As I sit here, beginning to write this post, it’s 11:20 on Friday night.  In 40 minutes, it will be Saturday, November 2, the birthday of my great-grandmother, Eliza Jane (Lee) Ritter.  She was born in Douglas County, Missouri, in 1876, so it will be her 137th birthday.

I never had the honor of meeting her, as she died in July of 1954, 10 years before I was born. But I have learned so much about her, and about her legacy, that I wish I could have spent hours in her presence.

For many years, all I knew about her was that she was born Eliza Jane Lee, married my great grandfather Simon Ritter in January of 1894, and had four children that lived, including my grandfather, Simon Orville Ritter. I have a few pictures of her, including one which I suspect to be her wedding picture in 1894, shown above.  It’s a tintype, with her sitting there, arm in arm with Simon.  They both have a bit of a bewildered look on their faces.  Another tintype, taken a few years later, shows Eliza standing, her hand resting on Simon’s shoulder, as he is seated next to her.  Another photo is of her standing next to her brother Mose. They both appear to be in the 30s or 40s in that picture. Another photo is a big family photo, with her standing behind Simon, both of them obviously in their later years.  The last photo I have of her was taken shortly before her death, standing with my grandfather and her daughter, Dora.

My dad spoke of her once, many years ago, and he just remembered her being a bit of a chatterbox.  He said she talked all the time, following her parents around their house, talking constantly.

But just recently, I acquired a videotape of Dad’s cousin Jack, a man who I love dearly and respect, sitting in front of a videocamera telling stories of his childhood and things he remembers about the Ritter family. One subject he spends a lot of time talking about is dear old Eliza Jane.

Jack remembers her very differently compared to Dad’s memories.  It makes sense, as he spent many more hours around Eliza than my dad ever did, since she lived with Jack and his parents after her husband Simon died.  Jack’s dad, Richard, built her a little home on his property and helped care for her.

Jack tells of Eliza being a great storyteller. He said he could sit in front of her for hours and listen to her tell stories. He said she had a certain way of telling her stories, to draw you in, make you become part of it. And if you’ve ever heard a true great storyteller spin a tale, you know what Jack is talking about.  The way they use inflection in their voice, use great gestures with their arms, create great expressions on their faces, they can drag the listener into the story and take them along for the ride. Eliza was just such a storyteller.

There is one particular story, Jack said, that he never grew tired of. It was the story about when Eliza’s mother, along with a young Eliza and her siblings, were all chased by a mountain lion, or panther, as they called them back in those days. He said he knew the story by heart, but always asked her to tell it, just so that he could hear her and enjoy the way she told it.

So, in honor of my dear Eliza’s birthday, I’m going to attempt to tell The Panther Story, as I believe she would have told it:

“It was a hot and sticky August evening. You know the kind, where you sweat and you stay wet because the humidity is so high, and the dust sticks to you. It was that kind of evening, and all of us kids were outside, running around with Mama as she picked some vegetables for dinner. There were carrots and green beans, tomatoes and turnips.  She held all those delicious things in her apron as she held it out in front of her.

Us kids were running around, pestering each other. Mose kept tossing rocks at me, and I’d throw them back. I was a better shot, and I hit him good a couple of times.

Suddenly, in the midst of all that ruckus, we heard a panther scream.  Have you ever heard the scream of a panther? You may not have. They don’t roam the area like they used to.  When I was a little girl, you could hear them scream in the middle of the night and it would send shivers up your spine and make you hide under the covers.

Mama called us all to her, and we ran and clung to her skirt, looking around to see where the cat was.  Mama told us to hush, so that she could listen. The panther screamed again, and we could tell it was close, too close to the house for us to get there.

Mama said, “Kids, let’s try to get to Uncle David’s”. So off we ran. Uncle David, Mama’s brother, lived just across the holler, and we took out like lightning, trying to stay quiet as we ran.  We knew Uncle David would take care of us.  He wasn’t afraid of anything! He’d kill any animal with his bare hands if he had to.  And he had enormous hands!

So we took off running, with Mama trailing behind.  She dropped her vegetables for the cat, a few at a time, to make the cat stop and smell the food, to buy us time to run.

Well sir, soon she ran out of vegetables to leave behind.  So thinking fast, Mama started tearing little scraps of her apron off and leaving them for the cat, hoping her scent would make the big cat stop.  Sure enough, that ole cat would stop, sniff the scrap, then start running after us again.

Mama kept shouting at us, telling us to hurry up and run faster, and kept tearing scraps of her apron off.

We got to the gate at Uncle David’s house and started screaming for him as we opened the gate and ran into his yard.  Uncle David was on the porch, and stood up as soon as he saw us coming. When he heard we were being chased by a panther, he turned and looked for his gun. It wasn’t on the porch, and he wasn’t of a mind to go looking for it, so he just reached over to the woodpile and grabbed his hatchet and ran toward the gate, just as Mama reached it.

She was exhausted, and was down to her last scrap of cloth from that old apron.  She fell into David’s arms, and told him where the cat was. David told her to grab the kids and go inside, and he would take care of it.  So with nothing but an old hatchet, David ran toward the direction of the big cat.

Later he came back, his hatchet all bloodied, and his arms all scratched up and bleeding. But he got the panther. And he praised Mama for her quick thinking.

If my Mama hadn’t started tearing those scraps of cloth from her apron, that old cat would have caught her for sure, and then would have come after us.”

And that is The Panther Story, as I imagine she would have told it. It’s a true story, and David Lee, Eliza’s uncle, really did kill the panther with just a hatchet.  Jack said according to Eliza, David Lee was a mountain of a man, and wasn’t scared of anything. And Eliza’s mother, Nancy Ann (Marler) Lee, really did delay the panther with strips torn off her apron, and the apron really was almost gone by the time they reached David’s place.

So thanks, dear Eliza Jane (Lee) Ritter, for the stories you told, as I believe the storytelling to be your legacy. And thanks for somehow passing your storytelling along to me, as it is certainly my passion.

Happy Birthday, dear lady. And thank you.