Thomas Dodson: A Son of the Virginia Frontier

 

Thomas Dodson was born on May 15, 1681, in the wilds of Old Rappahannock County, Virginia—a time when the frontier was more forest than field, and every cleared acre was the result of grit and muscle. He was the second son of Charles Dodson and his wife, Anne, and his birth is recorded in the parish register of North Farnham Parish, which would eventually fall within Richmond County. That same parish would bear witness to his marriage, the births of his children, and, in time, his death.

In many ways, Thomas embodied the next generation of Virginia planters—taking the land his father worked hard to acquire and passing it on, expanded and cultivated, to his own sons. He married Mary Durham on August 29, 1701, a union that would bring nine children into the world, all of them born in the same rolling country his own life had unfolded upon.

The names of those children—George, David, Thomas Jr., Greenham, Alice, Mary, Abraham, Joshua, and Elisha—read like a blueprint of the early Dodson family tree that would spread westward with the generations. Some of them would settle nearby, others would carry the Dodson name into the hills of Kentucky, Tennessee, and beyond.

Thomas was a man of some standing in his community. His will, dated February 17, 1739, and proved in March of 1741, paints a portrait of a father who, like many of his time, sought to divide his legacy thoughtfully among his children. His estate included land—some of it gifted earlier by his own father, Charles—as well as beds, feather pillows, suits of clothes, and, tragically, enslaved human beings.

It is impossible to ignore this part of the story. Thomas Dodson, like many Virginia planters of the era, owned slaves. In his will, he passed down seven named individuals—Sarah, Harry, Bess, Joe, Sue, Dick, and Nan—to his children. These were people, not property, and their lives were irreversibly bound to the fortunes of the Dodson family. Their names deserve to be remembered just as surely as those of Thomas’s children.

The will also shows us glimpses of relationships: a feather bed to Elisha, the homeplace to his wife Mary for the duration of her life, land to George and Greenham. A granddaughter—David’s daughter—is left twenty shillings, suggesting a care that reached into the next generation.

In life, Thomas expanded the family holdings through a series of land transactions, including property once owned by his brother Lambarth and by others like Thomas Durham and Abraham Marshall. These transactions show a man involved in shaping the land and making provisions for his heirs.

He died on November 21, 1740, though probate of his will didn’t occur until March of the following year due to the old Julian calendar system then in use.

Today, when I walk the family line back through time, I think of Thomas as a bridge between generations. His father, Charles, helped establish the family’s place in Virginia. Thomas solidified it—marrying, raising children, building farms, and passing something on. What he passed down includes things we can be proud of and things we must remember with humility and honesty. But it’s all part of our story.

And that story now brings us to the next branch on the tree.

From the Chesapeake to the Rolling Fork: Our Family’s Westward Journey

 

For generations, our family called Southern Maryland home. Places like St. Mary’s County are etched into the roots of many Catholic families who would later help settle the bluegrass hills of Kentucky. But after the Revolutionary War, those roots began to stretch westward—across the mountains, down the rivers, and into the rough but promising land of Kentucky. Some of our ancestors were among them.

The Revolutionary War left St. Mary’s County both proud and battered. British warships prowled the Chesapeake, supplies were seized, churches burned, and many homes ransacked. While Marylanders did their part in securing liberty—some fighting from New York to Yorktown—the economic aftermath of the war hit hard. Farmland was worn, trade was slow, and opportunity was scarce.

But beyond the Appalachians lay a promise.

Kentucky had long been a hunting ground for various Indigenous tribes, but after a series of treaties—including Fort Stanwix in 1768 and negotiations with the Cherokee in 1775—settlement by white colonists became more widespread. Despite these agreements, skirmishes with Native tribes were common, particularly in the 1780s and early 1790s, and settlers had to travel and settle with great caution.

For the families leaving Maryland—many of them Catholic—Kentucky wasn’t just a land of opportunity. It was a land of freedom. In Maryland, Catholic education had been outlawed under colonial rule. In Kentucky, these families hoped to build new churches, open schools, and practice their faith more freely.

The usual route west for St. Mary’s Countians was rugged. First, it was overland to Pittsburgh, then a flatboat down the Ohio River to Maysville, and finally more overland travel to fortified “stations” near where they hoped to settle. From there, they carved out farms along creeks like Pottinger’s, Rolling Fork, and Hardin, often clearing land while living inside wooden stations for protection.

By 1792, Kentucky had become a state. That same year, the first Catholic church—just a humble log structure—was built near Rohan Knob (today’s Holy Cross). And in 1808, Bardstown became the seat of the first Catholic diocese west of the Appalachians.

Names like Mudd, Mattingly, Cissell (Cecil), Spalding, Nally, and Edelen—still common in central Kentucky—appear on the earliest settler rolls. And among them, some of our own ancestors made their way from the tobacco fields of Maryland to the salt licks and hickory forests of Kentucky. They brought with them their faith, their distilling know-how, their recipes for stuffed ham, and a resilience born from both war and hope.

When I think of these ancestors, I try to imagine what that journey must have felt like. Trading the known for the unknown. Leaving behind graves of loved ones in Maryland and pushing forward, family Bible in one hand and musket in the other. Many of them couldn’t read or write, but they could clear land, build cabins, and raise large families who would shape the communities we know today.

Their stories are not just chapters in a history book. They are the preface to our own. And while we may never know every name, every date, or every reason why they left, we can still honor their courage and conviction.

Joseph Fields: A Soldier of Brandywine and a Settler of Kentucky

 

In the twisting limbs of my family tree stands Joseph Fields, my maternal fourth great-grandfather, born in 1756 in St. Mary’s County, Maryland—a region steeped in tobacco, tradition, and Catholic faith. By the time he came of age, the rumblings of revolution were echoing through the colonies. Joseph didn’t sit out the fight. He shouldered a musket, left the fields of Maryland, and marched into history.

Joseph fought in the Battle of Brandywine on September 11, 1777, one of the largest battles of the Revolutionary War. It was there, under the command of Captain Ramsey, that Joseph joined thousands of American troops trying to block the British advance on Philadelphia. The battle ended in retreat for Washington’s army, but for men like Joseph, it was a test of resolve. They didn't fight for glory—they fought because the cause was right, and the alternative was servitude.

After the war, like many Catholic veterans from Maryland, Joseph moved westward. By the early 1800s, he had settled in Nelson County, Kentucky, near Bardstown, which was fast becoming a center for Catholic families seeking fertile ground and religious freedom. Bardstown was wild country back then—just a scattering of homesteads, rough churches, and brave souls. But it was also a place of promise, and Joseph helped shape it.

He married Elizabeth Willingham, born in 1757. Together, they likely raised children and worked the land through hardship and hope. Elizabeth passed in 1799, but Joseph lived on—outliving her and, by some accounts, several other wives. That fact alone tells you something about the toughness of life back then—and the quiet endurance of the man who kept going.

Joseph Fields lived to the remarkable age of 90, passing away in 1846. He’s buried at St. Rose Cemetery, not far from the St. Rose Priory, the first Dominican foundation in the United States. If you ever find yourself near Springfield, Kentucky, you can walk those grounds and feel the whisper of early settlers like Joseph, who laid down more than roots—they laid down legacy.

As I reflect on his life, I’m reminded that history isn’t just about famous names in textbooks. It’s also about the people whose stories live on through us. My fourth great-grandfather stood at Brandywine, carved out a life on the Kentucky frontier, and helped build a nation. I’m proud to carry his name forward—not in marble, but in memory.

John Baptist Buckman and the Catholic Hearth of Maryland

 

Roots and Branches – Theresa’s Line

In the gentle folds of Southern Maryland, where the Potomac meets the Chesapeake and the air carries the mingled scent of tidewater and tobacco, lived a man named John Baptist Buckman, born in 1690. He and his wife, Susanne Anne Smith, are among the oldest known ancestors in Theresa’s maternal line, and their story—though dimmed by time—still echoes through the roots of American Catholic heritage.

John was born into a world shaped by hope and hardship. Maryland had been founded just a few decades earlier as a refuge for English Catholics fleeing persecution. By the time of his birth, the colony was still a fragile place for Catholics, who faced increasing legal restrictions under British rule. Yet families like the Buckmans held tightly to their faith, building their homes, raising their children, and maintaining their community in spite of the challenges.

John married Susanne Anne Smith, who was born around 1692. She, too, likely came from a Catholic family of English descent, possibly tracing her lineage back to the original settlers of St. Mary’s City—the first capital of Maryland and a symbolic heart of religious freedom in early colonial America.

The Buckmans lived off the land—probably as tobacco farmers like most families in the region—on property tucked among the forests and waterways of St. Mary’s County. Their homestead may have been modest in structure, but it was strong in spirit. Theirs was a life of toil: clearing land, planting, harvesting, bartering, and raising a family in a place that could be as beautiful as it was unforgiving.

Though records from that time are scarce, John and Susanne likely had many children, and their descendants spread throughout the region and beyond. By the late 1700s, many of the Buckman children and grandchildren had joined the westward movement of Catholic families migrating from Maryland to Kentucky—particularly to Nelson County near Bardstown, where they established a new Catholic stronghold on the frontier.

Susanne’s death date is unknown, but family tradition holds that she may have outlived her husband by decades. If so, she would have seen dramatic changes sweep through the colonies—from the tightening grip of British rule to the first whispers of revolution.

Today, their names rest quietly in the dust of history books and the fading ink of church registers, but John and Susanne’s legacy lives on—not just in Theresa and her maternal line, but in the deep-rooted values of faith, perseverance, and family that defined early Maryland settlers.

From Kent to the Colonies: The Story of John and Sarah Vowels

Roots and Branches Series – Theresa’s Family Line

In the early 1600s, England was a land of uncertainty—civil wars brewing, religious tensions rising, and the future of the Crown itself hanging in the balance. But amidst the struggle and shifting tides of power, there were those who chose to look west, across the cold Atlantic, toward the promise of a new beginning.

One of those was John Vowels, born around 1610–1620 in the southern reaches of England—possibly in Kent, where the chalky cliffs meet the sea. Like many men of his time, John likely came of age during an era of political turmoil, where opportunities were scarce for common folk unless they were willing to risk everything on the unknown.

And risk he did.

At some point in the 1630s or early 1640s, John boarded a ship bound for the young colony of Maryland, a place only recently granted to Lord Baltimore and chartered as a haven for English Catholics and other dissenters. Maryland was wild and raw, thick with forests and marshes, but it offered land—and freedom—if one could endure the hardships.

John settled in St. Mary’s County, one of the first English communities in the region. It was here, in the fertile tidewaters of the Chesapeake Bay, that he began to lay down roots—not just in the soil, but in the records of history. He married a woman named Sarah Scott, born around 1620, perhaps also from England, perhaps already in the colony when they met. They married around 1645, when Maryland was still little more than a scattering of farms and tobacco fields stitched together by rutted trails and parish lines.

Together, John and Sarah raised their children on this edge of civilization. We don’t know much about their daily life—what they grew, how they worshiped, or what they feared—but we can imagine the rhythm of their days: dawns marked by chores and prayers, evenings by firelight and hope. We know they had at least one son, Richard Vowles, born around 1658, who would carry the family name forward into the next century of American life.

John passed away in 1660, having spent perhaps only 20 or so years in the New World—but those were years of foundation. His widow Sarah lived until 1692, witnessing the colony mature, as Maryland’s population grew and her grandchildren found their way in a world still shaped by English custom, yet increasingly American in spirit.

Their story is quiet—not written in battle records or royal grants—but it’s foundational nonetheless. In a land that would one day call itself the United States, John and Sarah Vowels were among the earliest to come, to build, and to endure.

And from their courage and toil, generation by generation, came a family that now stretches into the present day—including Theresa, whose maiden name still echoes the surname of that long-ago Kentish man who once dared to cross an ocean.

From the Tidewater Frontier: The Story of Charles Dodson (1649–1706)

Approximate Location of Charles Dodson Plantation

By Ron Dodson – Roots and Branches

Long before the Dodson name took root in the farmland of Kentucky or echoed down Indiana country roads, it began on the edge of the American frontier—in the tidewaters of colonial Virginia.

Charles Dodson, born in 1649, lived during a time when the wilderness still pushed against the edge of English settlement. He made his mark along Totuskey Creek in Old Rappahannock County, Virginia—now part of modern Richmond County. There, Charles didn’t just scratch out a living. He built a legacy.

In 1679, records show Charles leasing land from Peter Elmore—enough for three working men, a home, and a tobacco barn. Over time, he acquired hundreds of acres, spread across richly named parcels like Rich Neck, Oak Neck, Hickory Neck, and Indian Cabin Neck. He established what was then called a “new dwelling plantation,” likely the family’s main homestead. Charles was more than a planter—he was a builder of place and presence.

Old Rappahannock County, Virginia

He married a woman named Ann—possibly Ann Elmore—and together they raised a large family. Sons like Thomas, Charles Jr., William, Bartholomew Richard, and John, and daughters including Anne, Elizabeth, and Lambeth, carried the Dodson name into future generations.

Life along the Rappahannock wasn’t all peaceful. Charles was once accused of forcible entry onto another man’s land—an early reminder that land and legacy often came at a price in colonial Virginia. Still, he served as a juror, a community appraiser, and a man of standing. By the time he died in early 1706, he had left not only land but also a deep imprint on the world around him.

His son Thomas, born in 1681, married Mary Durham in 1701. Mary’s parents, Thomas Durham and Dorothy Smoot, were also landowners and figures of note. Through Thomas and Mary, the Dodson line would flourish, expand westward, and in time, reach the Dodson's of Kentucky, Indiana, and eventually—me.

What Charles and Ann Dodson probably never imagined was that more than 300 years later, a descendant of theirs would be sitting at a computer, tracing their names through digital records and writing their story. But that’s exactly what I’m doing—and I think they’d be pleased to know they’re not forgotten.

As I begin this journey through my family’s past, I’ve decided not to start with my parents and work backward, as many do. Instead, I’m choosing to start with Charles—the earliest known Dodson in my line—and work forward. It seems fitting to follow the path they cleared, from frontier tobacco farms to modern living rooms, one generation at a time.

Because, in the end, our roots don’t just run deep—they also reach forward.