James H. Hays family – americanman.org

Jim Hays, an American Man

By Jim Hays

What am I? Like very kid growing up in America I asked my parents, “what are we” in reference to our country of origin. Mom’s response was an easy one with a grandfather born in Germany and a grandmother who was first generation American from German parents. Mom’s German. But Dad? “American” he would say, “American mutts”. Schenectady was mom’s home town, dad was a transplant from out west where his kin still lived.

Over time responding to incessant inquiries Dad spoke a little of his American ancestry. But the responses were evasive, often couched in humor. He was from Oklahoma, an “Oakie” but how the Hays got there, or why, was never discussed. His dad died when he was a baby and he grew up with his mother and siblings in Texas and on his “Bachelor Uncles” Farm. Cotton pickers and dirt poor farmers, he said. The depression, dust bowl, and the flight to California in search of work were little discussed in detail. There was talk in the family of “high cheek bones and black hair”, speculation of Indian blood. He did tease, his grandmother “liked to sit on an Indian blanket in front of the cabin” but no specific tribe. What else are we Dad we asked, “We’re a little bit of everything”, “American, American Mutt”, the reply. Over the years I would tease a little out of him, but always a bit vague and never in depth. The “American Mutt” stayed consistent, “We’re a little bit of everything, American”.

It’s the early 2000’s, a new millennium. And it occurs to me I don’t know the name of either of my grandfathers much less anything about them. I never met either of them. My Dad’s long gone. And I’ve got some old family photo’s which came to me after mom had her stroke and ended up in the facility. Who are these people? Here I sat with her at each visit and pulled as much as I could from her until 2008. Some names were put to pictures, but her knowledge of the paternal side was mostly what he relayed to her the two sides of my family being on opposite coasts, the west coast unknown to me.

Looking for answers, my research revealed the name hails from the Scottish Clan Hay. I had my DNA tested and confirmed this and also that I am related to the “Scotch-Irish”, Presbyterian Ulstermen, (most likely from the Scottish borderlands initially) who migrated to America in the early 1700’s due to economic and religious persecution. I traced my line backwards, NY, CA, TX, OK, TN, VA and see I am 9 or 10 generations removed from the Clan in Scotland.

The history of Clan Hay Scotland starts with the Norman invasion, William delaHaye of Normandy. In one of my readings it was pointed out that the delaHaye line married 3 Celtic Princesses in a row, thus cementing it as a “Celtic line”. Interestingly I noted that within 3 generations the Ulstermen who came to America, as did my maternal German line, mixed things up through marriage starting about the third generation. Just as the Norman became Scottish Hay, so has the Scottish Hay become American Hays.

Dad was right, we’re mutts. In 5 generations a person has 32 cousins, 1024 in ten, so going backwards ten generations I have 1024 people who (conceivable could have) contributed genes to me and given the paternal line that’s 1024 Americans, most of European descent. Branch off of my tree along the line and I can probably show relations to the majority of people who landed in America in the early 1700’s as each person in a tree branches to another 1024. But name and yDNA follows the paternal line, a Hays from a line of Hays across America and back to Ulster and Scotland.

I see heraldry (Coat of Arms) is still controlled in many places but not in America. I’m sure I didn’t follow all the rules and am not looking to offend, but I made a Roll of Arms (Coat of Arms?) for my fathers American line. Three red escutcheons on a white escutcheon pay homage to Clan Hay Scotland and my Celtic/Norman paternal roots. Hays came into common usage of my ancestors in Ulster-America (although often misspelled) and the cross reflects their Reformed Christian Faith for which they were persecuted and driven to America. The pine tree, an appeal to heaven, is s symbol of their fight for Liberty in the U.S. from the 1740’s to today (an early American flag). The bear is an homage to my fathers line as the symbol of courage, power and strength. The Arms sit roadside, announcing a Clan Hays home to one and all.

I seem to have an affinity for my paternal ancestry, the yDNA, and the surname as a large part of “what am I?” and incorporate the Scottish diaspora to America into the symbols used. The paternal line in Scotland for 800 years does add Scottish to the heritage, distinct to my line due to Ulster Presbyterian also. But 300 years in America counts a lot. If pressed I would say I’m an Scottish-American, pressed further, German on my mothers side. But I am my fathers son so if asked, in homage to him and by birth, I am an American and why I (try) to tell the story of Hays on AmericanMan.org.

White cotton sweaters and kleenex

by Jim Hays

It was the uniform of the mother in the 1960’s, various ones for various occasions, but ever present, the white cotton sweater. “Put a sweater on” was the response to the “I’m cold” lamentations of youths. The fact that the “GE Tract” houses off central State Street in Schenectady had been converted from coal heating units to natural gas didn’t solve the problem of the drafts and cold leaking in. Clapboard on rough cut 2 by 4’s with lathe and plaster walls, no insulation, and single pane glass windows let in the cold and drafts. The heat wasn’t going to be turned up for one person as blue collar families had limited resources and so the heat was left low to conserve money. You put your sweater on.

Lined up for church on a Sunday morning, groomed and cleaned, wearing your Sunday best Mom’s (sweater over their shoulders) would inspect and chide boys not to get dirty. Fat chance in families with multiple young boys, many close in age as “Irish Twins” were common. Boyish exuberance was the norm leading to wrestling matches and all out fights. Any food or candy found out and about was immediately consumed like a pack of wolves, muzzles often showing the sticky evidence of “the kill”. Armed against the normal activities of young boys moms loaded the white sweater with supplies. Mints. life savers, and butterscotch candies to soothe the savage youth’s and against any incursion of dirt upon “the boys” moms loaded their sweaters with a never ending supply of kleenex.

They sat unseen, hidden, tucked away in various spots for quick retrieval. They were amazingly never new nor totally used up, wrinkled, used and reused they magically retained some measure of utility. A speck of drool on a young boy would usher forth one from up the sleeve and the offending slobber removed with a force which rendered the little face scrunched into a frown. No matter the facial orifice which produced offensive substances, and how many occurrences, a state of cleanliness was achieved, even if only temporarily. Mom’s weapon of war against the never ending dirt, drool, and snot of young boys was returned to a safe hiding place ready to be called back into battle on the side of cleanliness. Another battle won.

It was a happy time when a boys growth brought him to a size which prevented the kleenex assault. In addition to not being needed as much, when an incident did occur one was now old enough to escape the clutches of cleanliness by flight to a safe distance just out of mom’s reach. Unfortunately, this left the youngest of “the boys” as the sacrificial lamb, small, easy to catch and hold onto. And lacking another to distract her the poor boy suffered the time and energy usually equally distributed among many, bearing the full brunt of it and often with a multiple kleenex assault.

I suppose I had suffered the “lick and wash” where the kleenex was first dabbed on her damp tongue and now quasi-damp was used as a wash cloth against some stuck on offending substance. I probably parked it in the sub-conscience memory, no need to recall that trauma, I’m sure. But I was witness to my poor little brother suffering this fate time and time again. The poor lad suffered all the attentions of moms maternal instincts going through youth impeccably clean and with nary a hair ever out of place for the “wash cloth” also served as a damp comb.

Even Dad saw the excesses of attention Mom gave the youngest lad, trapped like a kitten in the clutches of an overly attentive momma-cat, groom, clean, clean, groom. I expect he would have physically intervened to save the boy but most assuredly suffered this same fate at the hands of his mother and so was conditioned to not get close. When the “lick dab” would first appear he would attempt humor to distract her as she wiped at the face saying, “good thing the boy didn’t shit himself” bringing “us men” to great laughter at that visual, but it never did deter her and so we could do nothing but sit idly by and watch, hoping she would tire and release the poor lad at some point.

Just as a moms kleenex replaced grandma’s handkerchief I expect now the kleenex has been replaced by the moist towlette. I suppose it’s a bit more sanitary than mom’s reused spit-kleenex, towlette ushered forth new and unused from the wrapper and not from a sweater sleeve, used once and thrown away. Hopefully the mothers of today can still wipe away offending dirt from little boys faces with such force that they are scrunched into a frown for it certainly wold be a shame if a boy grows old with no warm memories of mom being mom.