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.