin Ola Mae has told me of her childhood growing up in a house on land bought by my great-grandfather for his younger brother, Sam. She speaks of those times with such fondness, and she desperately loved her father. Uncle Sam didn't die until he reached the ripe old age of 100, just a few months shy of his 101st birthday. I knew him too. He was such a kind man, prided himself on keeping his limbs loose by regularly walking to town and back. My great-grandfather would have been proud of Sam too. If only he'd lived to see his younger brother grow up.

No Excuses

Wouldn't it be nice if we could go back in time? I'd find my great-grandfather there. He died in 1912. He was only 42. When I think of him, there are so many questions I'd like to ask, so many things I'd like to know. What was life like for him? What drove him to succeed? Was he ever tempted to give up? My great-grandfather, Dr. John Henry Jordan, broke through a lot of barriers. He went to medical school on a shoestring with no support from his family. After being forced to sit out for a year to raise money for school, he went back as fired up as ever, graduating as valedictorian of his class in 1896. Although it was his dream to settle down in his hometown of Hogansville, Georgia, he saw more promising opportunities in neighboring Coweta County and relocated there in 1900. He set up his medical practice there as well as established his family. Twelve years - the length of time he practiced medicine in his adopted hometown - seems to short, but he accomplished more than some do in a lifetime. He performed difficult operations, integrated medicine in the segregated town, built its first hospital for black patients, started a health care organization, and managed to build his own stately dream home. When I think of all that he did, I ask myself: if he could do all of that back then, what can't I do now?

Moment of Inspiration

That moment of inspiration. How long do we have to wait for it? I guess everyone wants to experience that lightning bolt whether they're looking for love, happiness or, in my case, writing a book. Excuses, excuses. As a friend once told me: 'just put your butt in a chair and write.' I guess that's all it takes, but those moments of inspiration sure help. One of them happened when I was sitting at my parents' house one day minding my own business. A friend was over, a physician, so my dad, also a doctor, thought it would be fun to show her an old medical journal from the turn of the century that had belonged to my great-grandfather, John Henry Jordan, the first African-American doctor in a town in Georgia near Atlanta. My friend looked through the book. So did my dad. But it wasn't until I opened its pages to peruse it that I hit pay dirt: an old prescription my great-grandfather had written dated 1903 fell out practically into my lap. It was in pristine condition as if waiting between those two pages just for me to find it a century later. If I had been looking for a sign as to whether or not to write a book about my great-grandfather, that was surely it. Then, there was the time I was talking on the phone with an elderly cousin when she casually mentioned something about a 'cousin Arnold.' I'm like: who? Cousin Arnold turned out to be the only living child of my great-grandfather's older brother (my great-grandfather died in 1912, mind you)! My father didn't even know Cousin Arnold existed! I guess the only thing left was for a lightning bolt to hit me in the head. I don't think I need any more proof. Now off to plant my butt in a chair and write...