East of Kingston South of Here

PROLOGUE Somewhere in or near La Rochelle, France, Robert Brasseur, a Huguenot, born about 1597, begat a son, Benjamine. Benjamine also begat a son, Robert, who begat Samuel, who begat Robert, who begat Nancy Brashears Roberts, who gave birth to Brashears Roberts, who begat Thomas, who begat Sarah Alice Hedgecock, who gave birth to Eva Estelle Hedgecock Mincy, who gave birth to Virgil, who begat Pamela, who gave birth to Cristina Helen Clapp. Cris, my oldest granddaughter, graduated from Mary Washington College in 2005. Cris is also a direct descendant of John Alden, [of, “Prithee, John, why do you not speak for yourself?” fame] who, in September 1620, joined 99 other adventurous souls on the Mayflower to begin a new life. In the process, they helped open a New World. About 1670 in Scotland, Amos Marney also begat a son, Amos, who migrated to Ireland. From there, the Marney family voyaged to the colonies where, generations later, one Letitia Marney wed John Sawyer Hart whose father, Henry, was born in London. Their granddaughter, Elizabeth Hart, later met and married John Wesley Mincy. John’s son, my father, Homer Franklin Mincy, is the great grandfather of my youngest grandchild, Joseph Michael Hartnett. I would love to survive and be able to enjoy his last day in college. Along the way these Marneys, Hedgecocks, Mincys, and Brasseurs did meet Nicks, Rausins, Ladds, Roberts, Staleys, Harts, Selvidges, Martins, and Byrums; wedding, bedding and breeding as they went. Thus, today, if we all gathered two by two, we would most surely sink an ark and, probably, the Titanic. Until a few years ago, I had no clue about this and much, much more (except that I had grandchildren). At this point you may say, with good reason, so what? Let me recall a couple of stories: in September 1958, my wife, June, and I, with three year old Pam, had recently moved to 18 Lee Street, Nixon, New Jersey. This was my fifth work assignment in two years, following school, and certainly my deepest penetration into the North. June soon had an interesting experience with our apartment complex neighbors, as she and other mothers strolled, with their children, up and down the street. These women mentioned being either “Italian” or “Jewish” or “Greek” or “Polish” or “Catholic” and wanted to know what she was. June was somewhat embarrassed and, not knowing what else to say, retorted, “I am just an American, I guess.” I always gave her high marks for this response because it complimented a viewpoint that nurtured for years. It is that my immediate relatives’ ancestors had been here so long that what they did (farmer, merchant, lawyer, preacher) and who their immediate relatives were, was more important than where their distant ancestors originated. Most of them had long forgotten if, in fact, they ever knew. I grew up, like most, caring little about what tales were told and, for whatever reasons, my father told few. The years went by; I had questions and there was no one to answer them. Who was I? (Other than Virgil Mincy, American) It is my observation concerning genealogy that the normal bell curve of distribution applies: a few are rabidly interested, a few could not care less or are turned off, and the rest (a majority) may show mild curiosity if struck over the head with a family bible or album. I rested comfortably in this sans coat of arms majority. For whatever reason, perhaps genes, sense of mortality, or wanting to know the origin of Mincy, I developed a strong desire to know more and, through a series of circumstances, set out to do something about it. This effort was, admittedly, a somewhat selfish one. I wanted answers to questions about my past and finding some of them has been well worth the search. More importantly, some nephew, grandchild, great granddaughter, or cousin will someday have the same longing to know about us; so, for them too, I made this effort. I found information about “who I was.” However, finding facts only created the desire for more facts. I became interested in adding to what was known about my mother’s family. In fairness to my children and my grandchildren, I wanted to find what I could about their maternal families, the Canupps and Farners. This activity dredged up all the memories of my lifetime and the desire to tell some of it. What to do? Write a book? Me? I have struggled to write a memo, letter, or a concise sentence throughout my life. Any volunteers? (Silence). There being none, I seriously considered this project: Could I? Should I? Would I? The answer came from “Little Engine that Could”: “I think I can; I think I can”…. So, I shall. This will not be a tell all. While it may, in fact or by implication, be about war, mystery, excitement, and love, it will not, in fact or by implication, say anything that would belittle, hurt, or malign anyone, living or dead. It will stray on the side of blandness rather than charge straight toward controversy. In genealogy, the professionals remind us, as a teacher would by tapping you on the wrist, that “You must have three verification sources” for authenticity. Much of this work includes the results of professional efforts. More is from family sources, and it all is, or is believed to be, accurate. Most I just know to be true. I may not have, in every case, documents in triplicate to support a premise. For example, if every reference gleaned from “the Internet” was downloaded and copied, the paper left for someone to throw out someday would be staggering. Generous acknowledgement will be given later to those whose work and support made this possible. There are gaps and mysteries that may never be filled or resolved about some family links. In some cases, conclusions may be drawn or hypotheses formed as to who did what and why but, if so, it will be evident. Today, we see ourselves in mirrors, photo prints, film, and video. We are in color, often moving, and always real. The grass is green, the sky blue, blood is red, a dress is yellow, and pink lips smile to reveal perfect teeth that are usually white. We take all this for granted. Move back a few generations, however, and the pictures that exist are black and white or sepia toned. The subjects they preserve for us are always stern, posed, and look “old worldly.” We usually identify no more with those ancient, framed portraits hanging in an obscure attic than we do similar artifacts displayed in T G.I. Fridays or Cracker Barrel. They deserve something more. Those distant relatives of mine helped found a nation, fought its battles, taught their children, tilled the soil, ministered to lost souls, and lived real lives. Their blood was as red as ours, their love as deep, their passion as strong, and their belief in tomorrow perhaps clearer. Their stories warrant telling. That is what I intend to do: tell some of their stories. This cannot be the history of Mincy ancestors and descendants, for that would truly be another War and Peace. What I shall do is tell about these people, trying to abstract and preserve small bits of their lives so we can better understand ours. If you find some of it pathetic, share our pathos. If it seems mildly amusing, chuckle slightly. Sad? Tears are in order. If you happen to be a grandchild, eight or 10 generations removed from Jacob Knupp, Amos Marney, Robert Brasseur, or one of the Hitchcocks, maybe you will look at it this way: these are only a few footlights along the path from them to you. Then, of course, I have my own tales to tell. It is interesting to note how family lore, long buried or passed down as gospel, turns out to be quite different when the facts are revealed. Society surely will benefit if the truth about me can be, and is, told. You also need to know I have an older brother, Homer, and a younger sister, Elizabeth Alice (Betty) Axley. I could not do