Alford Tales -- An Introduction

Welcome dear readers to 2023.  Not only a new year, but a return to one of my many talents.  That of telling a tale, spinning a yarn, weaving fact and fantasy into a coverlet. Its colors vibrant.  Its intricate pattern flowing.  A small aspect pulled from the story to come.

As I sit here at my loom, which by the way looks very much like a laptop, selecting the threads (also know as words) and pondering the pattern (also known as the story), I can't help but wonder where this will take me. For not only am I a weaver, but also a librarian, a curator, a researcher, and, the title I enjoy the most, a sleuth of history.  And all of those "hats" the I wear are difficult to separate. Often they all like to be worn at the same time.

The story is a narrative by and older woman, reflecting on her life. It was actually written for her for I suspect that she did not write well.   Oh, and to make life easier for us both (me the transcriber and you the reader), I have taken the liberty to tidy up the spelling and the grammar.  I hope you don't mind, but if you do, tough.  Oh, and one more thing, there are notes in the text written by one of her scribes.  You'll see what I mean when you get there.

So dear reader, sit back and let me share with you a tale that was found, presented, rejected, and put back into hiding.

I have named this introduction "My Name is Margaret."

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I was schooled in a one-room school house.  An old log cabin built by one of the first families to arrive in the area.  Mr. Jarvis was the teacher. A young man.  Handsome or so some of the young ladies thought.  He was a nice man until you crossed him.  I don't think that one boy's breeches in that school ever avoided his switch at one time or another.  He eventually married as he promised since the child was supposedly his.  I learned some arithmetic, learned to read some, write a little.  To tell truth, I am having my granddaughter write these stories. She and I get along fine.  My brother Robert's son comes to visit as well and helps write these.  (She told me to put here that I am smarter than she is when it comes to writing.  And also that I spell a lot better.)

Not quite sure why I want to tell them, but feel the need to tell them.  And they both have taking an interest in our family's story which helps to make it worth while.

I was born in the spring in the year of our Lord 1773.  My mama named me Margaret.  Of course everyone called me Peggy.  We lived on land granted to my pa about 1769 in Augusta County, Virginia.  Like most families in the area, we worked the land.  My pa had planted crops and my brothers helped him.  We was one of the lucky families.  Our crops grew and we survived.  Ma and us children tended the garden.  She spun and wove fabric.  She was a weaver.  I remember combing wool.  Watching my mama spinning it.  Learning to spin when  I got older.  Hated flax.  It could cut you if you weren't minding what you were a doing. Now I can buy fabric it if I want.  My husband and I have done well.

My pa had moved to Augusta County, Virginia from some place else, but I never knew where.  My grandpa Alford lived down the road.  His name was William Alford.  I didn't know much about him.  My older brothers and sister knew him a bit, but never spoke of him. They had been told not to, but id didn't know that until later.  After that old Irish bastard was dead.  (I didn't want to write that word, but she made me. I had to look it up in the family Bible.) 

Now one of most important stories I know is the one about my pa.  It wasn't until later that I found out who had murdered him.  No one but me ever knew until later when I told what I knew, saw and heard.  Not sure even now how to tell it, but someone murdered him.  Killed him.  Is one of the worst memories I have.

And so my friends, that's what this here tale is all about.  I just can't tell you.  Got to tell the whole story from the beginning.  Just who and why my pa was murdered.  Who killed Henry Alford?