Bertie Beall Cummins

When I was a young boy, living in South Salt Lake City, a woman named Bertie Beall Cummins came to visit our house. She was a distant relative of my father, which at the time meant almost nothing to me.

I’m not sure how she learned where we lived, because there was no internet then. No easy access to public records, except possibly through the telephone books. So how would Ms. Cummins, who lived in Texas, get a hold of a Utah telephone book?

She was delivering a copy of her book, “The Georgia Beall’s and Their Kinfolks”, which became known as The Beall Book in our family. It was produced in a limited quantity, with something like the serial number of the book, printed inside the hard pale blue front cover.  My father and I consulted it more reverantly than any other book, except perhaps the Book Of Mormon, which every devout Mormon kid carried to their LDS Primary class on Tuesday afternoons.

Ms. Cummins had done a great work for us, putting our Beall ancestry in print. Or, so it seemed. I had no reason to question it until about 35 years later. And most owners of this Beall Book are not going to like this.

There was a time when Dad might have had hard evidence to dispute Ms. Cummins work. After my grandmother Della Beall, who lived in Jerome Idaho, passed away, she left boxes and boxes of photos and correspondence; keepsakes from relatives in Georgia and Alabama, some of which might have been very telling about our family history.

My father, who was the only Mormon among his siblings – in this life – was a likely candidate to investigate and categorize what his mother left behind. He seemed rather exasperated with the subject, when I asked him, out of curiosity, why he didn’t take his mother’s stuff. He replied, “Where am I gonna put it?”

The house we lived in was a rental, and we were not wealthy by any means, but there were places to store things.  I remember finding Christmas gifts hidden in the garage, and in my parents bedroom.

To be fair to Dad, we lived several hours away from Jerome. If maybe Dad could afford the gasoline to drive our car to Jerome, perhaps even the empty Chevrolet Bel Aire would not contain all the boxes of keepsakes that Grandma had left in her house.

After my aunt Dovie Morgan died, there was no longer any Beall relative in Jerome who wanted to maintain Grandmother’s house. The task of cleaning out the house, and getting it ready to sell, fell to one of Dovie’s boys.

Darlene Olson, a certain cousin of mine from Utah, sifted through many of Grandmother’s letters of correspondence, looking for rare postage stamps. She wanted to spend more time there, actually reading, but she had to get back to work in Utah. She pulled out only a couple of my father’s letters to his mother, and asked the Morgans to not dispose of anything until she would come back the next weekend.

For whatever reason, the Morgans did not wait. The remainder of  my grandmother’s keepsakes were sent to the garbage dump.

In 2001, while I was a full-time caregiver for my mother, I became interested in preserving family history. I obtained a Umax flatbed scanner to digitize photos and documents. I traveled around the Wasatch Front, to my maternal relatives, for a chance to scan their photos.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any Beall relatives in Utah. I decided to digitize “The Georgia Bealls and Their Kinfolks”, and add some extra photos and details as I could find them. My initial complaint was that Ms. Cummins failed to provide many source notes, to cite publications or pertinent vital records.

In 2004, while browsing some Rootsweb genealogy forums, I learned about the Beal Surname DNA Project. It could help me expand upon what I knew about my ancestry. I soon joined the DNA project, submitted a DNA sample for testing, and was corresponding with other participants, proudly sharing my genealogy as I knew it. They in turn provided source documents that put my ancestry in a different light, to put it mildly.

I became frustrated trying to read the poorly rendered results page, so I reworked it into html tables, using a program called Claris Home Page. Charles E. Beal, the project founder and coordinator, was delighted and asked me to be the webmaster.

One of the most difficult refutations of my Beall Book genealogy, came from a researcher in Arizona, Roberta Hull. She used mostly census records to construct her articles. One of these articles proved to my satisfaction that my Beall Book was loaded with critical errors; I was certainly not a descendant of the famous Colonel Ninian Beall, as we had supposed. Ms. Cummins was wrong about my ancestry.

Roberta’s work was the kick in the pants that made me hire a genealogist in Georgia to find some vital documents, to further bolster the new ancestry links I was discovering. What she found was worth every penny I paid, and more.

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Strange Lumpers

This article is copied from my old 2008 blog.
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Was driving my big rig down Randolph Street, in the downtown Chicago area, following the directions on my Garmin. This was a bit intimidating, with so many tall buildings and cars around me, so I was going slow. After I made a right turn, about two blocks away from a meat customer, two black dudes waved at me.

I don’t go looking for things to annoy me, but plenty of annoyances seem to find me.

One of our drivers recently experienced an attempted hijack in Chicago, at night. It was reported on the Qualcomm device, with a warning to stay alert. As I was driving in broad daylight, it seemed harmless to slow down and see what these men wanted. They were dressed in decent clothes, and had neatly trimmed hair. One of the men gave the twirly motion with his fingers; he wanted me to open my window, so he could talk to me. I opened my window. He stepped onto my doorstep, hung his hands over the top of my window, and asked where I was going. After I told him the customer name, he said he would “take me in”. This seemed right friendly; people on the street waiting to help me get to my destination. I could actually see the building where I was going, but I did not see the name, or any docks.

The dude asked me if I wanted to hire a lumper; I said yes. Since my first stop in Wisconsin required a lumper fee to unload the meat, I did not think it strange to be faced with a similar situation here in Chicago. My first clue, that these men were not legitimate, was the absence of any clipboard, or PDA, or receipt pads. Nevertheless, the man hanging onto my window presented himself as a lumper for the customer where I was headed, saying, “Yeah, we unload for them.”

Actually, these strange lumpers already knew that my delivery customer did not charge truckers for unloading, but I did not know it – yet. So they intercepted me on the street, to press me for a lumper fee, before I even checked in with the customer.

It bothered me that he was hanging onto my window, yapping in my face, while I was trying to drive, so I told him to get off my truck. He did not seem to listen, so I raised my voice, warning him that I did not want any accidents, or people slipping under my wheels. My tone seemed to bother him, but he got off my step, and walked down the street ahead of me, directing me to the customer.

When I got to a narrow street, next to the customer’s building, the yappy dude directed me to turn there. I hesitated, as I checked out the area; there were cars parked along both sides of the street, a fire hydrant on the corner, and precious little space to pull a 53-foot trailer. When I expressed my doubts about making this turn, the yappy dude said he would take me “around the block”. His companion was walking ahead to the right. I did not like this around-the-block idea.

I noticed that there was another big truck up the street, double-parked, and waiting for something. ¿Was there a dock here? Was this customer expecting us to unload right on the street? I needed to get to the customer, and talk to somebody I could trust. I made the turn, and parked up behind the other truck. The yappy dude was again standing on my doorstep, hanging onto my window, and yapping in my face. ¿How many pallets did I have? How many boxes? Was it a full load? Where was my next stop?

I looked at the packing list, and expected this yappy dude to do the same, as he was looking over my shoulder, but he kept pumping me for answers. Maybe he had trouble reading. I told him there were 100 boxes; he decided he wanted 40 dollars. “Cash”.
No deal. I refused. My company always pays lumpers with a ComChek. He changed his mind right quick, saying, “Write us a Comchek”. This required that I send in some information, for an approval code. So I asked for his name, and a tax ID.

“¿Huh? What that?”

A social security number. The yappy dude understood that, and gave me his SSN. I began typing a request on the Qualcomm, when the yappy dude got greedy. “Make it for 80”, he said. Then it was 60. Then he repented a bit, and said since he already agreed on 40, that was acceptable. I did not like him standing on my doorstep, hanging onto my window, yapping in my face. I wanted to get inside, to check with the customer about this lumper arrangement. And I needed to go to the bathroom. I asked him where the restroom was located, since he seemed to know the place. He wanted the ComChek first, but I could see there was no satellite signal coming to the Qualcomm.

“I need to go now”, I said as I opened the door, to gently push the yappy dude off my doorstep. He steeped down, and agreed to take me to the restroom. Then he asked for the bills.

I took the bill of lading, and packing list, and went inside the building. The yappy dude took my papers, and pointed at a strange hallway. “Go down there”, he said. I started down the hallway, giving the yappy dude a chance to present my bills of lading to the receiving clerk, without me present to interfere.

The receiving clerk hollered at me, and shook his head. I was not allowed to go down that hall. If I needed to use the restroom, I had to go around to the front of the building. I took this opportunity to present my paperwork. When I did, the receiving clerk gave me the scoop: “You don’ have to pay nobody. Nothing.”

I still wasn’t clear. “So”, I said, “¿Is this fellow not affiliated with your company?”

He repeated: “You don’ have to pay nobody. Nothing.” He gestured for emphasis.

There I realized that I was being played by the yappy dude, who retorted, “He’s payin’ us for bringing him in. That got nuthin’ to do with you.”

I have since spoken with another driver, who was lost in New York City, grateful for the dude who stood on his doorstep, and offered to take him to his delivery for twenty dollars. He gladly paid the man twenty dollars for the help.

Here in Chicago, I was not so glad. Got back into the truck and told the yappy dude I did not need to pay him anything. He kept after me, and suggested that my company would pay him a ComChek for bringing me to the delivery location; “that got nuthin’ to do with you.” I showed him that there was no signal on the Qualcomm, so I could not get approval for the ComChek he wanted. He yapped some more, about how he was a working man, with family to feed, and bills to pay. I reached for my coin purse, and dumped a handful of coins into his hand, to get rid of him. After that I closed the window. His companion came to my window, and gave the twirly motion with his fingers. He wanted me to open the window for him, presumably so he could stand on my doorstep, hang onto my window, and yap in my face. I was weary of them already, so I refused to open the window. Those strange lumpers left, but another scammer came up to me shortly.

Still needed to drain my bladder, so I used a special receptacle in my sleeper berth. Sat waiting for the receiving clerk to come out and get me, with no idea when he would have a door open for me, to unload the meat. After I got tired of sitting, and stepped outside to stretch, a different fellow came meandering up to me. He was a bit older, and missing some front teeth. He was playing like he was one of the good guys. “I heerd they tried to get choo. That aint right. We never go that high. He don’ know them, but he know me.” He wandered a short distance, looking at the dock, and continued his chit-chat. I asked if he was a lumper. His answer was vague. I waited patiently until he suggested something different: “I’m gonna back you in.”

I was a bit suspicious about this idea, so I inquired if he was expecting a fee for his service. He suggested twenty dollars, or whatever I wanted, then without waiting for an answer, he continued his chit-chat.

“I’m here to help you, so you don’ smash into somethin’. Some drivers smash into somethin’ and get fired.” Blah blah blah. He gestured toward the driver who was backing up to the dock as we watched, saying he knew him, and he was a nice guy. He said he knew other drivers in my company.

I got into my truck and closed the window, because I was weary of listening to this fellow. He did not want to leave me alone, and gave me the twirly motion with his fingers. Reluctantly, I opened the window, only partially. He did not stand on my doorstep, but he talked through the window, repeating some things he said before. In summary, he expected me to pay him for helping me to back into the dock. ¿How much money did he expect for this service? He suggested twenty dollars. I’ve never been asked to pay somebody to spot me during backup, no matter how hard of a backup experience it was. This customer did have a rather difficult dock, but I was not going to pay anyone to tell me how to back up to it.

I was anxious to put these scammers far behind me, but the biggest trial that day was actually backing up to the dock. I followed the pattern of the driver ahead of me. I approached it blindside, around a building, next to a steel railing, blocking a long herd of cars in both directions, sliding my trailer axles to the rear so they would sit on two wooden wedges, and almost ripped into a steel impediment between the dock doors. Words alone did not adequately describe the situation, so I took out my video camera, capturing images of the streets and dock area.

How can I get back into writing.

It was the 8th of February 2013. I had just married for the first time in my life. My three older sisters were already grandmothers. Even though the marriage contract was official, I felt like the traditional Mormon marriage experience had already escaped me, along with the real estate property I wanted in Sweet Grass County, my Honda CRX that crashed into an animal in Paradise Valley, and the treasured oak furniture I had spent several years collecting.

I wrote about my marriage day in a bound paper diary, much as I did all the major courting experiences in my life prior to that day, until the ink from the pen began to run out, and my writing on the page got fainter and fainter. That was over a year ago, and I’ve never added  anything more to that diary.

If someone would ask me why I neglected the diary, or journaling in general, I might reply that this marriage was very demanding on my time. My wife has special needs that require time and effort most people cannot imagine. So writing about trivial things has not been a priority.

There has always been some creative energy that seems to bubble up in my personality once in a while, seeking some outlet … piano music, flute music, emails, website updates,  cooking, gardening, hiking, biking … these were my hobbies which were easy to indulge before I became a married man.

This experiment is as much about learning some new technology, as it is personal expression. I have lots to say, but it seems nobody really wants to hear. Maybe it can wait, hiding in some generic web server, on artificial “pages” like this one, until the time is right.