JEREMIAH CLEMENTS JACKSON

SURNAMES: JACKSON, CLEMENTS, HARLAN, LESTER, WHITE, FORBES, BARCLAY, MCCALEB, PRICE, CURRY, COURSEY, HUNNICUTT, SMITH, GARRETT, MILLERMAN, WRIGHT, BURKE, BARTON, GOOWIN, RICHARDSON, FENNER, JONES, WOODLAND, THOMAS, BEALS, FRAZIER, ROGERS, CROUCHES.

Jeremiah Clements Jackson (called "Jerry"), b Au- gust 13, 1849 in Tallapoosa County, Alabama, d November 22, 1930 in Fresno, California - was a son of John Wesley Jackson, II and his wife, Lydia Berry (Clements) Jackson, who moved from Alabama to Arkansas, and then into Texas - finally settling on Blue Ridge in Falls County - always believed to have been in 1867. The dates given by Jerry, in his reminiscences quoted below, place the date as 1869 when he states that the day he arrived he first met his new nephew, John Luther Harlan, b August 22, 1867, "for the first time, though he was past 2 years of age."

Jerry married on October 18, 1876, first to Ida Harlan, b March 29,1858 in Falls County, d February 12, 1879 and buried in Blue Ridge Cemetery - a daughter of Silas and Annie Elizabeth (Lester) Harlan. About 1889, Jerry married second to "Lou" (maiden name unknown), who also had an early death. He had no children by either marriage.

As his "Reminiscences" are read, remember that his mother died in Arkansas of malaria; his father died of the measles in Falls County and was buried in Stranger Cemetery in 1886; his sister, Rebecca, was struck by lightning and died in 1914 in Falls County; a niece died in 1886 and was buried in Stranger Cemetery; his sister, Nancy, died in 1913, Sarah in 1882, and Amanda in 1885; his first wife died in 1879 and soon after, his second wife died; a third sister Clementine, died in 1905; two brothers, William and Slathiel, had died in the Civil War of measles in 1862; and his other brothers died in California, Cicero in 1908, Isaac in 1926, and John in 1916. Only Minerva out lived him until 1932. These factors lend credence to his descriptions of "gloom and desolation and sorrow that eminates from no other place, I ever lived." It should be noted that he was an editor and writer for numerous newspapers in Texas, and also for the Fowler Ensign in Fowler, California - although he did not have one full day of education. On his first day of school, he "did not like his teacher, so he did not return." The writing of Jeremiah Clements Jackson presented was provided by his great, great, great niece, Janice Cierley White, who resides in California and retains the original document.

The Reminisences of the Old Days by Jeremiah Clements Jackson are presented as originally written, with no corrections of words, spelling, or punctuation:

"There is no one in all this broad land over which our uncle Samuel presides, that has a keener regret for the passing of the "old days' than I do, I don't care what station in life he has occupied or is occupying.

Born in poverty subjected to all the ills, privations and had work which surely comes to those surrounded by such unpleasant invironments, besides reeping more than my share of troubles all along the way. And, al- though, my younger days were over cast by the shadows of deepest sorrow, I would not, were it possible, exchange my time in the long ago for all the inovations and fast life so abundantly afforded the generation of today. No, I would not.

Times were slow, it is true, but freedom was then unfettered by the foolish and pernicious legislation under which we live today.

But, do not for one moment think that I would stay the onward march of progress. Progress is as inevitable as death itself. I would not have those who live today stay in the same old ruts we walked in in that long ago. That was my time. It is passed.

So let the procession move on and let the Band play. The music is for those of the present and not for an old back number, such as I be.

On the 23rd of last October, 50 years ago I landed at your father's house, where you live today, and what a happy day it was to me, for it was then that I met so many of my dear kindred I had not seen in a long time, most of whom are now in that quiet sleep land, way out there.

Dear old Blue Ridge; it matters not where I go, when memory reverts back to my earliest years in that favored land. A flash of light and joy comes through the gloom of my 'desolation and sorrow that eminates from no other place, I ever lived. It was there I spent the noontide of my life, and when in my day-dreams of the long ago, I walk the banks of some pearly spring branch that comes singing through the hills of old "Alabami' with brother John, or he and I are crawling through the jungles of malaria invested Arkansas in quest of the festive muscadine and papa or, perhaps, in the early sixties where we first learned to cling to the upper deck of an obstropulous Texas cow-ponny in Eastern Texas, when I come to my early days on Blue Ridge in the brightest spot on the map of my recollection of all the dead past.

It was on that memorable day that I first met my, then, newest nephew, John Luther Harlan, though he was past 2 years of age. A little white haired toddling tot, with blue eyes, who looked on in bewilderment at the joyous demonstrations of us all at our meeting. He couldn't save why such a matinee was being pulled off over such a looking insect as I was. That was a happy day to me never to be forgotten.

The old men of that section in those days were old Dr. Forbes up at Union, old man Barkley (sic Barclay), old Gill (sic Zill) McCaleb, "Bully" Price, Tom Curry, over on Willow, Gid Corsie (sic Coursey), at Bolona, (he was the P.M. there then) (meaning Postmaster). Those were the oldest men who lived there then. T. D. Harlan was only 38 past. Wince Hunnicutt, Sr., Bob Smith, Jas- per Garrett, Bill Price and many others were in their thirties or early forties. Silas Harlan was only 43. Bill and Bob Hunnicutt, John Millerman was just grown. Charlie was rather delicate when I first knew him, that is, he was subject to puny spells, and I didn't know the nature of his ailment, but after observations in after years of boys his, then, age, that the only thing troubling Charlie was that he was just sprouting his whiskers and it affected him the same way that teething affects a.1ittle kiddie. That was all. Gus Wright and John Burke never was bothered that way their faces remained a desart wast.

Bolona, Hog Island and old Utah (sic Eutaw in Limestone County) were the trading points for the Ridge people in those days. Marlin was over there where it has been since 1838 but it was inaccessible to the Ridge the biger part of the year, as Big Creek ran between Marlin and its trade. Parson's bridge was the only bridge from head to mouth at the time of I write. There was a crossing at Bald Hill but there was no bridge, and then, there was goose lake.

A bunch of us boys would some times take a ride over to Big Creek by way of Hunnicutt's, down Elm, by Hunnicutt's bottom farm, on down to Bald Hill, and all along through the mesquets was a speckled with fat cattle and horses at a spot where a bucket of peas had been dumped and the cows were so full off the rich grass which grew everywhere, that they were puffing, blowing and grunting like a fat woman trying to board a street car. There was stock by the thousands there then.

Looking south and Southwest from your ranch there was but one house in sight, and that was where John Perkins lived, just north of Hog Island. He had rather a pretentious residence for that time. Albert Barton lived on Cedarbrake branch but there was not an inch of farm. The Bartons were old time stock raisers and the whole tribe was constitutionally opposed to doing any kind of labor they could not do riding.

In the summer of '70 the folks of the Ridge had some kind of a blowout at the Rocky ford on the Little Brazos, and everybody and their dogs were there, including Gill (sic Zill) McCaleb and the writer. Everybody had a la- roping good time and the dogs had plenty of that which makes them wag their tails.

After the program had been fought to a final, the management of the affair announced that the festivities for the day were ended, but Gill (sic Zill) Mc, and I felt that he would like to have a little more 'festivities' but of a different kind to be had at the Rocky ford function, so we climbed aboard our broncos and lit for Hog Island. Bob Smith ran a general store there then, and, as a side business to the store, Henry Goodwin kept a small refreshment joint. On Saturday afternoons the Island was a live wier those times, and the 'niggers' were as thick as maggots in a dead hog in the sumer time. Mc. and I at- tended to the little business we had with Henry and started back for the Ridge, through the mesquets, up Fish Creek and I want to remark right here that that is the worst misnamed stream on the map, for, I have traversed it and all its tributaries from head to mouth and never did I see a specimen of the piscarial tribe in it or near it only on the occasion when Gill (sic Zill) and I had been to see old Henry Goodwin. It was like this; we were feelin' better than we did when we went in and we no- ticed things more, even felt in a sciantific mood and at- tempted ever now and then to take astronomical observations by pointing the big end of a black bottle skyeward that we had bought for sciantific purposes from old Goodwin. Byt, any way, when we got to the west fork of that misnamed baranca, we noticed a bunch of crawfish on a big lump of earth, that appeared as if marooned and were patiently waiting for the next shower to give them moisture sufficient to take them back to Brazos bottom. That was the nearest fish I ever saw in it and I have traversed it many times. There were those in that day who disputed us having seen crawfish; said it was snakes we saw. It wasn't snakes. We were not that far along. No; they were genuine crusteceans for we saw their pinchers.

On coming back Gill (sic Zill) and I had with us old Sam Richardson, who lived on the old Curlee place. Sam had been in the Island nearly all day, or, that is, he'd been in Goodwin's refreshment palace all day. So, he in- formed us that he felt weary, and wanted to go home, but owing to his ideas being a little wably, didn't know whether he could make it or not. Didn't know that he could find the way. I told him come go with us. I know the shortest way. So Sam went along but he didn't seem to join us in gayety, but paid more attention to his grip on his saddle horn. When I got to the corner of your fence opposite where SuI Swinea then lived, I said to Sam, "Here's your road," pointing south, the road that was later the Reagan road. There was no Reagan then. I afterwards learned that Sam slept that night in the Mesquets near where George Barns afterwards located.

Sam Richardson, was the father of Emit, who was afterwards known as the equine tonsorial artist of the upper Ridge. He acquired that distinction for having shaved the rear-most appendange of Parson Mabigrn's (?) horse one night, for which offense he spent one night in the Falls County Bastile and paid a fine of 20 bucks.

When we went over to get our mail at Bolona, we’d go by horse, of course, and we'd generally go by way of the Finner (sic Fenner) crossing on Little Brazos, old Joe Finner (sic Fenner), Hasting Jones afterwards acquired the property, and then, on accros Willow, up through the mesquets, by the post oak point to Bolona. Bolona was a quite a place then. It was an oasis for the hundreds of teamsters who freighted from the head of the railroad, to Waco and all the northwest 50 years ago.

Speaking of the old Joe Finner (sic Fenner) crossing on Little Brazos, recalls and incident I was a witness to. It was near this old crossing, that, after he'd 'joined' the meetin' myoId and greatly esteemed friend, Henry Woodland, was baptized. The brethern had sevre difficulty in finding a hole in that shallow stream of sufficent depth to thoroughly souse the present subject. So they selected this place to wash off all his short comings. When Henry was soused beneath the wave he gave such a vigerous demonstration with his southwest hind leg that he splashed a bucket full or two of the limpid waters of the Little Brazos in the officiating divines face.

I never could save why Henry did that. The nearest I ever arrived at a solution of the problem, was that the 'old-timer' was so full of hell-fire, that when the opposite element come in contact with the torridness of his interior compartments, an explosion occurd. Hence the kick.

Those were the good years. He travelled slow. Most of us were honest. Those who were not, we hung.

Yes; I love dear old Blue Ridge; it is there that the sacred dust of more of my kindred sleep their last long sleep than in any other part of this broad land from California to South Carolina.

There lies my honest old father and sisters and neices dear to me, but there's another who was all this world to me. Where the shadows of the knarled old oaks creep accross at morn and at eve, sleeps one, and though no slab or shaft, imblazoned by line or verse, marks the little mound beneath where she sleeps. I ever cary a monument in my heart engraved deeper far than was ever cut by sculptors chisel. Cut down in the very flower of life, and left me in desolation. I wondered in many parts for 10 long years till I found another good and true, and she too was taken from me.

In the days of which I write, in going down the main Ridge from your place south there was but one place, that of Albert Thomas, till you got to Dick Beals on the extreme end of the Ridge. Dave Frazier had a place, overlooking Fish Creek Valley. Curlee, Doc Rogers and the Crouches.

Where Bremond is, was then known as West Prairie, and where Kosse is, was then unnamed, just a prairie, after leaving Alto Springs. Yes; makes me think of it, speaking of Bremond. Long before Bremond, the Junction City was thought of was a little fellow by the name of Wooten, a regular postoaker we used to call 'em, had a little place in the 'sticks,' on the freight road to the 'head' of the railroad. He eked out an existence by selling eggs and foder to the freighters passing that way. Well, he worried along for a number of years in this precarious existence, till, I think, if memory serves me right, by the midle seventies, that this Wooten struck his bonanza."

Although Jeremiah Clements Jackson left no descendants to carryon his name, he left a rich heritage and a lot of insight into the times of which he wrote.

Copyright Permission granted to Theresa Carhart for printing the biographies of these Falls County Families to this Web page.
"Families of Falls County", Compiled and Edited by the Falls County Historical Commission, page 245 column 1 & 2 page 246 column 1 & 2 page 247 column 1. 
Member of Falls County Historical Commission.