A Jones Family History... The Beginning

The following story is a chapter of my family’s history. Some of the names have been changed, but the stories are all true or as true as they have been told to me. Enjoy.

Hello, my name is J. Bryan Jones, but most people just call me Bryan. I’d like to introduce you to the characters and stories that I call my family history. The next couple of weeks we’ll focus on my father’s family, but don’t worry, we’ll get to my mother’s soon enough. But before I begin to tell you their stories allow me to introduce them briefly. We will start with my great-grand parents on my dad’s side; the Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur and his wife the Marquise Vivien Beaucoeur. Reynaud was born in 1893 in Marseille, France and Vivien in 1899 in Paris, France. They had two children my grandmother Rosalilé, who was born in 1918, and her older brother Victor, who was born in 1916. Both of these children were born on our family estates in Provence, France.

My grandfather Jackson Jones was born in 1910 in Augusta, Georgia. My grandmother and father had 11 children including my father; from the eldest to youngest: Jackson Jr. (1935), Savannah (‘36), James (Feb.’37), Elisabet (Dec. ’37), Reynold (’39), Samuel (’40), Peter and his twin sister, Sherry (May ’41), Reginald (’42) (my father), Perry (’52), and Lily (’57). From these children only seven grandchildren were produced. Sherry’s daughter Jennifer (1979), Reynold’s two children Richard (1983) and Katrina (1993), Savannah’s two children Tobias (1987) and Alicia (1989), Lily’s son Oliver (1997), and of course me (1985). Now that you know the players, let me tell you the stories.

My family’s lineage is old; our family claims to be entitled nobility since before the French Revolutionary War. Whether or not that is true, I am unsure and couldn’t verify it without plenty of old birth certificates and family Bibles. But what is true is that after the Bourbon Restoration ended in 1848 following Napoleon being ousted from power, there was a decree for previously entitled French nobles to reclaim their titles. Only about 300 or so families in the entire country did that; one of them of course being mine.

You see we apparently curried enough favor, or licked enough boots, whichever, to earn a marquisate in the South of France in the region known as Provence. I have never been there for reasons which will become quite obvious later on. But from what I hear it is quite beautiful, as most of the South of France is. For those of you who don’t know you’re French Peerage and nobility, a Marquis is a step below a Duc (Duke in English) but above a Count. So without being royalty it is the second highest title one could have held in France. While that is all fine and dandy, it is ABSOLUTELY worthless.

After the French Revolution the monarchy and all royalty was abolished. Napoleon reinstated a form of nobility, but when the House of Bourbon fell in 1848 nobility and noble titles were banished. However, a group of people known as the “Ultra-Royalist,” which is simply code for rich white men who didn’t want to give up power got a decree passed in 1852 that anyone who could prove with the appropriate documentation that they used have an official title as a Peer of the realm was able to claim that title after being sanctioned by the French government. However, it simply meant you could go around calling yourself Duc or Marquis, but there was absolutely no power associate with the title.

My great-great grandfather decided that he could not do without his title and petitioned the French government to allow him to use the title Marquis du Beaucoeur. Apparently he had the paperwork to back-up his claim and he got to use the title. Which passed down through primogeniture, meaning the eldest male inherited the title regardless of who was the eldest child, unless the only heir was female, and then the French government allowed the title to pass to her. Remember the purpose was to preserve old, rich white MEN’s power. Nonetheless, this was how my great-grandfather found himself Marquis Reynaud Beaucoeur.

Sorry about the French history and politics lesson, but it was necessary to understand where my family comes from. It provides some small context to the bizarreness that they exhibit later on. When my great grandmother Vivien was married to Reynaud, she was only 16. Her family, were moderately well-off business people, who thought that the monarchy was coming back and figured it would make sense to marry their only daughter off to someone with some sort of title in front of their name. At this point Reynaud was 22 and overseeing the family’s vineyard. Oh yes, I forgot to mention the estates in Provence make their money off of wine and olive oil.

Like any profession that is tied to the land, even the wealthy sometime experience hard-years. Apparently 1915 was one of those years. The Great War had just broken out (WWI) and Europe was basically a mess. Reynaud’s family needed the money that Vivien’s family were going to provide and poof my great grandparents found themselves hitched, and probably without as much as a “would you like this” from either of their parents. Fast-forward three or so years and along comes my grandmother Rosalilé, born just about the end of WWI, Rosalilé got to experience firsthand America’s rise to “superpowerdom.”

Apparently, mind you I’m hearing this 4th hand, since I’ve never met Rosalilé, but apparently she was a stubborn and strong-willed girl. Rosalilé wanted to experience life and etc. etc. all things proper French girls of that time shouldn’t be doing. She never cared too much for poetry or music, or husband hunting. In fact she didn’t even, prepare yourself, care about wine and oil-making! *Gasp*! Scandalous! Her parents, being absolutely fed-up with her shenanigans, completely ignored her and concentrated all their efforts on her elder brother granduncle Victor. Uncle Victor at least showed an interest in the family business, and also a knack for oppressing the working class grape-pickers at the vineyard, which probably earned him bonus points.

There is this darling story about Uncle Victor and a worker. Apparently it was grape harvest time, which is arguably busy, but this worker had the nerve to tell Uncle V that he had a young wife who had a fallen ill with consumption and he would like to leave early to spend time saying his goodbye since it was likely she was going to kick the bucket. Again, this is 4th hand, since I’ve never met Uncle Victor either, but my generous Uncle listened to the man’s story, with seeming pity. Then proceeded to tell him that since his wife was going to be dead very soon anyway, there was no point in him leaving to spend time with her. Instead he should continue to pick grapes because he knew “de quel côté son pain est beurré sur”, which side his bread was buttered on. He could either spend time with his dying wife or actually have a job to support himself. Obviously the choice was self-evident to my uncle; after all, his wife was dying anyway, what good was she compared to paying job. Understandably the worker didn’t agree, causing my benevolent and merciful uncle to chase him, literally CHASE him, off the estate wielding a riding crop. Mind you this was not a short run to the front door; the vineyard is probably about 120,000 ACRES, which is around 187.5 Sq. MILES!!! Yes, it probably wasn’t the entire length of the vineyard, and he probably didn’t chase him the entire way. But just imagine even part of that distance being chased by a crazy man with a leather whip. Note how the crazy continues.

Either way, while her brother was chasing poor farmhands, my grandmother was falling more and more in love with this new land of opportunity called America. So she does what any logical 16 year old does. She runs away! Yep, she runs away to a country where she didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the culture, didn’t know the people, oh and let’s not forget HAD NO MONEY. Because in her brilliance she decides to pack her suitcase, probably full of poofy dresses and hats, boards an ocean liner in Marseilles and sales across the ocean with barely enough money for her ticket and hopefully a meal or two.

But, be it by Luck, Providence, or Divine Intervention this particular ocean liner was bound not for New York like most were, but it was bound for the quaint colonial city of Savannah, Georgia. Where, as Luck/Providence/God would have it, my grandfather Jackson Jones was working as a longshoreman. And this, my friends, is where my family history truly begins…

If you like this story, want to know more about my family, or simply want to hear more about French history tune back in next week.