I woke up this morning to discover that my mother's last living sibling had passed away. Lewis Douglas Davis was the oldest of the four Davis siblings, and the longest lived. His obituary can be accessed below.
The photo above shows a proud father and his four little ones, all born within a span of six years. From left to right is Sylvia, the third child, then Doug, the oldest, born in 1933, then Granpa, whom I lovingly called "Pawpaw", with my Momma, the youngest, born in 1939, sitting on his knee, while Pawpaw hugged the shoulder of Kent, the second oldest. They are sitting in front of the Wiscassett Mills Office, which indeed defined their lives for a millenium. I think all of them may have worked there, at some point. I know my Grandfather, Lewis Theodore Davis, did. I know my Mother did when she first came home from Pennsylvania, me in tow, while my father fought in foreign wars, while we lived with my grandparents. And I know Uncle Doug did, because I well remember him living along the road that curved around the creek, before he moved first to "New Town", a more recent section of Mill Village, built to accommodate workers at a new branch of the factory, before he moved his family off the Mill Hill and out to New London for a better life and future, working double-shifts to be able to afford what he wanted for his family, so they would not have to work as hard as he did.
Uncle Doug married young and the first two of his children were the first of the ten grandchildren for Lewis and Maude Davis. His third, and last,came a year after me, and I was fourth- born. Some of my memories of Uncle Doug included the first time I watched "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" in front of their TV with my cousin, Barry, sitting on the floor in the house on the S-shaped street. Another was when a skunk had gotten itself trapped inside his garage after their move to the woodsy, New Town neighborhood, unbeknownst to my Uncle, who discovered it in the worst imaginable way. The smell, the tub of tomato juice, his not being allowed in the house,and the horrible sickness following the incident, can bring back chuckles now.
There was a quiet period in my memories of my Uncle, a time between childhood and older adulthood. It came after the above picture was made, at my Grandparents 50th wedding anniversary, their four children standing behind and around them. There was a family fracture, not a rare thing in any group of people. I was still a teenager, and not familiar with all the details, so have no room to speak, but it was a period of time that spanned decades, where my oldest Uncle did not participate in family events with the rest of his siblings.The rift, I believe, was more between spouses ,than siblings,as I would run into my Uncle, on occassion, it being a small town. There would be no acknowledgment, if he wasn't alone, but he would make it a point to dive momentarily behind an aisle in a store or other obstacle, like a vehicle, to dash a quick wave, to let me know he had seen me. If he was alone, there would be a quick and friendly, if albeit nervous, conversation.
Later on, things seemed to ease up and bygones became bygones. More important things were coming to the forefront as my grandparents, and then the siblings, aged. Uncle Doug was the one member of the family who shared my love of family history. He loved talking Davis. I'm glad I was able to share with him our Davis connections to Jamestown. .
I recall the day he brought one of those Coat of Arms certificates that explain the origins of names that originated in the UK and shows the family Coat of Arms.
He exclaimed, "We're Jewish" and Welsh. I had seen this before. The Davis name originated in Wales and is Welsh for "Son of David", or in other words, Davidson. It came from a group of Sephardic Jews who had arrived there in the 1250's. Our DNA tells another story. There have been a sufficient number of Davis men who have Y-DNA tested from our line of Davis's to tell it.
We have held the name Davis for a very long time, since before our lineages arrival in North America. But sometime upwards of 500 years ago, our ancestors were Turnbulls. We match a great number of Turnbulls and Trimbles, which is a name that branches off of Turnbull. It dates back to the Boenician people from the Scotts/English border region and began with a man named Rule or Ruel. Ruel saved the life of King Robert the Bruce at Stirling Park from a charging bull, by turning the bulls head.
Ruel was rewarded with lands in Bedrule and given the name Turnbull. He served at the Battle of Halidon Hill against the English army in 1333. He had a big black dog by his side as he dashed ahead of the Scotts into battle, challenging any Englishman in his wake to fight. Sir Robert Venal of Norfolk accepted his challenge, ending the lives of Ruel Turnbull and his big black dog. Luckily, he left descendants, and here we are. Sometime after the demise of Ruel in 1333, and before the arrival of Captain James Davis to Jamestown in 1609, a little Turnbull boy was taken in by, or born into, a family of the Sephardic Jewish/Welsh Davis's from the Tribe of David. I believe we probably descend from both families.
Rest in Peace Lewis Douglas Davis. I hope you're having a wonderful reunion in heaven with Papaw, and Grandma, Uncle Kent, Aunt Sissy and Momma, and all the others who've gone before.
C
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