The Wright stuff, with butter

My Dad always said that we were related to Pocahontas “some how or other” but he didn’t know how or why, other than “grandpa always said”, then he’d tell the story about Mary Hill’s father and the preacher…

This was from my sister, who has been researching our family history, and managed to pull that relationship out of the murky depths of ancient and ill-kept records.

My great-great-grandfather, Voltaire Camden, had a sister named Pocahontas, who was apparently named for her illustrious ancestress.  Their grandmother, Meonie Camden (nee Wright) was the daughter of Elizabeth Wright (nee Bolling).  Her great-grandmother, Jane Bolling (nee Rolfe) was the granddaughter of Pocahontas via Thomas Rolfe, the son of Pocahontas (who assumed the English name Rebecca) and John Rolfe.

This isn’t the first connection to an early American celebrity that my sister has discovered, however.  George Washington’s great-grandfather is also my direct ancestor.   Once again, this relationship comes to my sisters and I via Meonie Wright — but this time through her father, Benjamin Wright, whose great-grandmother was born Anne Washington.  But maybe we shouldn’t be so amazed — every family that lived in Virginia before the Revolution probably had some relationship to the father of our country. 

The Wrights aren’t only related on my father’s side.  My mother’s great-grandmother was born Christiana Wright, and her direct ancestry extends back to Richard de Bello Campo, who was a Sheriff of Nottingham in 1204 and 1206.  His father, Simon de Bello Campo, is the earliest relative my sister has discovered — born in 1144.

My sister traced all of these relationships on Tribal Pages, where you can setup a password-secured subdomain for your family tree, and research your famous (or infamous) roots.

Oh, I almost forgot.  I teased you at the top with a reference to an old family story, “about Mary Hill’s father and the preacher”.

Mary Hill was Voltaire Camden’s wife, and her father, William Hill, was like many in our family a famous drinker.

One Sunday, William’s wife Judith brought the preacher home for Sunday dinner after church, which William had not attended — preferring the sanctuary of his home and the communion of his bottle.  William was not expecting company, but he managed to straighten up to the dinner table and attempt conversation over the meal.  As the food was going around, William pushed the butter dish towards their reverend guest with a friendly ”Have some butter, preacher.”

“No thank you, I’m fine,” replied the shepherd politely to his wayward sheep.

A few minutes later into the conversation, William again offered, “Have some butter, preacher.”

“No, really, I don’t care for any, thank you.”

Trying his best to be polite, and seeming to have forgotten the previous responses, within a few minutes William again insisted, “Have some butter, preacher.”

“Thank you, no.”

“Aw, c’mon, preacher, have some butter.  Take damn nigh all the butter!”

My father used to tell this story and then laugh until he nearly choked on his liquor.  You see, even by the time that I was young, swearing in front of a preacher was just not done.  Even my father, whose every third word could melt the ears of a sailor, would restrain himself in the company of a clergyman. 

My father always ended the story there, at Grandpa Hill’s famous exclamation — with the silent implication that the rest of the pastor’s visit did not go well.