Life Sketch of Philemon Vawter Crawford

Have you ever stumbled across a personal biography in your genealogy research? These first-hand accounts can be rare treasures, offering insight that official records alone can’t provide. While working to untangle a mix-up on the FamilySearch tree—where two different John Maxwells had been merged together—I rediscovered such a gem: a biography of the Crawford family preserved in the book The Vawter Family in America.

Within the section on Lucy (Vawter) Crawford is an 1882 narrative written by her husband, Philemon Vawter Crawford. In this remarkable first-person account, Philemon not only reflects on his own life but also shares details about his grandfather, James Crawford, providing us with a vivid glimpse into both family history and the broader events of their time.

LIFE SKETCH OF PHILEMON VAWTER CRAWFORD
(Written by himself in 1882)
James Crawford, my grandfather on my father’s side, was born in 1759 and reared on or near James River, Virginia, and at the age of sixteen years volunteered in what was known as the Virginia line and served three years in the Revolutionary War. He afterward was a volunteer in the war of 1812. He married, and they reared eight children, three sons and five daughters. My father, James Maxwell Crawford, was the oldest son. He was born March 3, 1790, in Jared county, Kentucky, where my grandfather had removed among the earliest settlers, and endured all the privations and hardships of frontier life, my grandmother having her full share in the troubles.
But to hasten the story: My grandfather, James Crawford, from Jared county, Kentucky, removed to Harrison county, Indiana, in 1811, when my father was twenty-one years old, and settled on a farm near Corydon, where my grandfather died.
My grandfather, Philemon Vawter, was also born in Virginia, and served in the Revolutionary War, under Washington, and was a soldier at Yorktown. My father often told me how in the early times he had seen a grill dance in the Indian marches. They afterward moved from the state of Virginia to Kentucky, and became acquainted. They removed from Kentucky to Jefferson county, Indiana, in the year 1807, and here my father and mother were married December, 1812. My mother’s name was Lucy Vawter, and my father and mother reared ten children—myself the oldest, born September 24, 1814.

This genealogy is given from memory, but I believe correct so far as given.
My grandfather Crawford and family belonged to the Presbyterian Church, but renounced their creed under the reformation of Barton W. Stone, my father being the only one who did not unite with the Christian Church. Being of an excitable temperament, he finally drifted into the Methodist Church.
My grandfather Vawter was a Baptist preacher, and his family were all members of that order except my mother and two of her brothers, who adopted the early reformation under B. W. Stone. The two brothers, Richard and Beverly, became Christian preachers.
When I advanced far enough in my early education to read, the Bible was our main school book, and in the New Testament I got my first lessons in Christianity, and thereby was led to embrace it very young. I have lived it sincerely, though I must confess imperfectly, ever since. It has been the dearest thought of my soul. I never expected to appear in the likeness of Christ’s manhood, but must appear in the likeness of His death. I have tried to live up to the golden rule as near as possible, though far short I have come.
As life, with its varied scenes, has been like all other men’s lives, we find here a little pleasure but much affliction and sorrow, and the most of the afflictions are the loss of dear friends and near and dear relatives. During life I have seen many precious friends consigned to the silent tomb.
Becoming favorably impressed with the descriptions of Oregon, I, with my family, emigrated from Jefferson county, Indiana, in 1853, and landed safe in Lane county, Oregon, with my wife and family, and several other families with whom we traveled, some of them named Sanders, St. Johns, Maxwell and Stroud. We left Jeffersonville, Indiana, April 1st, and arrived safe in Lane county, Oregon, September 28th, after traveling six months and nearly one week.
My family at that time consisted of myself, wife and five children, the oldest fourteen, the youngest four years of age. We made the long and tedious journey of two thousand miles with ox teams in just one hundred and fifty-two days. When we—

we arrived in Oregon we found the Willamette valley more than we had looked for, and all we could desire, and we are yet, after twenty-one years residence here, satisfied that there is no more favored spot on the earth.
The generation in which I have lived is one that will form an important chapter in the world’s history. The application of steam to vessels, the railway when I was nine years old, the first known to exist, left only as a useless principle in history. Our progress in the last half a century is more than the world ever before witnessed. Telegraph wires vibrate lightning thought, and the prairies, mountains and even the almost trackless snow are now traversed by steam engines. Human audacity has tunneled mountains and bridled Southern gulfs. For six thousand years the multiplied millions of its waters a gigantic rebellion has been indulged until within the last quarter of a century the thunders ceased to roll. The war clouds have lifted, and the sunshine of peace is over the land. I have lived to see the great rebellion inaugurated, and witnessed the crimson of its first wave and the triumphal overshading of the crimson at four years’ end, but the agony of its retributional consequences must ever linger on the pages of time here.
I enjoyed the morning of life. I witnessed the gathering storm and lived through the great conflict. I am still spared, but I now realize that I should not regard the African slavery, if it had not ended as it did with regard to its abolition, would still be an unsettled question and menace our government.

Philemon Vawter Crawford’s reflections remind us how invaluable personal writings can be in genealogy. His words not only preserve the details of his own life and family but also provide a window into the struggles, faith, and resilience of earlier generations. As researchers, we may spend much of our time piecing together facts from records, but when we encounter a voice speaking directly from the past, it deepens our understanding of both the people and the times in which they lived.