William Henry Meyer: A Poem Lived, Not Just Written

 

My daddy, William Henry Meyer, is the measure by which I have always understood strength, devotion, and quiet perseverance. I admire him not because his life was easy—but because it never was, and yet he built something solid and good from every broken beginning.

He entered the world already marked by loss. His mother died just one year after his birth, leaving him too young to remember her voice, yet forever shaped by her absence. Childhood for him was not rooted in one home or one steady hand. He was raised in pieces—by his oldest sister, then a family friend, an aunt & uncle, and eventually his loving stepmother. Where others might have been undone by such uncertainty, Daddy learned adaptability, humility, and gratitude. He learned how to belong wherever he was planted, and how to give loyalty even when life had given him little certainty in return.

He was raised on dairy farms, where life revolved around shared chores and early mornings. There, he learned family responsibility not through instruction, but through example—by doing his part and knowing others depended on him. The rhythm of farm life taught him discipline, cooperation, and the quiet understanding that work done together strengthens bonds. Those lessons stayed with him, shaping the man who would later serve, provide, and welcome others with the same steady reliability.

He graduated from Jourdanton High School in 1955, a milestone that spoke volumes about determination in a time when nothing was guaranteed. That same year, he chose service, enlisting in the United States Air Force. The Air Force became his steady ground, his calling, and his lifelong pride. He served two enlistments—1955 to 1959, and again from 1963 to 1981—building a career defined by discipline, integrity, and leadership. When he retired after twenty-two years, he did so as a Master Sergeant (E7), a rank earned through perseverance, respect, and the trust of those who served alongside him.

Retirement from the Air Force did not mean rest. Daddy believed in work—not just as obligation, but as purpose. He went on to spend nineteen years with the San Miguel Electric Cooperative, where he again proved that commitment and reliability mattered. When he finally retired for the second time, it was not because he had nothing left to give, but because he had given fully, without reservation.

In 1961, Daddy married Barbara, the love of his life. Their marriage lasted forty-eight years, until her death in 2009. It was a partnership built on loyalty, shared laughter, and quiet endurance. Together they raised a daughter, two sons and welcomed five grandchildren during his lifetime. Though he did not live to see the births of his three great-grandchildren, his influence lives on in them—woven into family stories, values, and traditions.

One of the greatest gifts Daddy ever gave was choosing me. In 1967, he adopted me—his half-sister’s child—not out of obligation, but out of love. He became my father because he wanted to be, because he believed family was not only blood but responsibility and heart. I never doubted that I belonged. To be chosen is a powerful thing, and it shaped my life in ways words can barely hold.

Daddy never met a stranger. His home was always open, and his welcome was immediate and sincere. Whoever you were—family, friend, neighbor, passerby, or someone down on their luck—you were invited in without hesitation. He believed deeply in the biblical parable from Matthew, where a man prayed for God to come visit him, only to turn away three strangers at his door—never realizing that each time, it was God who had come. Daddy lived that lesson. He believed every knock deserved kindness, every stranger deserved dignity, and that hospitality was not just politeness, but faith in action.

Beyond his titles and accomplishments, Daddy was many things. He was a crafter, with a remarkable ability to make junk into something new again—seeing possibility where others saw discard, fixing what was broken, and giving forgotten things another purpose. He was a storyteller, passing down family tales rich with humor, wisdom, and memory. He was a passionate genealogist, devoted to understanding where we came from, believing that knowing our ancestors anchored us to who we are.

Every Christmas, he shared one carefully written poem inside each family card—a single poem meant for everyone, filled with reflection, humor, warmth, and hope. Words were his way of reaching across time, of leaving behind something that could be reread and treasured. His love of writing also found a place in the Pleasanton Express, where his poems and published stories preserved local history and everyday life, ensuring that ordinary stories were never lost.

When I think of my daddy, I think of a man who endured loss without bitterness, served diligently, welcomed others without judgment, and loved without condition. He showed me that character is built slowly, through choices made again and again when no one is watching. He taught me that family is created through care, not circumstance, and that a life well lived is one that leaves others stronger.

I admire my daddy because he never needed applause to do the right thing. His legacy lives not only in records and rank, but in open doors, shared meals, remembered names, renewed objects, and generations who carry his story forward—grateful to have known him, and proud to call him my Daddy.

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All primary source information referenced was gathered from historic newspapers, U.S. census schedules, vital records, probate files, and land documents, accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, and local, state & federal archival repositories. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

©2025  Unfolding the Story Genealogy

Inherited Traditions: Christmas Eve Among My German Ancestors

In our family, Christmas Eve has always held deeper meaning than Christmas morning. That emphasis did not begin with us—it was carried across the Atlantic by our German ancestors and carefully preserved after their arrival in Texas. Through the lives of Anna and Peter Schorsch, the Henry Sievers family, and the Michael Englert families, we can trace how German Christmas Eve traditions endured and became part of our shared family culture.

German Roots of Christmas Eve

In Germany, Christmas Eve—Heiligabend—has long been the heart of the Christmas season. Rather than focusing on Christmas Day, families traditionally gathered on the evening of December 24 for worship, gift-giving, and quiet reflection. These customs were deeply rooted in Christian faith and family life, and they traveled with German immigrants wherever they settled.

Bringing Tradition to Texas

Anna and Peter Schorsch were among those who brought these traditions to Texas. Like many German immigrants, they faced unfamiliar land and challenging conditions, yet they held fast to the customs that gave structure and meaning to their lives. Christmas Eve remained a sacred pause in the year, a moment to remember faith, family, and homeland.

The Henry Sievers family and the Michael Englert families shared these same practices. Though they arrived as separate family groups, their cultural traditions were strikingly similar. Advent was observed as a time of preparation, often marked by candles and quiet anticipation rather than early celebration.

Christmas Eve in the Home

One of the most enduring traditions was the decorating of the Christmas tree. The act of decorating—using simple ornaments, lights, and natural materials—was a shared family ritual that emphasized togetherness over display. It was not about perfection or abundance, but about presence and participation across generations.

Faith played a central role in the evening. Many German-Texan families attended church services or held prayers at home, recalling the Nativity story by candlelight. Hymns such as “Silent Night,” first sung in German-speaking lands, connected Texas homes to European roots through shared music and memory.

The Christmas Eve meal was traditionally modest, reflecting humility and anticipation. More elaborate meals were saved for Christmas Day. Gifts, when exchanged, were given on Christmas Eve and were often thoughtful rather than abundant, reinforcing the values of gratitude and restraint.

Traditions Woven Together

Over time, the customs of the Schorsch, Sievers, and Englert families became woven into a single family narrative. As these families intermarried and settled into Texas communities, their shared German heritage shaped how Christmas was observed across generations. While Texas influenced language, food, and daily life, Christmas Eve remained remarkably consistent.

A Living Heritage

Today, these traditions continue to surface in family celebrations—sometimes consciously, sometimes simply because “that’s how it’s always been done.” For genealogists, these customs offer more than seasonal nostalgia. They provide cultural context, helping us understand how our ancestors lived, worshiped, and found continuity in a new land.

Christmas Eve, as practiced by our German-Texan ancestors, reminds us that genealogy is not only about dates and documents. It is also about lived experience—the quiet traditions passed down, year after year, that keep our ancestors present in our lives.

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All primary source information referenced was gathered from historic newspapers, U.S. census schedules, vital records, probate files, and land documents, accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, and federal archival repositories. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

©2025  Unfolding the Story Genealogy

The Bugler's Call: Thomas Chittim Knight's Service

The spring of 1898 brought more than wildflowers to Texas—it brought the drums of war. When the U.S.S. Maine exploded in Havana Harbor that February, killing 266 sailors, the nation's cry for war against Spain echoed across the country. By April 21st, when Congress declared war, the call had reached even the small towns of South Texas, where young men like Thomas Chittim Knight listened and answered.

Thomas had always been drawn to order and clarity, the qualities he found in music rather than the chaos of war. His father, George Washington Knight, owned a music and jewelry shop in San Marcos, a place of gleaming brass instruments and precisely ticking watches. His mother, Emma (née Hearin) Knight, had died shortly after he was born, and perhaps music filled that silent space in his life. While other boys practiced marksmanship in mesquite pastures, Thomas likely practiced scales on his bugle, mastering the clear and commanding calls that structured military life.

When the 1st Regiment of Texas Volunteer Cavalry began recruiting that May—organizing in San Antonio under Colonel Robert F. L. Smith—Thomas saw his opportunity to serve in the way he knew best. The regiment gathered at Camp Mabry, near Austin, where the Texas heat shimmered over rows of khaki tents and the smell of leather, horses, and pipe tobacco filled the air.

At the recruitment table, the officer gave the slender young man a skeptical look. “You can handle a bugle, son?” Thomas didn't answer with words. He raised the horn—polished bright from his father's shop—and played a faultless, soaring “Reveille” that silenced the noise and chatter in the tent like a dropped pin. The officer’s skepticism broke into a wide grin. “Musician. We’ll put you down as one.”

As the days turned into weeks, Thomas learned that a bugler’s duty was anything but ceremonial. Bugle calls structured every hour—“Reveille” before sunrise, “Assembly” to gather the troops, “Mess Call,” “Drill Call,” “Retreat,” and “Taps.” There were more than 30 calls in a single day, each recognized instinctively by soldiers who learned to move as much to rhythm as to command.

Camp life was disciplined woven with drudgery. The summer heat often made his brass bugle sear to the touch. Dust coated everything—the tents, the uniforms, the horses, the food. Mosquitoes swarmed at dusk, and the call of “Tattoo” rarely brought real rest in the humid nights. Yet music brought relief. On Sunday evenings, the regimental band and buglers assembled to play hymns like Nearer My God to Thee or popular tunes such as The Girl I Left Behind Me, and for a moment, homesick men were back on Texas porches instead of on the army grounds.

Despite intense training—drill after drill with carbines and sabers—the 1st Texas Volunteer Cavalry never shipped out. Like many units raised late in the war, they were held in reserve. While Theodore Roosevelt’s Rough Riders made headlines in Cuba and American ships destroyed the Spanish fleet at Santiago, the Texans waited. But Thomas came to understand that service was not measured by the battlefield alone. In every call he sounded clearly and faithfully, he gave order and morale to hundreds of men far from home.

By October, with Spain defeated and an armistice signed in August, orders arrived to muster out the volunteer forces. On November 14, 1898, under cool autumn skies at Camp Mabry, the 1st Texas Cavalry was formally disbanded. Thomas stood in formation one last time, his bugle catching the low sunlight as the discharge papers were read. He received his honorable discharge, marking six months of duty—brief in history’s eyes, but immense in personal meaning.

When the train rattled him back toward home through landscapes of gold mesquite and prairie grass, Thomas watched the fields roll past and thought of the calls he’d sounded—some commanding, some comforting, all part of a rhythm that had transformed him. He returned not as a boy but as Musician Thomas Chittim Knight, veteran of the Spanish-American War, a man forever marked by the tempo of a larger life. He had a uniform neatly folded, and a bugle—no longer bright from the shop but burnished by the dust of Camp Mabry—wrapped carefully in a wool blanket.

In history, the Spanish-American War would be remembered for the charge up San Juan Hill and the rise of a world power. But in the quiet archives of family memory, the story of Thomas Chittim Knight endures differently—in a yellowed discharge paper, in the old brass bugle now silenced and in the quiet pride of knowing that when his country called for clarity and order, he answered not with a rifle, but with his own distinct, faithful music.

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All primary source information referenced was gathered from historic newspapers, U.S. census schedules, vital records, probate files, and land documents, accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, and federal archival repositories. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

©2025  Unfolding the Story Genealogy

BlueBonnet Blue: A Family Legacy & Heirloom

 

The Seed is Planted

It began, as the best family stories often do, with an unexpected conversation. Henry Meyer—known to us all as a story teller with a methodical nature and historian's curiosity —had been spending his evenings and weekends tracing the tangled roots of the Herbert Meyer (born Michael Sievers) family tree. Boxes of records, spiral notebooks and handwritten notes accumulated in his kitchen: census documents, ship manifests, birth certificates, marriage licenses. He was following the trail of names and dates backward through time, from Texas soil all the way across the Atlantic to Germany, to a man named Henry Sievers, Jr., and the parents who had raised him in another world entirely.

When Henry shared these records with his older sister Kathryn, he likely expected polite interest, perhaps a few questions about dates or distant cousins. What he didn't expect was for Kathryn to see something more—not just names and numbers, but the bones of a story waiting to be told.

"This needs to be written," Kathryn said, her eyes bright with possibility. "Not as a genealogy chart. As a story."

Two Siblings, One Vision

Kathryn Meyer Coe Aguras was the eldest child of Herbert Meyer, and she carried with her a lifetime of memories that no document could capture—the sound of her father's laugh, the way he moved through the world, the stories he'd told around the dinner table. Henry, her younger brother, had the researcher's gift: patience, attention to detail, and an unwavering commitment to getting the facts right.

Together, they were perfectly matched for the monumental task ahead.

The work began in earnest, a multi-year odyssey that would consume weekends, holidays, and countless hours of their later years. This was before the convenience of online databases and digitized records. Every piece of information had to be hunted down the old-fashioned way: through library visits with creaking microfilm readers, cemetery walks on hot Texas afternoons reading weathered tombstones, and interviews with aging relatives whose memories were precious, fading archives in themselves.

They sorted through boxes of family photographs and letters, each one a small mystery to be solved: Who is this? Where was this taken? What year? They gathered stories from friends who had known their father, Herbert, piecing together the mosaic of a life from dozens of different perspectives.

The Writing Begins

Kathryn took the lead on the writing, but this was never a solo endeavor. She and Henry worked as a team, passing drafts back and forth, debating word choices, verifying facts. Kathryn had the storyteller's gift—she could take Henry's careful documentation and breathe life into it, transforming dates and places into scenes you could almost step into.

The story she wove began not in Texas, but in Germany, with Henry Sievers, Jr., and his parents. She traced the journey across an ocean, the courage it took to leave everything familiar behind, the hope that carried them to a new land. And then she brought the story forward through the generations, through the Herbert Meyer that she and Henry had known and loved—their father, whose presence fills the pages of BlueBonnet Blue like a beloved ghost, welcome in every room.

What made the book special was Kathryn's decision to interweave the family's personal story with the larger historical context. As the Englert, Sievers, Meyer and Schorsch families moved through time, so did Texas, the nation, and the world. Local, state, and national history provided the backdrop against which the family drama unfolded. Wars were fought, depressions endured, technologies invented, communities built. The family story became part of the American story.

A Field of Bluebonnets

By 2002, after years of collaborative work, BlueBonnet Blue was ready. The cover they chose was perfect: a field of Texas bluebonnets stretching toward the horizon, bisected by a red dirt road—a visual metaphor for the journey their family had taken, rooted in Texas soil but always leading somewhere, always moving forward.

The book was privately published and distributed to family members. It was more than a genealogy; it was Herbert Meyer's memorial, a love letter to a father, a gift to future generations who would never meet him but could know him through these pages.

The Companion Journey

Fifteen years later, in 2017, the story continued in an unexpected way. Carol Anna Meyer, Herbert's granddaughter, had watched Kathryn and Henry's dedication to preserving family history, and she took up the torch to create a companion volume—a book of photographs that breathed visual life into BlueBonnet Blue. Each image was carefully referenced to pages in the original book, creating a bridge between word and image, past and present.

But Carol added something more: documentation of the family's inheritance of Milroy's disease, traced through the Englert line to Michael Englert's wife, Gertraud Kunkel Englert. It was medical history, yes, but also family history—another thread in the complex tapestry that makes us who we are.

That Christmas of 2017, all seven of Herbert Meyer's children’s families received Carol's gift—a visual companion to the story their eldest sister and brother had worked so hard to tell.

The Legacy

Kathryn passed away on May 9, 2018, just months after that Christmas. Henry had preceded her in death on December 8, 2013. Neither of them lived to see how their work would continue to ripple through the family, but perhaps they didn't need to. They had done what they set out to do: they had captured something precious and fleeting—memory—and made it permanent.

Together with Carol's photographic companion, these two books created a Family Heirloom to be treasured by generations to come. BlueBonnet Blue stands as a testament to what siblings can accomplish when they combine their gifts in service of something larger than themselves. Henry's meticulous research gave the story its skeleton; Kathryn's writing gave it flesh and breath. And Carol's visual chronicle gave it a face—images that let descendants see the people behind the names, the places where their stories unfolded, and the medical legacy they inherited. Together, they created something that will outlive them by generations—a multi-volume treasure that lets great-great-grandchildren yet unborn know where they came from, who their people were, and what journeys brought them to this moment.

On the cover, that red dirt road stretches through the bluebonnets toward some distant destination. It's the same road Henry Sievers, Jr. walked when he left Germany. The same road Herbert Meyer traveled as he built a life in Texas. The same road Kathryn and Henry followed in their years of research and writing.

And now it's the road we all travel, carrying their stories forward, one generation to the next—a legacy as enduring as a Texas spring, when the bluebonnets bloom and the world turns blue with possibility.

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All primary source information referenced was gathered from historic newspapers, U.S. census schedules, vital records, probate files, and land documents, accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, and federal archival repositories. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

©2025  Unfolding the Story Genealogy

Written in Stone: Though Silent, He Speaks

 

The stone stands quietly beneath the Texas sky, its edges softened by more than a century of weather. At first glance, it seems like any Woodmen of the World monument—solid, steady, carved to resemble a tree that can never fall. But the closer you draw, the more it becomes clear: this is no ordinary headstone. These words were chosen with care, with love, and—perhaps most strikingly—with intent.

“Dum Tacet Clamat.”
(Though silent, he speaks)

The Latin motto seems almost to hush the cemetery around it. Even the breeze pauses, as if the stone is about to reveal something long forgotten.

George Washington Knight Sr., born in Marengo County, Alabama, lived a life that was rarely silent. His story stretched from the wooded hills of the early South to the bustling, changing streets of San Marcos, Texas. By the time he died, he had lived 68 years, and every one of those years left a mark deep enough that his family knew no simple inscription would suffice. His life had meant something—to them, to his community, and perhaps even to the ideals he carried.

And so they wrote.

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“Single Taxer.”

On nearly any other headstone this would be puzzling, out of place. But George’s stone carries it proudly. A nod to the teachings of Henry George, the late-19th-century economist whose “Single Tax” movement believed in fair land use, equal opportunity, and justice in the ownership of soil. The inscription wasn’t political—this was a value, a philosophy. George Knight had been a man who believed in fairness down to the roots of society. A man convinced that justice wasn’t just a word, but a duty that ordinary people had to uphold.

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“Imbued with love of Justice; He wronged none knowingly.”

These lines read like a verdict passed by the people who knew him best. They don’t simply praise; they testify. Someone—perhaps his children, true friend or a grateful neighbor—wanted future generations to know that George tried to walk gently through life. He conducted his business and voiced his opinions in an era when communities were tiny and reputations enormous. His daily work and his character had clearly been his truest occupation.

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“Now among the blest; Served here 68 years.”

It is a simple statement of time, but it carries weight. Sixty-eight years of work, faith, family, struggle, and belonging. Sixty-eight years in a country that changed torrentially during his lifetime. From Reconstruction to telephones, from frontier cattle drives to early automobiles—George had lived through America’s growing pains and still managed to earn the reputation of a man who “wronged none knowingly.”

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“Weep not, loved ones; God’s purposes are accomplished.”

This line almost reads like a whisper. A reassurance. A final attempt to comfort those he left behind. His family had known hardship—unexpected deaths, young children gone too soon, and later the scattering of descendants across Texas and beyond. Standing at his grave, they would have needed the comfort of believing that none of it was senseless, and that George’s steady life had not been lived in vain.

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“Duty Calls.”

His final epitaph is short, but it is strong. It’s the kind of message that would have resonated with the Woodmen of the World organization—an order built upon mutual aid, service, and protection. But it also reflects George himself: a man who believed you did what was right simply because it was right.

Duty was not just his final call; it had been his life's calling.

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The Story the Stone Still Tells

Today, the stone remains—weathered, steadfast, quietly eloquent. Children of the family may not know his voice. His great-grandchildren may not know the sound of his footsteps or the way he laughed. But his values were carved into granite, and through them, George Washington Knight Sr. still speaks.                                  

Though silent, he speaks.
Of justice.
Of integrity.
Of a life well lived.
Of a man who left a legacy not written in books but inscribed in character—and in stone.

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All primary source information referenced was gathered from historic newspapers, U.S. census schedules, vital records, probate files, and land documents, accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, and federal archival repositories. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

©2025  Unfolding the Story Genealogy