Forget snakes on a plane, in Virginia it was snakes at the river and snakes on the farm

I don't like snakes – never have – never will. I'm sure that stems from my years as a child in Virginia.

When we stayed at the cabin on the Potomac River there was no end to the snake sightings and I frankly wasn't as terrified as I am as an adult, but I sure steered clear of them.

Once, when running in my bare feet down the hill to go swimming off the pier, my foot landed on one just as he was exiting his hole. I slammed him back into the hole and I'm sure he was not a happy camper. But I was out of there quick as a whip before he could find me.

Another time, when the corn crops were still being planted and growing between our cabin and the river bluff – probably about 150 feet or so, you were assured the crops were a haven for snakes. My dad had to dispose of the trash in a spot on the bluff and consequently had to carry the rubbish through the cornfields. Now my Dad was a Missouri boy, son of a farmer and he grew up around snakes – however – he hated them as much as I did, though he could deal with them out of necessity.

This particular time, as Dad approached the cabin, he hollered to us that he thought he'd disturbed a den of snakes by accident and not to be surprised if one or more followed him back to the cabin. Sure enough, within minutes there was a very long – probably 9- or 10-foot – black snack standing on end right between the two trees where our laundry hung. It was staring at the four of us, who were standing inside the screened in porch staring back at him. Guess he/she had come to defend her young ones.

That snake remained there for hours and hours as did we. None of us moved. But we'd all sworn that if it went under the cabin, we were jumping in the car and not coming back – but it never moved from it's spot between the trees.  Eventually, our friend Lee from down the hill, came home from running errands and we hollered to him about our predicament. He grabbed his shotgun – yes – laughing the entire time he climbed the hill, and shot the snake and disposed of it.

That's one nasty memory that still burns a hole into my eyes.

Since my dad had been the minister at the Episcopal Church in Fredericksburg in the 1950s, when we returned to the area for our vacations, the church folk would have their summer picnic up at the river at the picnic tables that lined the little grassy area between the corn fields and Lee's property.  When I was 5, they had one such picnic.

There was a small stream that ran alongside Lee's cottage, water frontage and the picnic tables that emptied into the Potomac. Everyone was preparing to eat the delicious potluck meal when suddenly, I heard people screaming and saw them running in all directions. I had no idea what was going on, but I heard my mother's voice above everyone else's – screaming for me to stand still and not move an inch. By now, I was one of the few people still standing on the grass – everyone else was on the picnic tables.

It seemed an entire family/colony/group of snakes – I have no idea what kind, but was later told they were poisonous – had slithered out of the cornfields, bypassed all the parked cars and were headed for the creek.

I did as I was told and stood still, legs apart, and remember one large snake slithering between my feet as it headed for that creek. I never got bit and I know my mother hugged me extra hard after that incident.

Thank goodness it never occurred to me that the creek to which the snakes had slithered into, emptied into the Potomac, for I was quite fond of swimming in the river.

One of my favorite places near Fredericksburg was the Myers' farm called Ringgold, located just outside of Fredericksburg and off the country road we took to get to King George County.

I loved going to the Myers farm. They had a horse and cows, a great dog named Bullet and a horse named Mac. I loved horses and always wanted to go for a ride. Their son, Bobby, who was probably 10 or more years older than I, always graciously gave me a lift on Mac when he was home and I was visiting.

Clyde and Virginia's daughter, Barbara, was also older than I and someone I adored. Like an older sister, she was someone I looked up to and followed around unceasingly.

I remember that there were always snake skins hanging from the rafters in some of the out buildings at the farm, especially where their cars were parked – we never parked anywhere but the driveway and never left our windows open.

On one visit when I was riding Mac with Bobby in the pasture, Bobby spotted a large snake near us and Mac reared up and smashed it with his hooves. My hero! According to Barb, Mac did the same for her one time when she was laying on the grass and he saw a snake near her.

But the piece de resistance was a trip my mother and I took back to Fredericksburg just before my high school graduation. Barb was already married and living elsewhere and Bobby was in the military. Mom and I went to visit Clyde and Virginia and while visiting, Clyde announced he had recently started to make wine in his cellar and did we want to see it?

Of course, said my Mother and I. However ... one had to go outside to get to the cellar steps. So we filed out of the kitchen and out the back door and headed down the cellar steps – first Clyde, then Mom and then me.  I was on the first step, about to step onto the second when I spied what appeared to be an 18" long copperhead sunning himself on the concrete step.

All I got out of my mouth was, "MOM!" In a split second she was up the steps and out into the back yard, tearing her clothes off piece by piece. I don't even know how she made it past the snake except Clyde said it was kind of dopey from laying in the sun and he'd never seen my mother move so fast.

Both Clyde and Virginia were howling with laughter as Mom kept stripping down, while Clyde grabbed a spade and killed the hapless snake. Mom informed me that she simply knew by the tone of my voice that there was a snake. She didn't like them either.

Unfortunately, that was probably our last trip out to Ringgold. I was headed to college in the fall and would only have one more trip to the river before I married my first husband. I remained in touch with the Myers until their deaths and with Barb unto this day.  The visits out to the farm remain among some of my happiest of childhood memories, despite the snakes – riding Mac, hanging with Clyde while he did his chores, following Barb around and listening to her mother's lilting southern accent that I can still conjure up if I try to hear it in my head.

Learning to row a boat ... fun for me ... not so much for my sister

I loved our vacation years on the Potomac River in King George County, Virginia.  During those first 18 years of my life, we spent nearly one month every summer at the cabin we rented there, first from "Aunt" Lottie Burroughs and then her sister, Lucy "Dee" Linton.

Both ladies were two of the 10 children of Forrest Plater and Loula Dickinson Tayloe, who had received part of the original 550 acres of property that comprised the manor house, Chatterton. Four children of Tayloe's received the property in four parts around 1884, after having been out of the Tayloe family's hands since 1872.

The original grant goes back to 1650 and one William Parry, who was granted a deed to the property of 50 acres for each of the new persons he brought over to Virginia from England. He had received 550 acres. The property was purchased by Peter Ashton in 1658 and he received 2,000 additional acreage, calling the property Chatterton after his home in England – a name that has endured these 350+ years.

The manner house wasn't built until around 1740 by John Tayloe I. It was in and out of the Tayloe family for over a century until the time that Forrest Tayloe divided the remaining 550 acres to his children in 1884.

Our friends, Aunt Lottie and Dee Linton were descendants of George Washington's sister, Betty, who married Fielding Lewis (married 1750), so their lineage goes back to the earliest days of Virginia. At one time, Dee lived on Ferry Farm, the farm where George was raised and allegedly cut down the cherry tree. I am here to say that "a" cherry tree still existed on the property in the 1950s because I had cherry pie made from cherries grown on a tree from Ferry Farm.

During our vacation years at "the cabin" as we affectionately called it, we had some of the best times of our lives. My sister and I spent many wonderful hours before she passed away remembering the escapades of our time at "the river."

One such occasion involved our neighbors just down the hill from the cabin, Lee and Earlene Bizzell.  The Bizzell's son married one of the Tayloe descendants and from that union and ensuing friendships, Lee and Earlene were able to purchase a small lot of Aunt Lottie and her husband, Bill, down on the river.

Lee worked for the railroad out of Richmond, VA, and was a heavyset, jolly fellow who laughed constantly. I adored him and followed him everywhere as he puttered around the property. He had built their vacation home while on vacation from the railroad and upon retirement, they lived there full time.

Earlene was only about 5' tall and talked a mile a minute. She had a raspy, distinctively southern voice and would manage to insult you while complimenting you – all in one sentence. Often she would say, "Oh my don't you look like my cousin ... only she's pretty."

But to know Earlene was to love her.

My mom, sister and I would frequently borrow Lee's rowboat to go fishing early in the morning. We'd head maybe half a mile down the river, but not far from shore and cast our lines out to catch a nice bucket of perch, which we'd bring back, gut, clean and have for dinner that night.

One day when I was about 12, I insisted that I wanted to learn to row the boat, having decided it looked like fun. Pris protested. At 15 years older than I was, she was the boss of me – or so she thought. Nevertheless, I managed to persuade her, my mother and Lee to let me learn how to row the boat.

With Lee watching from shore, we headed out to our regular fishing spot with Pris rowing. Shortly after arriving there, a storm began to blow in and we decided we needed to head to shore. Not to let it be forgotten that I was supposed to be learning the skill of rowing, Pris relinquished the oars to me and sat herself in the bow of the boat with Mom in the stern.

I looked to shore and saw Lee standing on the beach in his black canvas boat shoes, and shorts, his yellow Lab, Missy, by his side, watching me intently.

I proceeded to attempt to row to Lee's beach, but found myself rowing in circles for what seemed like forever. I simply couldn't get the oars into the water deep enough to steer the boat or row well enough and mostly managed to keeping going round and round, all the while soaking my sister every time I'd only get the oar a tiny bit into the water.

My mother started howling with laughter – of course she did – she was dry as a bone. My sister, on the other hand, was soaking wet, and onshore, Lee was close to having a heart attack he was laughing so hard  – slapping his knee with glee – great big tears coming down his face.

After about an hour, with the waves growing larger, I finally got back to shore and as the boat hit sand, my sister suddenly stood up and said indignantly, "I'm getting OUT of this boat NOW!"

Well, the dear Potomac River obliged her by sending a large wave into the boat, slapping it so hard that Pris, because she was standing up, fell right into the river – soaking her completely.

This final scene was the end for Lee, who dissolved into laughter to the point where he couldn't even speak and neither could my mother.

Needless to say, Pris didn't speak to me for the rest of the day, though over the years, both of us most remember the sight of Lee standing on the shore having the biggest laugh of his life as this little 12-year-old city girl tried to row a simple boat.

Next time it's snakes and sharks teeth, swimming and picnics at "the river."

A gracious host, actress Ilona Massey invites me to tea

My fascination with the actress Ilona Massey residing at the beautiful old manor house, Chatterton, that proudly sat about one mile above our little cabin overlooking the Potomac River, never waned during the years we spent vacationing at the river.

Each summer I would anxiously await the raising of the U.S. flag on Fridays when Ilona and her husband, General Donald Dawson, would arrive and settle in for the weekend.

I have no idea what the couple did while in residence. I never saw them out and about. Nevertheless, I learned a few years back while researching Chatterton, just how much Ilona was loved in King George during her stay there.

It was a short 10 year period from 1964 when Dawson purchased Chatterton for his wife and when she died of cancer in 1974 at the age of just 62. A heavy smoker, Ilona had a bit of a husky voice, despite her lovely soprano singing voice.

The beautiful 1700s manor house, Chatterton as it looked in 1970 at the time Ilona Massey
and General Donald Dawson owned the property. (Photo by Elizabeth Rains Johnson)

She threw herself into the civic life of King George County, embracing the heritage there and loved the little community itself. She campaigned for litter-free roads and she loved animals – proving that hands down when it came to the protection of those that lived on her own property.

Immediately after a prized Angus cow was found dead at Chatterton, Ilona took action. She believed it was errant hunters that had killed the cow and she retaliated by placing an ad in the Fredericksburg paper, The Free Lance Star, in which she called the killers "cowards" and stated, "I KNOW YOU! I will deal with you when you least expect it!"

Massey was well-known in Hollywood for her anti-communist beliefs, horrified by what she witnessed in her home country of Hungary and was quite passionate about expressing her beliefs especially during the McCarthy years.

My long-desired meeting with Ilona would come three years before her death at during a very sad time in my own life.

On May 28, 1971, my beloved "Aunt Lottie," who had owned the farmhouse across the road from Chatterton and from whom we had rented our cabin all those years, passed away at the age of 83. Lottie had requested that my father return from New Jersey, where we were living to conduct her funeral service at St. John's, the little Episcopal Church in King George.

I was 14 at the time, a freshman in high school, and was pulled out of school to make the trip down to Virginia with my parents. We were to stay at Lottie's farmhouse where several of her family members, notably her sister "Dee" were staying, as Lottie's wishes included she be laid out in the front parlor of her farmhouse where her body would overlook the stunning vista of the Potomac River.

I can remember classmates being shocked that I was staying the night in a house with a dead body lying in it, but it never bothered me. I had loved Aunt Lottie in life and would respect her in death. I must say, however, that coming downstairs after the first night, I was a little shocked – but not surprised – to find her cat curled up on her chest in the coffin. Saying his goodbyes I would guess.

I don't remember much of the service, but afterward we returned to the farmhouse for a small gathering and a short while later my mother came looking for me, a sweet little lady in tow.

The lady was none other than my idol Ilona Massey, who had most graciously invited my mother and I to tea that afternoon upon learning of my fascination with her and Chatterton.

I can remember being very shy about it all, but that the house was modestly furnished and beautiful. The views of the river were absolutely gorgeous and Ilona was as gracious and sweet as I'd hoped she would be.

It was over all too quickly and we didn't return to the river but once before Ilona died – I never saw her again. But I've never forgotten her and still have an old TIME magazine article listing the great screen sirens of the 1940s, including dear Ilona in their list of the best and most beautiful.

A reporter from the Free Lance Star wrote about Ilona after Dawson died in 2005, writing that upon the one interview he had with her, she told him "I had a wonderful time in Hollywood. Now I have a wonderful time here."

Massey came a long way from war-torn, poverty-stricken Hungary and managed to become a Hollywood Star and marry the man of her dreams – living out her years on a beautiful, historical estate with its own 250+ year history overlooking the picturesque Potomac River. By then she had become a U.S. citizen, who was quite opinionated in her political views, and she knew it.

Ilona was in Hollywood during it's heyday – she knew Clark Gable, Nelson Eddy, Spencer Tracy and, of course, the Marx Brothers.  She stood up to Louis B. Mayer and demanded a raise, which she got; and she entertained the troops overseas during WWII. Wow – I actually got to sit down and have tea with this woman!

As the wife of a U.S. soldier, Ilona was buried in Arlington National Cemetery. General Dawson sold Chatterton after her death and remarried – surviving Massey by 31 years – he is now buried by her side at Arlington.

The niece of dear Aunt Lottie was most gracious in providing me with information on Ilona, as well as the history of Chatterton and the entire property encompassing our cabin, Lottie's farmhouse, Moreland, Dun Roamin' and additional land that I had no idea went back generations in their family. I learned in my own genealogy research that my paternal family history can be traced to Fredericksburg in 1752, when my great-great-great-great-grandfather, Lawrence Wesley Rains, was born on Christmas Day in 1752, along the banks of the Rappahannock River in Fredericksburg.

Two-hundred and four years later, I too would be born in Fredericksburg.

Beautiful 1940s actress Ilona Massey occupies a special place in my heart

One of my most favorite places in the world in a little spot overlooking the Potomac River in King George County, Virginia.

When I was a child in the 1960s, the houses there were few and far between and I could walk for miles along the beach and only come across one or two homes, which were mostly vacation homes.

We rented a small cottage, formerly a slave's quarters, that sat on a small bluff overlooking the river.  The cottage had a simple screened-in porch that ran across the front of it, which housed a kitchen table (where else would you want to eat but where you could chew and watch the river traffic?), a few chairs and an old trundle bed that we used as a couch.

At first there was just one bedroom and an old kitchen with a sink that went "glub, glub, glub," after you ran water in it and a chimney covered with an old tin plate to keep the birds out, along with the requisite mice that appeared after we went to bed.

Eventually, another bedroom and bathroom was added to the cottage, which we thought was wonderful since none of us enjoyed traisping to the outhouse that sat right next to the cornfield and was usually occupied by a few spiders and occasionally a nasty looking snake.

It wasn't fancy, it wasn't the Ritz, it was simply "the cabin" as we called it and on "the river" as we called the place where we spent most of the first 18 summers of my life.

Down the hill and across a small creek from us was Dun Roamin' a lovely, yellow-sided ranch house that was the retirement home of Lee and Earlene Bizzell. They were at river level, but set back from the beach by at least 200 yards. They were quite the characters and will be featured in their own blog one day soon.

Their house was situated near a small rise which, once climbed, gave way to a huge property containing a large plantation home with many outbuildings standing tall and proud, along with beautiful gardens, which overlooked the river near a high bluff. The house was called Moreland and was surely a sight to see if you were lucky enough to be out on the river and could see it in its full glory.

Behind our cottage was acre after acre of cornfields, which also sloped down in front of us to a bluff on which the cabin sat high above the water. A one lane dirt road wound down to the cabin for about a mile from a narrow country road that came in off the highway one could take to Fredericksburg or to the Harry M. Nice bridge that connected Maryland to Virginia. You could always tell when company was coming by the spray of dirt rising above the car along the road.

At the top of the dirt road were two large homes. One, a huge, old farmhouse sat facing the river with spectacular views from the porch and front parlor rooms. Sloping down in front of it was more corn and sometimes livestock. Dear friends of ours, Charlottie and Bill Burroughs owned the farmhouse and it was from them that we rented our cottage for a month every summer.

Aunt Lottie, as we called her, was ancient as I remember her, indeed, she was born well before the turn of the 20th century, and was good-natured, kind and loving, possessed of lots of white curly hair, a southern accent that charmed me with every word and someone I loved dearly.

Uncle Bill, her husband, was just as kind and good-natured, and of the same age. He was always puttering around the farmhouse, mowing the property or driving down to the river to chat with us. I adored him.

Across the road from them stood the beautiful manor house, Chatterton, built around the end of the 18th/early 19th century and a plantation home in the truest sense. It was made of pure white brick with black shutters and an enormous front porch with large pillers and a lovely, lush green lawn that offered sweeping views of the gorgeous Potomac River 1 mile down in front of the house.

There were always half a dozen horses grazing in the field, along with cows and sometimes deer in the early morning or evening.

Chatterton was then owned by Major General Donald Dawson, best remembered as the presidential aide to Harry S. Truman, who marshaled the famous whistle stop campaign of Truman's during the 1948 presidential bid.

But it wasn't Dawson who caught my interest and eye, it was his wife, the retired actress Ilona Massey.

You see, back in the day it was my dream to become a famous actress and the closest I could get to that goal was to dream about some day meeting Ilona Massey Dawson.

Actress Ilona Massey

The couple had bought the home at auction in the early 1960s from the wife of the previous owner, Frank Brooks Bielaski.

Bielaski, who died April 4, 1961, had been a former director in the OSS during WWII and was in civilian intelligence work at the time of his death. He had spent 18 years restoring Chatterton to its original glory with his wife, Angelique.

Bielaski, no stranger to intelligence work, was also the brother of A. Bruce Bielaski, the first director of the FBI, and had thoroughly researched Chatterton's original records. He knew the origin of every brick that went into the building of the beautiful manor house, as well as the property's interesting history.

It was Bielaski's wife, Angelique, who engineered the auction of Chatterton after his death, which interestingly, ended up being sold to Dawson – another major player during WWII.

Massey and Dawson, who worked at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., lived in the city during the week and came to Chatterton on the weekends, with the intention of living there full time once Dawson retired.

You knew when the couple were in residence because the American flag would be raised and flapping in the wind out in front of the house.

Massey, a Hungarian born actress (June 16, 1910) who was raised in abject poverty, had worked hard to pull herself out of the poorhouse and come to the U.S. to sing her way to stardom.

She only appeared in 22 movies and despite her beautiful singing talents, was best known for her role as Madame Egelichi in the Marx Brothers film, "Love Happy." However, Miss Massey began her Hollywood career with the famous Nelson Eddy, with whom she proved her outstanding singing voice by performing several duets with the singer.

Married three times before meeting General Dawson, lovestruck Ilona called him "my general" and it was clear that the fourth time was a charm for Ilona.

Ilona Massey died Aug. 20, 1974 from lung cancer, But not before I got to meet her face-to-face.

But ... that's a story for another day.

Jesse is laid in his grave, accompanied by a few of the surviving guerrillas he'd ridden with

Zerelda and her oldest turned from the old gravesite and slowly walked to the wagon, limping slightly – her old joints objecting to the uneven yard. 

At the sight of Jesse's new coffin sitting in the back of the wagon, awaiting transport to its new home, Zerelda took a jagged breath and steeled herself for the next few hours.

When they got to Mt. Olivet, the James family found themselves surrounded by hundreds of town–folk who had come to the cemetery to see Jesse – one of their own – be placed in his final resting place. After 20 years, Jesse was still infamous for his deeds and more so for his violent death. Yet the crowd had a sort of reverence for Zerelda, Frank and the old guerrillas escorting Jesse home.

There was most likely some whispering in the crowd that day as Zerelda was helped down from the carriage by her oldest son, Frank. 

It was something most of them had never seen before, even those who had witnessed Jesse being brought back from St. Joseph 20 years previous – but Frank had not been there in 1882 and it was not a public burial that time, even though many had gone out to the farm to see whatever they could from the old dusty road.

Frank took his mother's arm as she was surrounded by her son, J.T., and her grandson, who was just a six-year-old child when his father had been killed.

It became deathly quiet except for the sound of Zerelda, sobbing as the men who had fought alongside Jesse and Frank 40 years before carried their comrade to the grave next to Zee. 

A preacher stood by, but there was not to be a ceremony. Ironically, the cemetery was at the original location of the old Baptist church that Jesse had joined in 1868 in an attempt to redeem his tortured conscience. He remained a devout reader of his father's tattered Bible under the day of his death.

"This is it," thought Zerelda. "It is the end of Jesse's story. I will not see him again, until I myself pass from this world," she told herself as the last shovelfuls of earth landed in the grave.

Frank was silent too, lost in his own thoughts. He had missed Jesse's first burial, and once he had learned of Jesse's death, he knew he would have to strategize his surrender in order to return home.

He and Jesse were blood brothers of the deepest kind. Dingus, (Jesse's nickname) had been full of life and loved living it. He was outgoing, loved to play pranks, passionate, and gave everyone in his life a run for their money – Frank included.

They rode together during the war and during peace time when they were outlaws. They had spent many a night out under the stars talking about the war, their lives, their wives and families.

He remembered nights in Tennessee, after dinner, the two of them on the porch, boots propped up on the railing – laughing at some private joke. Then things would turn serious and Jesse would lean forward and say, "Hey Buck, whad'ya think about … "

Frank never thought Jesse would be caught, much less shot and killed by the likes of someone like Bob Ford. He recalled the sniveling, 20-year-old who had held a most unnatural obsession with Jesse. Ford had made the hair stand up on the back of Frank's neck and he'd distanced himself from the boy at the beginning.

He shook his head, "If only Jesse had distanced himself from the Ford brothers. He might just be alive today," Frank said to himself.

As Frank stood with his mother at the head of his brother's grave while the men shoveled the last of the dirt onto the coffin, he turned away and said, "Well boys, that's all we can do."

Frank, his mother, and the rest turned away and headed back to the carriage – sure it was over for Jesse James – he as at rest beside his beloved Zee. They all believed that someday Jesse would be forgotten, a long ago legend that soon would fade.

Little did they know that in death – no matter how many years would pass – Jesse James would be larger than the life he had led.

Amidst a Missouri rainstorm, the body of Jesse James is exhumed

June 29, 1902 dawned with a terrible, pounding rainstorm, not the most ideal weather for the exhumation of a man dead for 20 years.

Earlier that morning, Jesse Junior and J.T. Samuel, Jesse's half-brother, had accompanied two men, Zach Laffoon and his nephew, Zip Pollock, to the James-Samuel farm and removed Jesse from the grave. It had poured rain all morning and the task had been made more unpleasant when the men attempted to lift the coffin out of the grave. The top came away from the sides and bottom, leaving Jesse's body in the grave – the rain coming down in torrents.

Eventually, the men managed to get Jesse's body out of the grave and placed in a new coffin, leaving him inside the old farmhouse until they could return with Zerelda and Frank to accompany Jesse's body into Kearney for reburial next to Jesse's wife, Zee, in Mt. Olivet Cemetery.

After lunch, the family and old guerrillas headed out to collect Jesse and escort him to the side of his wife. By now the rain was reduced to a dreary drizzle, the kind of day conducive to mourning and sadness.

The wagons wound slowly through the rutted roads, crossing Muddy Creek, where once Jesse had been baptized in 1868. As soon as they arrived at the farm, the rain stopped and  the sun broke through the clouds, as if Jesse had bestowed his blessing on the reburial from his home in heaven.

Jesse was placed in the wagon and the men turned to look at Zerelda, stoic and proud, as she left the farmhouse – the place she'd come to as a bride – where so much love and happiness, along with tragedy and sorrow, had taken place.

Slowly she walked to the edge of the old grave of her Jesse. She stopped and stared down into the hole where her son had rested the past 20 years under her watchful eye.

"Jesse, my boy," Zerelda said to herself, "I can no longer watch over you. We're taking you to be with Zee now. May God be with you."

In a matter of minutes, the short years of Jesse's life flashed before Zerelda's eyes. His joyous birth; the sight of him clinging to his father's leg as Robert prepared to leave for California in 1850; the battered and bruised teenager after Union soldiers had beaten him that fateful day in 1863 before they tortured her husband Reuben.

It was those acts that further fueled Jesse's fervor to join Frank, who was already riding with William Quantrill and his raiders.

Zerelda saw Jesse, worn down by a horrific war at the age of 17, shot in the lung for the second time and hovering near death. In between those years, she and Reuben and their younger children had been banished to Nebraska by Ewing's Order Number 11.

Flitting quickly through her mind were the ensuing years after they returned to Kearney. They were tough years  – life would never be the same as it was before the war.

Jesse and Frank had entered into a life of outlawry and were rarely able to return home. Then there was the awful night the Pinkerton's men had killed little Archie and cost Zerelda her right arm.

Zerelda took a deep breath and looked out over the beautiful rolling hills of the farm. She could hear the birds chirping, the wind whistling through the trees and the low murmur of the men's voices as they awaited her back at the wagon. It was such beautiful land, it didn't seem to bear the scars wrought by the past 40 years – only Zerelda and her family bore those scars.

She looked at the empty grave, remembering that cold April day in 1882 when her Jesse was killed by Robert Ford – a coward who had met his own violent death 10 years later in a Colorado saloon. "He got what he deserved," she said under her breath.

She had told Jesse that Bob Ford was no good and not to be trusted. But Jesse had just scoffed at her. Just a few short weeks later, Jesse was dead at the hand of Ford himself.

One lone tear escaped from the corner of Zerelda's eye. She prided herself on remaining strong and stoic, but she was an old woman now and her emotions more difficult to control. She was so very tired of life.

Zerelda was suddenly brought out of her memories by the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

"Mother," said Frank, "It's time."

Twenty years after his death, Zerelda buries her beloved son – again

Two years ago I began an historical column for a local newspaper, which included a six-month series on locals Frank and Jesse James. Little did I know that another six-month series would continue the following year, or that I would officially become a James family historian and be asked to serve on the Friends of the James Farm board.

Jesse and Frank James were more than mere outlaws. They were men born before the mid-1850s in Missouri. It was before Missouri was truly settled and populated, before Kansas City was the hub that it is today, and before the Missouri/Kansas border wars or the Civil War. 

They were the sons of evangelist Robert James, who began three churches in Clay County, Missouri and who was one of the founders of William Jewell College in Liberty, Mo.

The boys' upbringing started right, but in 1850, Robert had left for the gold fields of California in order to preach to the heathens mining those fields and died about as soon as he reached California. This is the first in a series of events in the lives of these two boys that set them down the road of their future.  The following is the beginning of a fairly short story I wrote – fiction that is based on factual events – regarding their mother, Zerelda.

Zerelda was a tall, imposing woman who was not afraid to stand her ground. She went through many trials and tribulations in her lifetime including the death of her first husband, a very bad second husband, the torture hanging of her third husband, Reuben, the death of her young son Archie and the partial loss of her right arm during the famous bombing of the James farm by Pinkerton's detectives, and of course - the loss of her beloved Jesse at the hands of gang member, Bob Ford. She also lost her daughter, Susan, not too many years after Jesse and had to have her husband institutionalized due to the long-term affects of the 1863 hanging by Union soldiers.

I have been fascinated by Zerelda and what went through her mind. Surely the tragedies she survived took a toll on her, whether she displayed the effects publicly or privately.

The following is part one of this short story about the first exhumation of Jesse James, who had been buried in the yard of the farmhouse in Kearney, where his mother could see the grave from her bedroom and thus watch over her son's resting place. 

Zerelda sat down in her chair by the window of the hotel in Kearney and looked out to the street. There were families walking, crossing the street – fathers, mothers, children. They looked so carefree. she could scarcely remember a time when she felt like that. 

She missed her children – Susan, Archie, and her beloved Jesse, shot down like a dog in the back of the head 20 years ago.

Zerelda sighed and looked down at her right sleeve, pinned up where her hand and arm should be – bitterly remembering that cold January day when Pinkerton's detectives had thrown a bomb into the house, blowing her arm off and killing her young Archie.

Life had been difficult and she was feeling every bit of her 75-plus years. 

Zerelda looked back out to the street and saw men she recognized cross the street and head toward the hotel and she knew what today meant, though she had not officially been told.

Today was the day they were going to dig up her Jesse from his grave just outside the cabin on the farm in Kearney.

Zerelda had insisted that he be buried in the yard, close to the house, where she could keep watch over him through the years – making sure no one would have access to him, dig him up and use his bones for profit.

She'd sworn she was going to watch over Jesse in death. And so she had, but the time had come to move her beloved son and place him next to his wife Zee, buried now in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Kearney.

Zerelda never liked Zee much. She would not have liked anyone whom Jesse chose for his wife, no one would ever have been good enough for her Jesse. But he loved Zee with all his heart and so she grudgingly gave in when he married her.

And now Zee was gone herself – dead at 55. Zerelda knew Zee died of a broken heart – she never recovered from losing the love of her life. 

In the years after Jesse was killed, Zee stayed away from Zerelda and the farm, never accepting help from the James family. It was as if it was too painful to see their faces and be reminded of the years she'd had with Jesse.

"Well no never mind," said Zerelda as she turned back to the window. "All of that is in the past and I can't change the past."

Another man crossed the street and entered the hotel door below. Zerelda knew them all. They were former guerrillas who had ridden with Frank and Jesse when they were with Quantrill and "Bloody" Bill Anderson. They were men who had survived the bloodiest war in American history. Men who had done unspeakable things and yet lived to make something out of their lives.

Zerelda was sure they all had their memories that were hard to forget. Lord knows she had some of the same memories as she thought about her husband, Reuben.

One sunny day in May of 1863, Jesse had been out in the fields working. Union soldiers had ridden onto the property and found Jesse first. They beat him to a bloody pulp and left him laying in the field. Then they found Reuben and, laughing like hyenas, they threw a rope over a tree limb near the house and strung him up. 

The soldiers hung Reuben until he was nearly dead – three times – trying to learn where the guerrillas were staying. Reuben finally told the soldiers that the guerrillas were out in the woods behind the house. The soldiers ambushed the guerrillas and several were killed, but Frank and a few others managed to escape. In the end, he and a very pregnant Zerelda were arrested and jailed.

Zerelda sighed again as she thought of her husband, who was never the same after that day. He was now housed in a mental institution in St. Joseph – mostly unaware of his surroundings.

A knock came to her door and Zerelda rose to answer it. Standing there was her grandson, Jesse Junior. "Gran," he said, "We've done it."

She knew today was the day – somehow she knew. She and Frank had discussed removing Jesse from his grave because they were no longer living at the farm and were concerned about leaving the grave unattended. The time had come to move him to a grave by Zee.

Zerelda took her grandson's arm as he led her down the stairs of the hotel, where Frank, J.T. and the old guerrillas waited to join her for lunch before leaving for the farm.

Frank, who had been sick in his bed with the grip was told by his doctor not to attend the exhumation or the burial. Nevertheless, he had been in Baltimore when his brother was killed and could not attend Jesse's first funeral, so he was determined not to miss this one.

Little did they know that this was just the first of three exhumations of the remains of Jesse James.