Will Shepard at the Stono-Baptist-Church-Cemetery. |
The Shepard boys on Shepard Street, in Summerville, in Dorchester County SC. |
“You can trace your heritage from Dorchester England to Dorchester Mass,
where there is an actual Shepard Street, to Dorchester, South Carolina, where
people were dying in a fever swamp to Moultrie, Georgia. It’s all in the records at Midway Church,”
Dad repeated over and over again before he died. And that was it. That’s the myth. But its certainly short on details? Which Dorchester
England? As we found out on a trip a
few years ago, there are several. Why
did they leave England? Was it the Civil
War? Were they persecuted by Judge
Jeffries, running for their lives during the Civil War? Why else would someone get on a boat, leaving
everything they know for an unknown land?
What happened in Massachusetts? Why’d
they leave for South Carolina? What
church did they start in Dorchester? How
many perished in the fever swamp? Dad’s
nothing but ashes, strewn through Louisiana and Texas. His files got thrown out during a
particularly acrimonious divorce. Mama,
who lived to 99, shuffled off three and a half decades ago. She leaves us a few clues in her “Notes: by
Mrs J B Shepard, (ORA IRENE HEWATT)” In
it, she writes:
“The history of the Shepard family in Georgia is tied in with the history
of Liberty County and Old Midway Church.
We feel certain that the first Shepard in Liberty was sent to old Midway
from Boston as a minister to that church.
Many ministers to old Midway were
asked down from Boston, as members of the Midway were careful of the selection
of their ministers and would have nothing but trained educated men. The name as we spell it (with one p) was the
same of the old Puritan preacher who had to slip out of England, incognito, and
who made such a name for himself in Boston and New England. The name is still well known in New
England. There is a street in Cambridge
by the name of Shepard….”
Mamas records go on to tell stories about Shepards in the Crusades, distant
relations in Jamestown. “We also know,
from research, that the first John Bowles to see America, came over as a
helper, to help bring the first Jamestown Colony… The first Bowles to come to Georgia
was John Bowles, who rose horse-back, from – me think – Charleston, SC as among
the few things he left were two law
books, on the fly of which was written
in a beautiful Spencerian hand, the
name, “John Bowles, Charleston, SC January 1800… That section of the state was at
that time, one of the most malarial infested in the world. John Bowles and his
young wife, both died of soon after they were married, leaving these two small
children…”
Dad, John Bowles Shepard, the third, refers to Mama, who live 99 years,
in the fist lines of a narrative he wrote about his life at the Chicago
Theological Seminary in the mid-1990s:
“It seems best to begin with a small paragraph about my background. On my father’s side of the family, I trace a
rich Georgia heritage which goes back to colonial days. The original Shepards moved to Georgia in
1752 with the Midway community, which was a group of Puritans from New
Dorchester, Massachusetts. During its heyday, the church was pulpified by a
success of Harvard trained clerics, on Eliot among them if memory serves me
right. Since those days, the Shepards
have remained staunchly Calvinistic in attitude if not theology. My grandfather was a very successful
businessman who dealt primarily in
farmland, livestock and fertilizer. My
grandmother is a brilliant, extremely powerful woman who bore five sons. One died early, three she sent to Harvard;
one to West Point. The entire group, my
uncles and my father among them, were a rigid, doctrinaire and severe group.”
“Dorchester is just a marker on the map,” noted Mom, in Edisto.
“Well, lets go see it…”
Will and I got in the car on Friday to check it out.
“Childhood was dangerous then,” noted our tour guide the day before in
Charleston, the malaria consumed our relatives, during their stop here between Massachusetts
and Georgia.
“Should we look for a cemetery or a street?”
“Try a street first…”
“There is a Shepard Street in Dorchester County.”
Lets do it.
So, Will and I drove, exploring the mystery, making our way past Edisto
State Park, birds flying in the distance, the Spanish moss, stretching from the
tree branches lunging over the room. Past Hollywood we drive, where the ghosts
and stories about the civil rights movement dovetail with horrific tales of
democracy’s demise.
“After Lincoln was shot, the democrats supported national unity. Reconstruction failed. The South lost the war and won the
peace. You feel it every time you drive
here.”
“If you see the blue house, try to
get a shot.”
Will snapped pictures, as we drove past old shacks, dilapidated homes.
“Did you see that church?”
“Lets turn around.”
And so we stopped at the sight of the Stono Babtist Church Cemetery, a
congregation that that was active from the mid-19th century until World
War II in Ravenel, Charleston County. The
old white structure was destroyed by time, maybe a storm, graves in the
distance. I walked up to look
inside. An old organ sat in the middle,
walls blown out.
“Probably ended by a storm.” Will
bent down looking at an old grave.
“She died in 1919, her husband four years later,” Will surveyed the stones.
“Probably from the influenza outbreak.”
We got back in the car.
“Shepard street is twenty minutes away.”
Parking along a tree lined street, we snapped some photos.
“Do you know about the family this street was named for?” I asked a woman
walking her dog when we finally found Shepard Street in Summersville SC in
Dorchester Country.
“The Shepards…. They were one of the five families here. They all inbred with each other.”
“Do you know where they went to Church?”
“Beheny just down the street.”
So we wound our way down the windy street to the
Methodist Church.
“I’m one of the Shepards,” noted a man inside the
Church, when I asked.
“Spelled with two Ps. You should
ask the rector here.”
“I’m not smart enough to answer that question. I know nothing about that. But you could look at the town records. And
there is a town of Dorchester just few miles away.”
So we drove away, delving further and further into the mystery.
There was nothing much in Dorchester but railroad tracks, an old gas
station, and a church, no cemetery.
“Welcome to Dorchester,” a sign declared.
“I can see why they left,” noted Will. “Its another place and story that
is disappearing.”
It was time to go back to the beach.
So will and I drove and talked about grandad and dad, uncle kirk’s early
demise and all the stories. There’s a bittersweet feeling to these
explorations. Dad rarely wrote down a
word of that memoir he was going to write. And his journals incomprehensible.
Back to Edisto we drove, stopping at Pigley Wigley for collard greens and
ham hocks for dinner.
“You didn’t get a hamhock,” noted a young woman at store.
‘Let me go get you one.”
“You know how to make Southern collard greens?” volunteered another woman
standing there. “Don’t forget to put in baking soda and a pinch of sugar?”
People take their collard greens seriously here.
They also believe in their myths.
Edisto is a gem, noted a man on the beach later that night, fishing as
the sun went down.
It really is, even with the mysteries surrounding it.
Helena Hooper Shepard caught a few snapshots from the trip.
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