By DAVE HAMRICK
Editor-at-large

I can't say for sure that this is truly unique, but I had an experience recently that I'm willing to bet none of you readers has ever had.

I visited the grave of my great great great grandfather's leg.

When I have time, I'm going to learn more of the story, but for now it will suffice to relate that Robert Signor Hamrick and a dozen or so extended family members (four family groups in all) decided to leave their comfortable homes in Coweta County, load up a wagon and head west.

I haven't learned all the details, so I don't know why they left. But I feel certain they must've been exercising that most basic of American rights, the pursuit of happiness. I guess they decided to pursue it in a westerly direction.

Anyway, this band of adventurers traveled only as far as what is now known as Cleburne County, Alabama (just barely over the border near Interstate 85) before the wheels came off. Or the yoke broke, or something like that.

There was no wagon repair shop at the corner... in fact, there was no corner. It would take time to cut down trees, cure the wood and fashion a new part for the wagon, so the only logical solution was to build a cabin and stay the winter.

It was during the building of the cabin that the accident happened. Stone for the fireplace fell and crushed Robert's leg.

There is fierce disagreement among family genealogists about whether the leg had to be amputated after this accident, or whether the leg was set and then broken again in a subsequent accident.

In either case, the end was the same. The leg came off.

I suppose GGG Granddad decided further travel would be difficult and decided to settle down. He started a Primitive Baptist church in the cabin by the creek, and buried the leg on a nearby hillside, thus founding the church cemetery where quite a few of my kinfolk are now buried.

When my father started researching his family history recently, not much was known. But through painstaking work, he tracked down Robert Signor and his son Robert Jr., along with several other sons.

Apparently, the offspring of one of those other sons has kept in touch with its roots a little better than our branch, and through contact with our new-found cousins, he spread the word among his own sons that a family reunion was planned.

So we all followed quite literally in our ancestors' footsteps and headed west to meet our cousins and visit the old home place.

Actually, the old home place isn't there anymore, or at least very little of it remains. Following directions that haven't been checked out in at least a decade, I tramped around in the woods across the road from the little Primitive Baptist Church for an hour or so and couldn't find the cabin's foundation, though they say it's still there somewhere.

The church is still there, though. Eventually the congregation of nine grew to 25 or so and built a church building near the home place. The Hamrick name is still prominently listed among the church officers.

My brother and I got a kick out of reading a detailed history of the church. One of our cousins compiled books with the minutes of every meeting and service since the mid-19th century, listing the names of moderators and telling of the yearly journeys undertaken by church committees.

Apparently, a moderator had to be sought out and asked for his services every year or two. Also, whenever someone was to be ordained as a deacon or preacher, committees would travel to neighboring churches asking prominent members to come and take part in ordination services.

Committees also were formed to ferret out the truth whenever church members were accused of grievous sins. If someone was accused of gossiping, cussing, drinking or equally serious offenses, the committee had to find out if the accusation was true and whether the offender was repentant. If the sinner refused to repent, the church removed fellowship.

The process was (and is today) known as “taking gospel steps,” which confused me at first. I thought someone was accused of stealing the steps from the church building.

Somewhere in the early 1900s, a congregant was accused of drinking and being drunk, and a committee was chosen to visit him and take gospel steps. As I read through the minutes, I never did find any where that issue was resolved, but about a month after the committee was chosen, I noticed that every member of the committee confessed to and repented of “drinking too much and talking too much.”

I got the impression the accused brother was more persuasive than the committee that went to redeem him.

After lunch we strolled the 200 yards or so to the cemetery and viewed Robert Signor Hamrick's grave, and his leg's grave right next to it. Nearby was the grave of one of the sons who was killed in the Battle of Tennessee in the Civil War.

Robert Jr., my great great grandfather, was wounded and taken to Ohio to prison. After the war, legend has it, he walked all the way home.

The family had been in the horse business before the war, but all the horses were taken for the war effort and never returned, so afterward family members had to find other ways to make a living.

I noticed that church membership before the war had grown to about 50, but afterward dropped to about 25 and has never reached the antebellum level again.

That war changed a lot of things. I don't know how much influence it had over subsequent events that found Hamricks going from Alabama to the Cedartown area and then to Cartersville, Ga., where my mother and father met and married. But it might be interesting to find out.

I guess this is how Alex Haley felt when he started looking into his “Roots.” Once you start down that road, there's no stopping place.

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