Itinerant Painter and Consumptive Ancestor, Deborah Goldsmith, Holding a Bird 2022. Acrylic on paper, 12 x 16"
After Deborah Goldsmith became Mrs. George Throop she stopped painting and writing poems, gave birth to two children and died of consumption at age 28 in 1836. I have a book of the couple’s courting letters. Beautiful writing marked with meloncholic ink, yet replete with so much hope and faith in the future. Written in 1832! No matter how pious, steadfast, and true to the love of their god, death still stood tall at every village and farmhouse door.
I’ve written a bit about George and Deborah in End of the Line, a genealogy book on my patronym. Something about Spring’s return each year awakens my interest in genealogy. I believe many of the answers to our future can be found in the past. I’ll expound on that philosophy another day.
Meanwhile, take a look at this treasure I uncovered this winter in my pile of family records passed down through the years. I’m the last Throop in the paternal line, so all the goodies end up in my lap.
My great, great grandfather, J. Mott, a Union surgeon, brought these back from Louisiana, and gave to his son Henry (my great grandfather). Deborah died two years before J. Mott was born. She was his Aunt.
A few weeks ago I soaked six of these seeds in diluted hyrdrogen peroxide, scraped a thin layer off the hulls, followed by an hour long float in blackstrap molasses water. Then I planted them in a good quality seed starter soil. They still have not sprouted. Oh, but if they ever do, I will have restarted the southern Louisiana 1866 cotton crop. I have six more seeds to try again if this method fails (I think it has).
Slave hands harvested these seeds. Incredible.
Somehow I feel this is a connection to reincarnation, which I have no worthwhile opinion on beyond that of wishful thinking.
I admire you reincarnation experiment.
What does that mean?
It sounds like the thing most people die of, these days, whether it's physically or mentally ( since the so called industrial revolution ) ;<)
Consumption was the 19th century name for tuberculosis. Pretty bad at the time.
American Civil War seeds. If they ever sprouted, I think I’d be on TV:)
Ah, I see.
Back then we had TBC to poison us.
Now we have TV ;<)
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