Jesse and Frank, Zerelda and Robert ... the beginning of a journey

All my life my father insisted we were related to Jesse and Frank James. He followed up that claim with the fact that his paternal grandfather's mother was a "James" and it was through her line that we were related. We just had to be related he said.

For years I believed him and thought that once I began my alternative life as an amateur genealogist I would certainly prove him right. To my great disappointment, I have never been able to substantiate the ancestral claim, and even before he died – Dad continued to insist he was right.

Little did I know that the notorious outlaws would come into my life, posthumously, 150 years after the start of the Civil War, 130 years after Jesse's murder, 96 years after Frank's death and 9 years after my father's passing.

While working at a recent newspaper job close to the James boy's hometown of Kearney, I was asked to start a history column and I went for it with great zest and excitement. I started off with some of the historical sites in the beautiful town of Excelsior Springs, enjoying my dive into the local history – rich from its mineral water heydays – and while I was at it, I discovered the fascinating Civil War history surrounding the town, which wasn't even founded until 15 years after the end of the war.

Suddenly, I was learning about the Battle(s) of Fredericksburg (yes – once there was a small area near where Excelsior is located that was called Fredericksburg), Battle of Albany (now called Orrick), and Quantrill's Raiders. While I was writing and researchng, guerrilla descendants and local Union soldier's descendants were coming out of the woodwork to provide me with such a plethora of information and photos that I felt like a kid in a candy shop.

The history lesson has been life-altering for this self-subscribed Yankee implant.

I was born in Fredericksburg, Virginia and spent a great deal of my childhood there. However, I had my schooling in southern New Jersey – considered a northern state and then married a man from Maine. There is no denying that any Maine-iac is a Yankee.

The exposure to the true history of the war here in Missouri, specifically here where I live, along the Missouri river in what is known as "Little Dixie," has given a whole new meaning to what the War Between the States truly meant here. It was so much more than the issue of slavery. The heinous acts committed here by Union soldiers against Missouri pioneers, most of whom, simply wanted to live their lives on their farms and be left alone, were horrific.

And in Missouri, the war began a long time before the official January 1861 secession by the south. It was preceded by the border war between Kansas and Missouri in the 1850s and before that by the Mormon Wars here in Missouri. To understand the James boys, I had to learn about the previous 20 years before the start of the war here in order to fathom what led these boys, along with so many others, to commit the acts they did.

As I began writing my articles with a focus largely on the war years, I decided to take a look at Jesse and Frank James, not knowing that those two men – Jesse specifically – would infiltrate my life.

First I had to tour the Jesse James Farm and Museum, which was my first mistake – I jest here – for as I drove out into the Kearney countryside I was besotted with the beautiful rolling hills, lush landscaping and bucolic pastures.

Once I turned down the road that led to the driveway to the farm, I was surrounded by a vast acreage of pasture and, opening the windows to my car, I swore I could hear the pounding of horses hooves as Jesse and Frank rode back to their boyhood home.

One can imagine it and I know I am not the first to experience it. This was where they lived, where they hid out sometimes, where their family's roots took hold so many years ago.

Once you turn down the drive to the farm, you are astounded by the gorgeous property – another example of rolling hills, pasture and trees. It is no wonder that the boys' father, Robert James, and his wife, Zerelda, bought the property in 1845 because it reminded them so much of their beloved Kentucky.

You don't see the farmhouse right away. Instead, the drive takes you right to the museum – a modern building that houses a small theater, gift shop and the museum, with numerous family artifacts that include photos, clothing, quilts, even parts of the first coffin in which Jesse was buried.

A short, winding walk through the grounds brings you to the farmhouse – far into the property that it is nestled near trees and a creek, but which borders what would have been a pasture and land for crops. The James family original farmed hemp back when the father was still alive.

The James family farmhouse at the time it was sold by Jesse's grandchildren to Clay County
Parks and Recreation in 1978. It has since been renovated and restored.

A tour through the farmhouse is informative, especially for someone first embarking on the James family journey. The old house is musty, but nicely air-conditioned and has electricity now. I can't imagine how uncomfortably hot it must have been for the women in the 1800s in that un-air-conditioned cabin with the heavy skirts and petticoats.

You tour Frank and Annie's bedroom, where her sewing machine stands in one corner, the small bed where the infamous outlaw slept and his footlocker lie along another wall.  The bedroom leads into a parlor heavy laden with early 1900s furniture and family photos that are not ever seen in collections, but belong here – in the family home. This is where the family lived, loved and died.

A small kitchen is linked to the parlor too and it is furnished in early 1900s decor as well. A step up out of the parlor leads you into the old cabin – built in the 1820s by the first owner. It is tiny and only contains two rooms. It is hard to believe that an entire family of five lived there, along with the household help.

One room is a bedroom and contains an old bureau, a rocking chair, fireplace and bed. The bed is angled toward the window on the opposite side of the room. It was angled just so in order that Jesse's mother, Zerelda, could see her son's grave from her bed and watch out for any "varmints" that might have wanted to steal her beloved son's bones. She also allegedly slept with a gun under her pillow ... just in case.

One learned very quickly not to mess with Zerelda Cole James Mimms Samuel.

The other room is the old, original kitchen and where the Pinkerton's men threw the bomb in through the window. This is the room in which Zerelda lost part of her right arm, and where her son, Archie, was killed on a bitterly cold, snowy January night in 1875.

Little did I know after my first tour and introduction to the museum's basement archives room, that I would one day be considered a James family historian and sit on the Friends of the James Farm board of directors. I had no idea that I would gobble up any and all letters, photos, information and relations that I could, like a thirsty old woman in the desert.

I had no clue I would forge many friendships from this foray into the James family history with fellow historians – some from as far away as England, re-enactors and family members – even Jesse's great-granddaughter herself, Betty Barr, has become a friend.

I still haven't found the link to my own family, even though Robert James' ancestry goes back to the same part of Kentucky as my James family.

I'm not looking too hard. If it's there, I will come across it someday and my dad will be chortling from heaven, "I told you so."