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I always got a kick out of Paul Harvey and his The Rest of the Story… with that in mind…

1. Origins

• The song is a traditional lullaby that likely dates back to the late 19th or early 20th century.
• It comes from the oral tradition of Black Southern communities, especially in rural areas of Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama, and the Carolina Sea Islands.
• Like many old lullabies from this era, it was passed down through generations of mothers singing to their children.

2. Hidden Meanings

Many traditional Black lullabies had double meanings:

• On the surface, they were gentle songs to help babies fall asleep.
• Underneath, they often expressed the pain of family separation, poverty, and hardship.

The lines:

“Your mama’s gone away and your daddy’s gone to stay”

…are believed to reflect the real trauma of slavery and its aftermath — when mothers and fathers were sold away, imprisoned, or forced to leave their families. The song carries a quiet sorrow beneath its soothing melody.

Lyrics:

Go to sleep, you little baby Go to sleep, you little baby Your mama’s gone away and your daddy’s gone to stay Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

Go to sleep, you little baby Go to sleep, you little baby Everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

You’re sweet and you’re little, you’re sweet and you’re little You’re sweet and you’re little, you’re sweet and you’re little And you’re sweet and you’re little, you’re sweet and you’re little Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

You’re a sweet little baby You’re a sweet little baby You’re a sweet little baby, you’re a sweet little baby You’re a sweet little baby, you’re a sweet little baby Didn’t leave nobody but the baby

My younger brother and I had a running comment/warning to each other. When we trespassed a bit too much and got on each other’s nerves, we would issue the “Don’t push my button, brother” statement. I think most people catch my drift.

Then there is the venerable old cliché: “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.” Stay with me… I have a point to make somewhere.

I have made the observation in some past comments on this blog that I “thought” might raise some ire… but hasn’t. That statement was “I really don’t care about your ancestors,” and then I added the caveat “except in a historical sense.” Or some such clarification to cover my rude comment. There are literally billions of folks on the planet and I frankly do not give a rip about them. I do however care deeply about MY family and friends (as I think most folks realize and share my thought). All of which might seem foolish to say on a genealogy site. I am a rather crude sort that simply says what I mean… and then looks for a response to measure whatever psychology presents itself. That is a “game” I play.

I will purposely try to flip people’s switches and/or buttons in an oddly playful way. It is a curse. In pool halls I would reply when challenged to a game: I don’t mind playing if you don’t mind losing. Those are fighting words. It is a big boy game… be careful. Be it known that you are pushing a powerful button. I learned it from a hustler as I was being hustled. Damn he was good.

I think professional genealogists deal with this. It is a job. Their true interest is money. That is not a moral dilemma or a judgment… it is a fact. But some genealogists can conjure up an interest if they truly enjoy their job. Such is my case and some friends of mine. I’ve tried talking “genealogy shit” in some bars in the past. The speed with which I found myself deserted and left as an island amongst a sea of people was breathtaking. I got the drift quickly. The vast majority of people simply do NOT give a rip about long dead people.

Much like my brother and I became wary of pushing each other’s button, I have noticed that a “Switch” can be toggled from off to on when two or more people are interested in certain old dead people. That appears to be the essence of genealogy in my mind.

My genealogy cohorts and I share emails and drag out these long dead folks and share thoughts and ideas that would put 95% or more of the “great unwashed” majority of so-called normal people to sleep. I get it. You do too if you have stayed this long in this article to realize that… smiling. Genealogy is a phantom itch that demands to be scratched. Either your Switch is On or Off. Which is why you find yourself alone at social gatherings… and find yourself surrounded at genealogy events.

Warning: Don’t talk genealogy around normal folks…their eyes will glaze over and they will yawn profusely and eventually go to sleep. If you snap your fingers and wave your hand across their eyes and get no response…they are comatose. Realize this immediately and shut up…you have gone way too far.

I enjoy this site…

Years ago I took my grandson to the Petersburg Battlefield and realized it was just a whirlwind tour… you need time to reflect on what happened here.

Every teacher dreaded him…Little Johnny. You know the guy. The pint-sized smartass who turned every Sunday-school lesson or math quiz into a landmine of double entendres and deadpan truth bombs. Johnny, you beautiful little menace. Where did you even come from? Turns out the rascal’s been around longer than most of us care to admit. Roots snake back to the early 1900s, those dusty American schoolyards where kids swapped jokes the way we once traded baseball cards. Some say he’s a direct descendant of those old European “clever peasant boy” tales—the ones where the underdog outfoxes the lord or the priest with nothing but cheek and a straight face. By the 1930s he’d gone full vaudeville: newspapers printed him, radio shows whispered him, and every playground from Brooklyn to the backwoods had its own version. Little Johnny didn’t invent the dirty joke; he just made it adorable. And lethal.Picture it. Teacher asks, “Johnny, what’s the difference between a cat and a comma?” Johnny blinks those big innocent eyes and says, “One has claws at the end of its paws, and the other is a pause at the end of a clause.” Boom. Classroom erupts. Teacher realizes too late she just walked into a trap set by a seven-year-old. Or the classic where Mom catches him playing doctor with the neighbor girl and Johnny deadpans, “I was just checking her temperature, honest.” Satire so sharp it could slice the pious right off the church pew. Here’s the genius of it, the part that still makes me grin like I’m back in third grade: Little Johnny never breaks character. He’s pure, wide-eyed innocence wrapped around a switchblade of logic. He exposes every adult hypocrisy without ever raising his voice. The preacher, the principal, the prissy aunt—they all get skewered while the kid just sits there polishing his halo. It’s the ultimate underdog satire, dressed up in blue jeans and a cowlick. No wonder the jokes spread like wildfire through the 1950s and ’60s, right when America was busy pretending everything was Leave It to Beaver wholesome. Johnny was the polite little finger in the eye of all that starched-collar nonsense.Of course the pearl-clutchers tried to shut him down. “Vulgar!” they huffed. “Get the paddle!” Meanwhile the youth were in the coatroom trading the latest installment like contraband candy. He survived every ban, every school board meeting, every “think of the children” sermon. Because deep down, we all know: the joke isn’t really about the dirty part. It’s about the delicious moment when authority gets pantsed by a kid who hasn’t even hit puberty yet.So here’s to Little Johnny—eternal classroom anarchist, king of the slow-burn zinger, and the reason some of us still can’t sit through a parent-teacher conference without smirking. Wherever you are, you glorious little troublemaker, keep walking down that hallway. The rest of us will be right behind you, trying not to laugh too loud.

I suspect Little Johnny may have worked a stint in the Brunswick County Court after he finished 6th grade… He seems to have had a chance to name some creeks… Do not zoom in if you are easily offended…grinning from ear to ear…

Thanks to Ellen for the opportunity to rediscover the laughs…Good Fun

At one time, long, long ago… I was a Sign Painter (when I wasn’t drilling oil wells 2 miles deep). As a matter of fact, I was a “picture painter”… meaning I did photo realistic renditions on billboards… sometimes at a scale of 14’x48′.

After the paintings ran their advertising life (perhaps a year)…we painted over them with what we called “knock out white”… and the process started all over again. I did not travel around plying my trade… but these guys did:

“Wall Dogs” were professional sign painters in the late 1800s to mid-1900s who created huge hand-painted advertisements directly on brick walls, barns, and buildings across the U.S. The nickname came from two things: they worked like dogs (long, hard hours in all weather—hot sun, cold wind, rain) and they were often tethered (leashed) to the walls with ropes or harnesses for safety while hanging off scaffolds or ladders.Coca-Cola’s ConnectionCoca-Cola was one of the biggest users of these wall signs. The company started with painted ads in the 1890s to promote the new drink.

• The very first known Coca-Cola wall sign was painted in 1894 on the side of a drugstore in Cartersville, Georgia (by a salesman named James Couden who grabbed a brush to attract train passengers).
• By the early 1900s, Coca-Cola hired armies of wall dogs. They painted over 16,000 signs before the 1970s (when the company switched to billboards and metal signs).
• These ads were everywhere—on city buildings, rural barns, and country stores—often with slogans like “Delicious and Refreshing,” “Drink Coca-Cola,” or the famous bottle shape.
• Many wall dogs mixed their own lead-based paints (red for Coke’s trademark color), scaled up small logos by hand, and worked fast to finish jobs in days.

History & Why They Matter

• Peak era: 1890s–1940s (golden age of hand-painted outdoor ads before neon and printed billboards took over).
• Wall dogs traveled town to town, often in crews, painting for Coke, Mail Pouch Tobacco, and local shops.
• The signs that survive today are called ghost signs—faded, peeling remnants on old brick walls.
• Many have been restored (e.g., by Coca-Cola bottlers or preservation groups) to celebrate history and boost downtown pride.

Today, wall dogs are rare (mostly nostalgic or restoration artists), but the faded Coke signs are still icons of American advertising history—visible on old buildings from Georgia to Appalachia and beyond. …written with the aid of Know it All (Grok). Marc

32 point Compass Rose for Mapping

No… they did not have pool tables in Colonial Isle of Wight, VA. But some guy was named Pool Hall… snickering.

There are numerous deeds in Isle of Wight that mention this Pool Hall and there seem to be numerous heirs. I have been curious about these folks for years… did he descend from this earlier Peter?

Peter Hull / Hall 1640ish… Isle of Wight, VA

If anyone would care to sponsor my research… I am willing to take on the quest! All it will take is a few coffees.

Rack ’em up.

P.S… I think I saw a reference to a Thomas Poole (who is purported to be the grandfather of this Pool Hall…hence the name). laughing

Totally made up image… they did not have photos back in the day…

Arthur Kavenaugh, from “parts unknown” as every TV Wrestling fan of old knows…came from “Surry County”… somewhere. At the time of this deed deal, that could have been anywhere from James River to the North Carolina border near the modern Roanoke River (Morattock during his time).

I think it highly likely he was near modern Emporia in Virginia. That was “the” Trading Post and Indian Trader hangout at the time. Captain Robert Hicks was the “Big Dog” thereabouts then. Kavenaugh owned land nearby Hicks…on the Meherrin River. He married the mother of Thomas Whitmell. Sly ladie’s man I suspect…silver-tongued no doubt.

   Kavenaugh was a wheeler/dealer… sometime Indian Trader I am sure, otherwise he hustled…one has to eat.  He strikes me as being “of the Gambler type” which would ply their trade on Riverboats…perhaps to New Orleans (a hundred years later). 

   In this instance he “leased’ 600 acres from a patent he had obtained on Occoneechee Neck at Morattock River in NC.  It was directly on the River at a place called “Hull Hole”.

I have discussed this process of lease/release of deeds elsewhere on this site… this is a perfect example:  on July 13, he leases the property for 5 shillings;  the next day July 14, he releases the property for 1 horse.  This fascinates me because:

   1. it values 600 acres at the value of a horse!

   2.  a horse was worth about £12 sterling evidently in 1715

This was the Art of the Steal in its day.  Government then, as so today, wanted control of transactions and a piece of the action for their trouble of Lording over you.  The colonists,(good English Commoners then) used this mechanism to tell them to pound sand.

Kavenaugh traded the 600 acres for a good horse (doubtless) and he and stepson Thomas were both satisfied with the deal.  Simple.  Only 50 years ago it was very usual and accepted practice in the South ( I can’t vouch for Yankee Land) to sell a used car (or whatever) for $1.  Everyone knew it was to avoid the State Sales Tax.  That was when people with an ounce of common sense in our heads understood how to control Government.

You people have lost control now.  25 years or so ago, I sold a car to my brother for $1. (I live in Floida).  They sent a threating letter demanding a “legitimate” and acceptable price be placed on the sale (and getting their tax for Lording over me). I sent them back another letter and told them to pound sand/ he was my brother and it was basically a gift.  They folded.

Try that today…I dare you.

Sidenote:  The Laurence Mague (witness in these transactions) lived near the Chowan River at this time… and as I can’t see him being at Occoneechee Neck this must have been at a Court near the Chowan River.  A chance to go to the big city!…smiling

TTT Arthur Kavanaugh / Thomas Whitmel

On my other site …I lure unsuspecting victims into my hideous Game. I offer Patents for a cup of coffee. I will do it …

But Beware…

Once you start… you cannot stop… before you are even aware of the trap you are left homeless and on the street. Left only with a stack of documents of utterly no value but to another hopelessly addicted genealogist.

Broke…utterly penniless…

Some tunes for your earplugs while you roam the streets begging for food.

As I push these patents, I collect copies (that you paid for) and put them on my Big Map… you know, like this South Side Virginia monstrosity.

And I gloat!… my victims do not even realize that they are helping to bring out the dead from the past.

The horror!

All this deception and intrigue also helps pay “The Man” his ridiculous fees for a domain and website free from ads.

Seriously tho”…(yeah right)…

If any one would choose to become a monthly subscriber, ( Just sign up for a few coffees each month). I would be delighted… You won’t miss it. I generally will plow the proceeds back into my work on these two sites. But right now Gramps needs a new refrigerator dammit.

Why let me fret over a stinkin’ freezer when I can be busy rustlin’ up the bones of your GGGGGGGGrampa/Gramma…Hmmmmm?

Granted, I am a bit touched in the head to have taken up genealogy in the first place… and I certainly admit to imbibing on occasion. But then, I think a line should be drawn before drinkin’ and patenting… Without doubt on such a solemn and auspicious occasion as transacting for property, one should be sober. I’m talking about the one writing the damn patent, not the poor sucker paying for it… he could be falling down drunk for all I care…its like waking up the next day with a tattoo but only bigger.

Having my services being engaged by a lovely and gracious commenter to resolve a problem finding a patent… I found it, but have concluded the scribe had to have been drinkin’ whilst patenting. That is the only explanation.

As Exihit A, I offer the non offensive conveyance of property by deed from one schlub to another or two…

...as usual, click on the filename below the graphic for a better view

Exhibit B, the offensive patent…

Rarely, if ever, until now, have I felt the need to drag out a bona fide “25 dollar word”… this is not for the faint of heart who are impressed with ‘run of the mill’ 10 dollar words…no.

The simple deed of Mr Howell, sold to the unsuspecting Mr. Long in 1749 has yes indeed! Transmogrified! into a full blown Patent in 1768. And! beyond all my comprehension, somehow has by magic, presumably, grown by 17 acres completely out of thin air. What was a 610 acre deal became 627 acres. Shazam!

The problem for me, 258 years later, is to ponder, unravel and make sense of this drunk’s bullshit patent. These 3 patents were in different places…

It pops up quite a bit in my research and I always get suspicious…what’s this guy trying to hide ? So I asked the know it all (Grok). Turns out its not always sinister…

In colonial Virginia deeds from the 1700s, the term “alias” (often written as “alias” or “als.”) was commonly used in legal documents to indicate that a person was also known by or otherwise called a second name. This phrasing appeared in the form of “John Smith alias John Taylor” or similar constructions, where the first name was typically the primary or baptismal/legal name, and the second was an alternative one the person used or was recognized by.This was not usually meant to imply deception, hiding identity, or criminal activity (as “alias” often suggests today in modern contexts like police records). Instead, it served practical legal and social purposes in an era when surnames were still somewhat fluid, spelling was inconsistent, and people frequently went by multiple identifiers.Common Reasons for Using “Alias” in Deeds and Court Records

Here are the main explanations drawn from historical genealogical and legal sources on 18th-century Virginia and colonial America:

• Illegitimacy or uncertain parentage — Children born out of wedlock might use both their mother’s surname and their reputed father’s surname (or vice versa), especially if inheritance or property rights were involved. The alias connected the two to clarify identity for legal purposes like land transfers.
• Remarriage of a parent (step-parent scenarios) — If a mother remarried, her children might adopt the stepfather’s surname in daily life while retaining their birth father’s name for inheritance or legal continuity. The deed used “alias” to link both names and avoid disputes over title.
• Inheritance from a female relative or property ties — When someone inherited land or goods through a maternal line (or changed names due to inheritance customs), they might use the inherited surname alongside their original one. This was common in cases involving entails, dowries, or family estates.
• Differentiation in families with common surnames — In small communities with many people sharing the same last name (very frequent with names like Jones, Smith, etc.), an alias helped distinguish individuals—often by a nickname, place of origin, occupation, or another family connection.
• Maiden names, nicknames, or variations — A woman might be identified with her maiden name as an alias after marriage, or someone might use a common nickname (e.g., “Harry alias Harold”). Initials, patronymics, or anglicized versions of non-English names could also appear this way.
• Common law or informal unions — In some cases, it signified relationships not formalized by church marriage, though this was less common in formal deeds.

In deeds specifically, the goal was clarity and legal precision to ensure the correct person was identified as the grantor (seller) or grantee (buyer). Virginia courts and clerks wanted to prevent future challenges to the title by explicitly acknowledging all names the person might be known by in records, witnesses, or community usage. This practice mirrored English common law traditions carried to the colonies.Examples from period glossaries and resources (e.g., colonial Virginia legal term lists) confirm “alias” in personal names was for “a name used other than the given name… which may not be an attempt to hide his/her identity,” contrasting with its use for repeated writs (like “alias capias” for a second summons).

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This is the ‘sidetrack’ that got me curious…it involves a “Mad Jack”...

Whoa…a True Grittian appellation like Mad Jack, thinks me…that is like stepping up to the bar and sayin’ Gimme a whisky, Barkeep… and keep em’ comin’…