Arthur G.
Barron
April 4, 1889
to September 6, 1970
My mother’s maiden name is Mabel L. Barron. Her father is
Arthur G. Barron. I recently read in a book about genealogical research that we do not research names, we research persons. Arthur
Barron was a living person in my Barron family line. More real for me than his father, William
A Barron, and his father Samuel Sylvester, and his father Augustin, and his
father Samuel Cooksey Barron, his father Thomas, and his father John who were mere
names on a sets of documents. I hope to portray his progeny as breathing, believing, cryingm, laughing, earning, failing, thriving human beings. The Barrons are, without doubt, an interesting bunch.
While I have
added some flesh on my ancestors' bones, still, unlike those who preceded him I heard my Grandpa speak and felt his hand in my hand, I experienced his wit, his delightful
personality, his gruffly expressed displeasure at “those damn fools” driving
badly. I saw him, from that same front seat, countless times, gently placing his
hand on his dear bride’s knee, who cuddled next to him as we took our Sunday
drives. “Do you know why they put walls around cemeteries?” he would ask my
sister and me. Without waiting to hear our reply he would say, “Because folks
are dying to get in.” Although we had
heard this lame joke twenty times, my sister and I still gave him a courtesy
chuckle.
He was born in 1889, the third youngest of fourteen. His father William Augustin Barron died when Arthur was eight years old. At some point he goes to work in a "buggy whip factory" to help the family put food on the table. Family lore says that William lost his farm and left Union county to live in the city of Henderson. I think his poor health forced him to divide the farm and sell it off. I need to do some more spade work on that question, and that requires a trip to Union county courthouse. William dies in 1897 and the 1900 Census lists Art's mother's (Mary Ann Ruark) as a "weaver." She is 54 years old. Authur is 11 and still in school.
Most of his life Art Barron cooked in one of several local
kitchens. He was a professional cook, a chef, and a friend to his customers.
This was what he did. Cooking was how he earned a living since he was a teenager until
shortly before he died at age 80. I had the pleasure of cooking with him during
busy lunch rushes and watched him manage a grill filled with hamburger patties.
Flipping them at a remarkable speed using both bare hands. He could remember
every order without writing them down. He could tell the customer what they
owed, even on take-out orders with six or more checks. I don’t think
he finished the grade school. He once explained to me that a cook must educate
his fingers to know just how done a steak was. “You thump it in the middle” he
explained. “The harder it feels the doner <sic> it is.” He had a talent
for ordering the correct amount of food so as not to waste any.
I watched him, time and again, asking complete stranger, with
a wink and a smile, “How old do you think I am?” They always guessed way too
young. He personified the word “gregarious.” It was always a pleasure to see
him walk in a room. “How many kids do you have, Art?” “I have three” he would
quip. “As soon as I learned what caused it, I put a stop to it damn quick.“ He
would sometimes take me to Mass and on the way out he and the young priest
(Father Temple who later became a personal mentor to me) would have the same
exchange, “Father you had a damn good sermon today. It was so good, I put a
hundred dollars in the offering.” Father Temple would smile knowingly and
reply, “The hell you did, Arthur.” My grandfather displayed a very real and
human brand of Christian piety and devotion. He would sing hymns while he drove
down the road only to cuss out rude drivers under his breath. Yet, I knew he was
a man with a deep and real love for the grace of Jesus.
Researching his life I discovered where, perhaps, some of his trust in God derived. It was from heartache coupled with a struggle to stay
sound of mind and body. I unearthed two facts that dismayed me and still bring
sorrow to my heart. One was that he married a woman named Katy Meahl on February
11, 1907 at the Courthouse in Evansville, Indiana, but in the 1910 census he
and she are no longer married but he is listed as “divorced.” The Kentucky
Death Records show that on January 30, 1918 Katy dies from Pulmonary Tuberculosis
in a TB hospital. Her reported age on their marriage license is 22, in fact she
was 17 and he was 19.
It was not until the early 1880’s that TB was understood to
be a highly contagious disease. The treatment always included years of social
isolation. Kate perhaps was diagnosed with the disease shortly after they
married and was sent to a sanitarium for rest and fresh air. She was living in such an institution when she died. I don’t know why
they chose to divorce. Surely it was a painful decision.
On Art’s World War I draft registration form, I found another
reason for sadness. My joyous grandfather suffered with a “nervous condition”
for ten years. The notation on the card says, “Hospitalized for a nervous
condition for ten years.” That document was dated June 5, 1917. Ten years
earlier was when he married Katy Meahl. Now, he was not continuously in the
hospital for those ten years. He does appear in his mother’s household in
Henderson in the 1910 Census. It is indicated that he worked for 52 weeks that
year in a restaurant. His age in 1910 is twenty one.
On Christmas Eve of 1924 he marries Ruth Worman, my
grandmother. A year later, Dec 30, 1925, my mother is born. Ruth is eleven
years younger than Art. She lives a few doors down from Art’s brother. She,
herself, had suffered a disappointment when her fiancé was sent to prison for
manslaughter. He was defending her from a rowdy man who was stabbed by a pen knife. When my grandmother told the story she said the man and her fiancé ended
the fight by shaking hands. Apparently
the victim dies later. Perhaps the mutual sorrow help to form a bond between
them.
My family research is not for mere curiosity or to find high and
noble family connections – though there are many of those. I want to know the
people who came before me. Real, flesh and blood, children, teens, young
adults, old and dying persons. Who lived as the Bible says of many Old
Testament saints – “full of years.”
