The Library

Constance Garrett Key

2005-08-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

This site has been rather inactive, so I thought I would put a picture up of Constance Garrett Key, my great-great grandmother, to stimulate some discussion. I don't know much about this ancestor, and would love to hear any stories, remembrances, etc. I am especially curious about her hatchet brooch, which looks like a Carrie Nation jewelry piece donned by woman of that time to support the temperance cause and the saloon chopping activities of Ms. Nation. I spoke to my grandmother (Rae Key Ferrell) today and she said that Constance Garrett was not a teetotalar and loved Italy because of the wines served there at ever meal. My grandmother also said that she and her husband had been stranded in Europe at the outbreak of WWI and had to abandon all of their luggage and possessions in Germany. While they waited in England for passage back to the states they ran out of cash, but a tailor loaned them some to tide them over until the proper letters of credit arrived. Apparently, tailors were a reliable source of credit to the aristocracy as they waited out their inheritance but needed to settle gambling debts before then. Hobart Key was so grateful that he became a customer for life to this tailor, always ordering his suits custom made from England from him.

Nancy Key Dulaney Goldring on her Grandmother, circa 1965

2004-11-26T13:23:00.000-08:00

My grandmother, Rae Lyttleton Key was born in Marshall, Texas. Her father, Judge H.T. Lyttleton and her mother, Nancy, had come to Texas from Kentucky a short time before. As a young woman Mama Rae, as she was affectionately called by her grandchildren, attended the Chicago Art Institute and had received some acclaim as an artist before her wedding to my grandfather, Edmund Key, Jr. After her marriage, her paintings in oil and watercolor reflected her absorption in her family and the landscape of Caddo Lake, a beautiful Cyprus swamp, where they spent many happy times at their place called West Wind. She worked in all mediums, including clay and pastels. The walls of their house on Crockett Street and on Grand where they lived after the death of my great-grandmother were covered with her murals. Her work possessed an ethereal quality reminiscent of the Impressionist school. Mama Rae enjoyed collecting as well as creating works of art and filled her home with many treasures which she brought back from New York and abroad. We spent most holidays there and every room seemed crowed with things to be admired and to excite the imagination.

Mama Rae was exceptionally beautiful as well as talented, with a striking combination of black hair and deep blue eyes. Although highly reserved, she had an abundance of charm. A commanding elegance was softened somewhat by a sense of humor. Her tiny figure was extremely graceful. Even in very old age, when arthritis forced her to use a cane (albeit a delicate, gold-headed one) she still maintained her stately carriage.

Her energies were given over to her art, her five children, and her husband. They were a devoted couple. After their children were grown, my grandparents traveled extensively abroad and had many friends in England, a country of which they were very fond.

Daddy Edmund and Mama Rae loved horses and particularly enjoyed riding to hunt. They maintained several hunters at their farm, Bushwood, and organized other enthusiasts of the sport in the county. A fox was kept in a pen in the back yard. In the United States the hounds do not actually chase a live animal but merely follow its scent which has been spread over a trail by dragging a few rags upon which the fox has slept. They also rode a great deal in Virginia and England.

In middle age, my grandmother took up aviation after my grandfather’s ill health prevented him from renewing his license. When she was ready to take her written exam, the man at the license bureau, seeing a fragile, southern lady before him, facetiously asked her whether she wanted the exam for a regular or commercial license. Mama Rae inquired which he thought was the better to have. Thinking he was pulling a huge joke, the man said he believed she should take the commercial test, which was of course was much more difficult, and for which he knew she could not possibly be prepared. Mama Rae took the commercial pilot’s exam and passed with a high mark, much to everyone’s astonishment.

We visited my grandparents’ large ante-bellum house on Grand St. often and were usually there at Christmas. These were always occasions filled with good times. There were lots of cousins – eighteen first cousins – and an interminable host of other relatives who constantly dropped by, filling the house with laughter and activity. The dining room was large and always seemed to accommodate however many there were at the mealtime. One wall was dominated by a huge marble fireplace and the other by a picture window with cut glass planes which cast rainbow colors on the floor at breakfast every morning. It looked out on my grandmother’s rose garden and a dense planting which we children called “the jungle” because of the elephant ears which grew there and the vines which tangled about all the trees. Buried in its mysterious core, stood a bird bath with a figure of Peter Pan holding a crow on his shoulder which Mama Rae had modeled out of clay.

There was an old carriage house left from my great grandparents’ day where we used to play hide and seek. It was a dark, spooky place which took much courage to enter, but which only served to endear us to us children. When we were very young, we constructed tiny castles surrounded by little moats and trees of twigs for the elves and fairies which we knew lived in the wood behind the house. Mama Rae would carefully inspect each construction and give her approval of its suitability for these ethereal creatures. The next morning, we invariably found a shiny penny near the spot, obviously left by a well-satisfied sprite.

We children looked especially forward to Christmas spent at our grandparents. A tremendous fir tree which reached to the eighteen-foot ceiling was placed in the parlor and was strung with lights and decorations. A floor to ceiling mirror, part of a group of gilt furniture brought back by my great-great grandfather on a trip to New Orleans, reflected the room, transformed into sheer splendor in our childish eyes. At dawn on Christmas morning we would fly down the stairs to discover what Santa Claus had left the night before. Eggnog, served in a Wassail bowl, owned by the first Key to arrive from England, was served on the sideboard along with fruitcake and fresh roasted nuts. Mattie Lee, an ancient Negro who had been borne a slave in the family and who worked for my great grandmother for 47 years, would arrive mid-morning to claim “Christmas gift” from all the grown-ups and take her bourbon without benefit of eggnog. Dinner was served around 3 in the afternoon. Eventually we outgrew the dining room and two banquet rooms were set up on the veranda. The children ate at one while the grownups sat facing us at the other. Turkey with cornbread dressing, sweet potato pie and fried oysters were served with a myriad of other delicious things. For dessert, Mama Rae always had English trifle made with macaroons and ladyfingers.

The library was my favorite room of the house. Here the grownups gathered before supper to enjoy a highball and a platter of hors d'ouvres. The rest of the day was rather quiet. The walls were lined with bookcases that had sliding glass doors on them. Some of the books dated far book into the 19th century and had belonged to relatives long gone. There was a curio cabinet built into one wall filled with objects from all over the world, collected by my great grandparents who lived their entire married lives in the house, as well as by Mama Rae and Daddy Edmund. I remember the pleasant ticking of a clock which never kept time on the mantle piece. Sadly, the house was destroyed by fire in 1962. With it disappeared much that was left by past generations from a quiet, more serene age.

After my grandfather’s death, Mama Rae continued to travel a great deal. She took me on several trips to Mexico and New England, where we studied art when I was a young girl. She also took her entire family – some 30 or more strong – on ski trips to Colorado and to Mackinac Island in Michigan and Vermont for two summers. These trips were the particular delight of the grandchildren. We traveled by train, which was becoming a novelty even then, and always had an entire Pullman car to ourselves. The railroad plied our elders with champagne and ceaseless trays of hors d'ouvres while we children were stuffed with sweets for the duration of the ride. We were a close, boisterous family who enjoyed each other’s company. There were cousins of every age so that no one lacked for playmates. There was always an uncle or aunt available if a parent wasn’t a hand. At the calm center of this clan presided my delicate, indomitable grandmother.

A Southern Girl In '61

2004-10-06T18:55:00.000-07:00

A Southern Girl In '61 by Mrs. D. Giraud Wright (nee Louise Wigfall)

I found this book on line. My mother had a copy, which I now have. Inside is a card with this note, addressed to Miss Nancy Key:

Dear Nancy--
Verily you are o'er young to fully enjoy the story of "old times" but in the years to come--may each be crowned with happiness--you may find interest in reading of the "old south," as known by a former Marshall girl.
To our only grand-child born in our house I send special love.
Always best wishes,
Grandmother

This would have been from Constance Garrett Key to my mother, written in the 1920's, I guess.

EB

Race Relations

2004-10-03T17:22:00.000-07:00

I am interested in all family lore, but lately even more so about stories of African-Americans like Willie Washington who worked for our family. They provide priceless insight into life in those times. Please share any stories that you remember.

Grandmother told me of about one of Mama Rae’s cooks who wouldn’t come to work one day and refused to say why. She was a good cook and so Mama Rae finally got it out of one of the other servants that an enemy of the cook had planted some sort of cursed fetish in the ground beneath the kitchen’s doorway. The cook believed that if she crossed over the door’s threshold she would die, which is why she wasn’t coming to work. Even if she herself believed it was ignorant superstition, Mama Rae knew how deadly serious the situation was to the cook and had some men dig up the ground beneath the door and say a prayer over it. The cook felt this was adequate to lift the curse and returned to work.

Daddy Edmund’s mother drove with her chauffeur Willie (not Willie Washington, another Willie) to Fisher and Hobart’s wedding on Fisher’s family plantation in Mississippi. After she had gone to bed she heard a soft knock at her door. She opened it and there was Willie, who was trembling in abject terror, in fear for his life. He had been sent out to sleep in the servant’s quarters with the other African Americans, who were all field workers and were a rougher, meaner breed than he had ever encountered in Marshall. Willie was a slight, refined man and he was certain they were going to kill him. She let him sleep outside her door on a palette.

Foxy

2004-08-31T14:33:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to make this blog more appealing, I have added a link to Foxylibrarian to the sidebar. Some of you already know it is the one of the most stimulating and intellectual blogs on the net. Even if you are not interested in this blog, that one should be on your list.

The Call

2004-08-31T14:19:00.000-07:00

I have just sent out invitations to 12 family members that were not on the original list (which was pretty short).

If anyone knows of additional people to invite, let me know and I will send them an invitation.

This could be fun.

The Portals

2004-08-31T13:44:00.000-07:00

So far there have mainly been posts about people's long lost memories.

I sort of envision this blog as a place for current ideas as well. Things we might discuss or stories we might tell if we were all back in the long-burnt-up Library sipping a Martini and eating a cocktail weenies and having some good Yuks.

With that in mind I hope participation will pick up. In the last few years I have seen several e-mail flurries develop amongst family members. I was thinking that kind of discussion could come to the Library.

Many of us have in all these years discovered portals we can share without relying only on the ancient ones.

By the way, if anyone wants to post and hasn't been invited or doesn't know how. Let me know and I will try to fix that.

Teeny tiny memories

2004-08-16T22:43:00.000-07:00

As one of the previously unqualified, I received my new invitation to The Library and am now signed up. I've been sitting here trying to call up some Mama Rae memories to contribute -- so far only little snippets come to mind:

The Yellow Room -- my favorite bedroom, but I never got to sleep in it

Wonderful thin, starched bath towels

Sneaking in to taste the contents of the perfume bottles on Mama Rae's dresser -- they smelled so good and tasted so bad

Camellias in bowls

Discovering the hard way that some of those white ice cream containers in the freezer were full of bacon grease

Fate magazine

Silver Christmas trees

Vienna sausages that tasted good -- also the shock and disgust of tasting my first Vienna sausage from a can at a friend's house

Uncle Paul's Edsel

Hello, again

2004-08-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

Since I see a post from the indefatigable blogger Cinnamon, I am inspired to try again. I have sent new invitations to some of those who did not qualify for membership several months ago for some reason. In addition, I am taking new vows to work on my own blog.

I guess I will see you all at the Camp Fern reunion!

Camp Fern Reunion Sept 18-19th

2004-07-20T13:25:00.000-07:00

I went to the last reunion 5 years ago and had the time of my life. I know that a lot of you are alums, and all of you are looking for an excuse to visit M-town! Please come! Here is the information page on the Camp Fern website. Does anyone have Connie and Meredith Sample's e-mail addresses? Loved seeing all of you in Connecticut.

The Well

2004-05-04T23:20:00.000-07:00

I was reminded by seeing a friend's garden with all her beautiful roses that Mama Rae had a wonderful rose garden, with great old cabbage roses and beautiful tea roses, with canes twice as tall as a child and long, wicked thorns.
These were out to the East of the house, between the verandah and the jungle.

South of those was a sort of dell or forest nook, in the shade of some trees.
There was a bird bath with a fountain. Was that where the dolphin was?
There was a dolphin with Uncle Neddy as a little child riding on it which Mama Rae had sculpted out of clay. She would get blocks of wet clay from the Marshall Pottery, and sculpt things, and have them fired in the pottery kiln.
I believe there were iron garden seats, too. And the well. It didn't look like a well. That was part of its fascination. It was a sort of secret well, covered with cement so it looked like a table, maybe. A little bit of the cement was broken off, so you could see underneath the old, worn bricks that the well was made out of, with the crumbling mortar between them. I was convinced that the well had not been filled up, that right on the other side of those bricks was empty space, and at the bottom of the empty space was cool, clear water. And at the bottom of the water--Confederate gold!
--Edmund B.

Speaking of Clem

2004-03-29T20:12:00.000-08:00

Bloody Red Skeletons

2004-03-29T15:17:00.000-08:00

"There are bloody red skeletons that live down there," said my cousin Richard. He said it so knowingly and with such confidence, I knew it must be true. I was four or five years old at the time and he was an all knowing seven or eight years old. We were standing outside and in the front of my grandmother's home on Grand Avenue in Marshall, Texas. The house had been built before the War Between the States. It had a dirt floor basement that had been a hat factory during the war. In the front of the house there were metal grates which allowed air to circulate down into the basement. To me the grates looked like prison bars, painted white.

"Didn't you see that one's fingers behind the bars? Look directly into darkness behind the bars", Richard instructed, taking me under his wing. I carefully bent down and peered into the darkness, not wanting to get too close, but wanting to see the tortured creatures, dwelling in my grandmother's basement. Of course, all behind the bars was black as pitch.

"Don't get too close, they'll reach through the bars and grab you and eat you. They especially like little fingers", Richard assured me in much the same tone as one might tell an Eskimo about the dangers of getting too close to a nest of rattlesnakes.

"oooh, look, over here." He yelled, as he ran to the next grate. "Didn't you see him that time?" I got up off my hands and knees and ran to the next grate. My vision tried to pierce the darkness, but it was all in vain. The bloody red skeleton had retreated once again.

We played this fun game for another hour or so, running from grate to grate. All the time, those wily, bloody red skeletons showing themselves only to my older cousin and never to me. Obviously, this was another advantage of being an older person. Not only were older people bigger and stronger, but also, they somehow could see the evil creatures that my grandmother was keeping in her basement.

Why on Earth would she do that? She was such a nice person and yet she kept beings in her basement that ate children. I knew it was true. My cousin had assured me. Maybe it was best not to bring it up to my grandmother. It was her house. She was bound to know of the bloody red skeleton's existence and their favorite foods. She must have had a reason for keeping them down there. I probably wasn't old enough to know the need for keeping a basement filled with bloody red skeletons that loved to eat children's little fingers. I decided to be quiet about the issue and just steer clear of the grates to the basement.

It was months (years?) later that Willie Washington dispelled the myth and assured me that there were none and had never been any bloody red skeletons living under the Grand Avenue house.

Posting trouble?

2004-03-28T15:10:00.000-08:00

Nancy told me she tried to post and it wouldn't work. Has anyone else had this problem? Let me know and we'll work on it.

Let's see some activity. I know you all have tons of material that is dying to get out!

Knox

The Library

2004-03-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

I had just started thinking about a name, when I
received the message entitled "The Truth Is Out, You Librarians!"

It reminded me of the library on Grand Avenue,
and how it was, for me at least, the center of the magic.
There was the sacred fire,
there the genii of the family in the form of portraits
of Edmund, Edmund, Hobart, and Edmund Key. There were the books;
and what books--the heavy kind, for the most part,
the kind that create distortions in space and time, and
open portals into other worlds.
And there we met to share the communion in two kinds,
or rather three kinds, for good talk is certainly a kind of communion.

Therefore I move we call it "The Library."

The Truth Is Out, You Librarians!

2004-03-11T09:18:00.000-08:00

"It seemed quite logical to the Librarian that, since
there were aisles where
the shelves were on the outside then there should be
other aisles in the
space between the books themselves, created out of
quantum ripples by the sheer
weight of words. There were certainly some odd sounds
coming from the other
side of some shelving, and the Librarian knew that if he
gently pulled out a book
or two he would be peeking into different libraries
under different skies.

"Books bend space and time. One reason the owners of
those aforesaid little
little rambling, poky secondhand bookshops always seem
slightly unearthly is
that many of them really are, having strayed into this
world after taking a
wrong turn in their own bookshops in worlds where it is
cosidered commendable
business practice to wear carpet slippers all the time
and open your shop only
when you feel like it. You stray into L-space at your
peril.

"Very senior librarians, however, once they have proved
themselves worthy by
performing some valiant act of librarianship, are
accepted into a secret order
and are taught the raw arts of survival the Shelves We
Know. The Librarian
was highly skilled in all of them, but what he was
attempting now wouldn't just
get him thrown out of the Order but probably out of life
itself.

"All libraries everywhere are connected in L-space. All
libraries.
Everywhere. And the Librarian, navigating by booksign
carved on shelves by past
explorers, navigating by smell, navigating even by the
siren whisperings of
nostalgia, was heading purposely for one very special
one.

"There was one consolation. If he got it wrong, he'd
never know it."

-Terry Pratchett