The Crackerhead Chronicles {Part I} (TCC): The First Crumb, Part I

To start things off: please allow me to introduce myself. For my name is Jerry Eugene Beuterbaugh; and this is my story so far.

No, mine is not another tragic tale of woe. That is: at least not in the beginning. For I had a relatively good childhood; but the rest of the story is something else.

It all began (naturally-speaking, of course) around 2 AM on November 24, 1957. For this is when I was physically born into this world in a hospital in Newport, AR, which is approximately 70 miles northwest of Memphis, TN.

My father is Fred Marshall Beuterbaugh. He was physically born into this world in a house (I think) on February 4, 1920 in Blue Mound, KS, which is approximately 65 miles south of Kansas City, KS.

My mother is Mabel Elizabeth (Honeycutt) Beuterbaugh. She was physically born into this world in a log cabin on October 22, 1926 in a place that is now at the bottom of Norfork Lake, near Mountain Home, AR, which is approximately 140 miles north of Little Rock, AR.

As with far too many families: I do not know all that much about their lineage. What I do know about my father's is that he had five older sisters; and that the name "Beuterbaugh" is Pennsylvania Dutch. For he used to get very upset with me for referring unto the name as being of Germanic origin.

Most definitely a result of serving (with distinction) with the 1st Infantry Division of the U.S. Army in the European Theater during World War II: I would think. For he was severely wounded in the beginning of the Battle of the Bulge; and he later helped with the liberation and clean-up of the Buchenwald Concentration Camp (with another unit, I think) after his wounds had healed some.

Sadly (for me): that is about all I know about his time of military service unto our country. For he refused to talk much about the war; and he suffered from post-traumatic distress (unto a certain extent) the rest of his life.

No, he was not the only Beuterbaugh to see combat. For his great-great uncle (I think), named Samuel Buterbaugh (same name, different spelling), rode with the Union General Sherman on his march to the sea through Georgia during the American Civil War; and after that: he was one of the earliest settlers of Kearney, NE.

Sadly: I know even less about my mother's lineage. What I do know is that her father was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian (along with his six brothers); and that his grandmother, or great-grandmother, was one of the survivors of being forcibly marched from northeastern Georgia to eastern Oklahoma on the infamous Trail of Tears. Her family then left the reservation and settled in north-central Arkansas sometime before the start of "The War Against Northern Aggression" (American Civil War).

Being Cherokee: my mother had several relatives who served with the Confederacy; and one of them supposedly helped to hide a cache of gold bars in a cave that has an opening under a 15-20 foot overhang of a 100 foot tall rock-bluff on the Buffalo River not too far from where my mother was born. In true Confederate gold legend style: the more accessible opening of the cave was filled-in; and a huge hornets nest hangs from the top of the opening above the river.

Yes, I would very much like for this story to be true; but since her family suffered as much as anyone's during the Depression of the 1930's: either the gold never existed or they did not get much of a cut (if any at all). Oh yeah, I was just reminded of my mother saying that her relative was led blind-folded to the spot where the wagon was; and was then led blind-folded out of the cave back to his cabin after helping to carry the gold bars from the wagon into the cave under the cover of darkness. So: maybe it is still there???

Anyway: the rest of what I know about my mother's father and mother is that he was some sort of a gangster like Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd and Machine Gun Kelly; and that she was a fair-skinned Irish lass with flaming-red hair. They both died of apparent suicides by drinking battery acid that my mother's mother had smuggled into the jail at Searcy, AR during a visit in 1933 or 34, leaving my mother an orphan at the tender age of 7.

Yes, I know of much better ways to commit suicide. So: I have my doubts about what really happened; but it was still a tragedy of monumental proportions unto my mother: regardless of what circumstances were involved.