Thanks to everyone for the plaque, card and the hand-carved cedar cane crafted by our patriarch Uncle Johnny, and presented to me just before lunch. It was a show of appreciation for the 35 enjoyable years I have spent as the organizer of the reunion. This made my weekend and my year, and I truly was overwhelmed by the gesture.

Larry

From 2011-08-20 Jones Reunion 2011

From 2011-08-20 Jones Reunion 2011

Dear Joneses:

Yesterday I received the new contract from Lutherhoma and was shocked to
find rate increases that I feel to be unaffordable. Camp Director John
Busch had assured me that the rate increases would be very modest, but I
guess his superiors overruled him. Since we have struggled over the years
to collect the $5 per person for the Saturday camp visit, I felt the new
rate of $11 for the Saturday session was over the top. Lutherhoma’s weekend
rate more than doubled… from $21 to $44. Therefore, at the risk of
ruffling a few feathers, I had to scramble to find a workable alternative
and destination for this year’s 45th Descendants of Ransom Jones Reunion.
At the upcoming event, we can discuss plans for future reunions, so I would
like everyone to come prepared with a suggestion or two on future locations.

For this year, I have booked the Cherokee Pavilion at Sequoyah State Park (8
miles east of Wagoner) for Saturday, August 20. The total charge for the
group for the weekend is $150 plus a refundable $100 cleaning deposit. Plan
on spending $4 for each person you bring age 5 and above. If our attendance
is good we can probably lower it to $3. We can have access to the building
from 7:30 a.m. until 11 p.m. The building is air conditioned and has an
attached screened-in area that should work well for overflow conditions.
The facility is 2400 square feet including the screened-in area. There are
55 chairs and 16 eight foot tables furnished. I suggest we all bring a
couple of lawn or folding chairs to finish out the requirement, as we have
had as many as 100 guests in past years. There is a food prep area
consisting of a counter some 10′ long with sink and cabinets. There is also
a residential type refrigerator. This means we need to bring ice chests to
keep the food until time to serve. Closer to time for the reunion we will
call for volunteers to bring extra ice, etc.

The Cherokee Pavilion is located some 200′ from the Fort Gibson Lake water’s
edge and there is a boat ramp nearby. Just outside the pavilion entrance is
a brand new state-of-the-art bath house with modern showers and handicap
accessible toilets. There are RV pads with electric and water available…
only a few feet away that rent for $25 per night through the headquarters
office. Some of you may wish to come down Friday night and park your rig,
and have access to your RV during the day for naps, etc…..or stay
overnight Saturday into Sunday to relax the next day at the park.

I have attached photos above, and will send a map of the park in a separate email.

From Sequoyah State Park

>Click here for larger version of the map<
Let’s make the upcoming reunion a great one and future ones even greater.
Thanks for your understanding and participation.
Larry (quite contrary) Briggs

P.S. Please email me an estimate of the number of your family members who might be attending the dinner. Your RSVP will help us in determining the quantity of meat and mashed potatoes to cook. If you want to bring photographs for everyone to look at, feel free.
Thanks much. …Donnie and Larry

The following grandchildren and children (and their families) of Deck and Lottie Jones are sending donations to honor their uncles mentioned above their parents listed below.

Franklin and Janet Jones Howard and their children (Herbert Wesley Jones, 1920-2006)
Gene and Pat Jones Moore and their children (Herbert Wesley Jones)
Randall Murphy (Orpha Odessa Jones Briggs, 1917-2002)
Carolyn Thulin Kinney (Lois Irene Jones Thulin, 1934-1980)
Donnie and Judy Westbrook Marrs (Ruth Jones Marrs, 1916-2005)
Steve and Theresa Mize Jones (Earl Thomas Jones, 1927-1999)
Ron (Bunk) and Pam Williams Jones and family (John Cliff Jones, 1919- )
Larry and Terry Briggs and their children (Orpha Odessa Jones Briggs)
Gene and Bertha Mae Jones Hurley (Loyd Scantling Jones, 1911-1998)
Nathan and Cindy Jones Chamberlain (Loyd Scantling Jones)
Jayson and Stephanie Jones Stacy (William Edward Jones, 1937- )
William E. and Dorothy Jones (Dexter (1879-1961, & Lottie Huckaby Jones, 1889-1959)
Meredith and Ruth Martens Rogers (Rachel Mae Jones Martens, 1925- )
Children and their families of (Mary Madeline Jones Howard, 1922-1992)
Children and their families of (Sarah Juanita Jones Cook, 1923- )

Just send your checks made out to Larry Briggs, P.O. Box 999, Sperry, OK 74073. I will email you from Cancun with the next report. Just joking!! Again, do not send more than $31.50 to the fund. If you have already mailed a check for more than $31.50, I will send a refund.

UPDATED: 8-25-08
Greetings again:

The fund for the marker to be placed on the graves of the three young Jones brothers in the Chelsea cemetery is growing. The following grandchildren (and their families) of Deck and Lottie Jones are sending donations to honor their uncles mentioned above.

Franklin and Janet Howard and their children (Herbert Wesley Jones, 1920-2006)

Gene and Pat Moore and their children (Herbert Wesley Jones)

Randall Murphy (Orpha Jones Briggs, 1917-2002)

Carolyn Kinney (Lois Jones Thulin, 1934-1980)

Donnie and Judy Marrs (Ruth Jones Marrs, 1916-2005)

Steve and Theresa Jones (Earl T. Jones, 1927-1999)

Ron (Bunk) and Pam Jones and family (John C. Jones)

Larry and Terry Briggs and their children (Orpha Jones Briggs)

We currently have $285 in the fund and need only $115 more to complete the purchase. Write now to be included.

Thanks,

Larry

 

Tribute to Mom By her loving son, Larry on February 18, 2002

My heroes have always been grandmas. You know, grandmas weren’t born grandmas. they had to earn that title……come to think of it, there were a few years between age twenty-three and forty-eight that Orpha Briggs played a starring role in the drama called motherhood. Born Orpha Jones in 1917, my mother studied under one of the grand old ladies in the business, Lottie Agnes Jones, matriarch to a family of sixteen urchins, thirteen of whom miraculously endured the hazards of farm life and the great depression to reach some semblance of adulthood.
Life on the farm in the twenties and thirties in rural Oklahoma was no walk in the park, but rather a saga of human resourcefulness and courage not to be duplicated in today’s take-it-for-granted family structure. Lottie Jones was a rare individual, rare because she could still function as a center of strength for a house full of lively and many times unruly offspring, after having suffered the pain of childbirth sixteen times. Her unwavering faith in God saw her stubborn but remarkable husband Deck converted after his livestock began dropping like flies following her long travail. She never took medicine and trusted God for every illness and injury to her many charges.
To this great union of Deck and Lottie Jones , four future Pentecostal ministers were born, and none of the thirteen children forgot their teachings. Orpha Jones made good use of Lottie’s and Deck’s examples, becoming in her own right the best momma to be born in the twentieth century.
During World War II, Mom labored over the ironing board in the wee hours of the mornings, transforming Dad’s ordinary khakis into award winning uniforms that would bring him countless best-dressed soldier citations. She fixed sweet potatoes so many different ways that Dad forgot they were the only food in the house until the meager army pay arrived at month’s end. She remained true to Dad during his long overseas tour of duty, and kept clean diapers and clothes on Butch and me during the seemingly unending wait for the war to end.
Our clothes were never fancy, and seldom plentiful, but always clean. My ears were always large, but never dirty for very long at a time. Mom knew every home remedy in the book and some that weren’t. She had a voice loud and clear, and I still remember her standing on the back porch, calling out at the end of a summer’s day to her wandering sons forty acres away.
Mom owned one of the finest plastic belt collections around during the nineteen-fifties, and she could wield one with artistry known to few. This was before child abuse became fashionable. We thought all parents loved their children in this manner. I smoked my first and last cigarette butt at age seven, as the thirty-nine stripes rule came back into effect.
Orpha Briggs could thread a needle from ten paces and could remove a splinter with the skill of a surgeon, after spending hours working a garden growing in poor soil. She would get dad off to work at 6:30 a.m., start the lawn mower at 7:00, and knock rudely on our window at 7:30 for the shift change. Of course, the gravy and biscuits were on the oven door every morning, some of the best food known to mankind.
Mom found time to teach the teen-age girls’ Sunday School class, and sing in the ladies’ quartet, all the while performing the duties of Ladies Auxiliary president. She gave up her life of luxury every Thursday to oversee the fried pie marathon at the old frame church at First and Birch Streets. And let’s not forget the dollar-a- dozen ironing business that helped Dad’s salary cover the daily expenses. ..white shirts, that is, with heavy starch, and that’s while she babysat from two to four neighborhood children.
Mom’s love for us kids always shone through the stern discipline, and she was a rock-solid pillar of strength. Her prayers echoed through the house nightly, making us ornery kids very uncomfortable after a day of misdeeds.
Orpha Briggs had what amounts to X-ray vision, as she could locate any lost object in the household in a matter of minutes. This skill used to infuriate the rest of us, as we turned the house upside down to no avail.
Mom always sang while she worked, with a pure sweet voice that she possessed until her passing. During the early years, she sang us to sleep every night, whether we deserved it or not.
It was no accident that Orpha Briggs had the most beautiful lawn in town, because her flowers and trees never went begging for attention. She knew the secret for getting the most from every variety of plants, and had dozens of varieties in bloom at any one time. She poured her own concrete for flowerbeds, and owned a huge rock collection that she brought home from our annual trips to Colorado, Arkansas, Missouri and points in between.
Orpha Briggs was the ultimate mother…..caring, daring, dedicated, thoughtful, selfless, talented, loving and kind. She never complained, even though the ravages of disease made sleepless nights a common thing. She continued to fight the good fight, and she definitely kept the faith. I feel like the luckiest man alive to be able to call her Mom, and I’ll love her forever.

It was 99 degrees and climbing that August afternoon on the Deck Jones farm near Sperry.

Several of Deck’s grandsons, including Ron “Bunky” Jones and his brother, Cliff “Spike” (who lived next door to Granddad and Grandma), me, and my brother James “Butch” Briggs, were hanging out around the big tin barn on the edge of the cornfield. This barn had always been a place of refuge for the grandchildren. It was the place to get away from the adults, whether someone wanted to try a puff on a cigarette, or steal a ride on Ribbon or Snip, a couple of Granddad’s horses.

Nearby, the old corn crib, affectionately known as the “Lonely Pine Cabin”, simmered in the summer heat. Spike and I had furnished it in the best of primitive ranch furniture, that included bunks made from weathered two-by-fours covered with high quality feed sacks. Reminders of our rugged lifestyle hung everywhere, including rusty horseshoes and discarded pieces of harness. After all, we were living the rigorous lives of frontier ranchers and hog farmers on the vast fifteen acre spread.

Summer was winding down and we would soon have to report for the fall school term, leaving behind the wonderful memories of summer on the farm.

I remember having climbed up onto the rafters to take care of some business. From my vantage point, high above the straw-covered earthen floor of the barn, with a good view out the open loft window, I could see Ron’s purebred Ayreshire heifer grazing lazily in the distance. Cousin Ron, who happened to notice my precarious perch, decided he would take advantage of my vulnerability. He slipped out into the barnyard, spied a fresh cow patty, and proceeded to shift it onto a ten-foot-long one-by-twelve plank. He tiptoed to the front of the barn, carefully hoisted his payload and catapulted the fresh patty through the loft window at his helpless cousin. The fresh alfalfa hay ingested earlier in the day by Ron’s heifer had created a rich mix of manure, which by now had found its way into my mouth, ears, eyes, and nostrils. Needless to say, I jumped blindly to the floor some twelve feet below, unable to breathe. Laughter changed to panic as the others realized my plight.

After snorting my nostrils clear, coughing and spitting the green mixture from my mouth and throat, I was still wandering around unable to see. Bunk or someone found a discarded gunny sack and proceeded to wipe out my eye sockets. Once the initial crisis had been dealt with, I sprinted for Uncle Johnny’s house where Aunt Kathleen led me through her meticulously-kept house, over the inch-thick carpet and into her bathroom. There, patty and I parted company for good, as her remains disappeared down the drain of the sparkling white bathtub.

The story of the Florence Stockade (Florence, South Carolina) is a little known chapter in the history of the War Between the States.

The stockade was opened in September, 1864 and continued in operation until February 1865. During this time between 15,000 and 18,000 Union soldiers were imprisoned on less than 24 acres. It is estimated that between 2,500 and 2,800 prisoners died in captivity during the five months the prison was operational. After the capture of Atlanta, Georgia by Union forces, Confederate authorities decided to transfer the majority of Union prisoners from Andersonville, Georgia. Due to its proximity to major rail lines, Florence was chosen as the site for a new prison camp. The majority of the original records of the Florence Stockade did not survive the Civil War, making the documentation of those who were imprisoned there very difficult.

Note:

Ransom Marion Jones was imprisoned in this facility from July 31, 1864 until it closed in February 1865. He suffered from frozen feet and legs during his stay there, sustaining permanent damage to them. He had been captured along with eight others from Company A during the fighting south of Atlanta. Just a month after Ransom was taken to the hospital in Baltimore, the steamship ‘General Lyon’ burned and sank off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, carrying 600 paroled prisoners of war and discharged soldiers from Florence and Salisbury Prisons. Only 31 survived. A sketch of the prison done in 1890 shows the prison as Ransom saw it. To view this picture, click here.