The Train Station

I'm going to post this, even thought it's not finished and I'm still not sure of all the facts.  But I need to post.

It was a dreary day in 1871 when Anne Gilbert Snyder Munger accompanied her husband, Henry Elias Munger, to the railroad station in Alton, Illinois.  After a tumultuous six years of marriage, Henry left her and her three children, and fled to Texas.  It was the last time she would ever see him, another casualty of the War Between the States.  Anne was a devout Catholic, so divorce was out of the question.

Munger graduated from Union College in Schenectady, New York as a sergeant, 1st lt., Company A. in 1861,   He returned home two years later with the 18th New York Infantry as a company commander, and acting adjutant.  

As a civilian after the war, Munger went to work for the commissary department in Illinois.  On November13, 1865, he married Anne Gilbert Snyder.  Henry and Anne had three children ⏤ their eldest  a daughter, Anne Lucy, followed by  two sons, Henry and Carlton. Henry Elias moved his family numerous times in search of railway jobs, which he quickly lost due to his drinking.  

While living in Hannibal, Anne could take no more of his drinking, took the children and left him.  That day at the train station, he was so drunk, she was nearly paralyzed with fear that he would collapse on a train track and be run over.  But she watched him totter onto a train headed for Texas.   Finally, she turned around and without looking back, returned home to collect her things and moved with her daughter, Anne Lucy, to be closer to family. 

After Henry Elias’ departure, his brothers, William and Lyman took the boys in, cared for them and educated them. Anne and her daughter then moved to Alton, Illinois in order for her to be closer to her family. One of her boys, Henry Snyder, lived with Lyman and Carlton lived with William. She never saw Henry again. 

Around 1885 while on a round trip cruise from St. Louis, Anne Lucy met Anchor Steam Lines purser, William Howard Pritchartt.  Pritchartt had fallen in love with the City of Natchez, Mississippi, and bought two lots on the tall bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, married Anne Lucy, built a home and raised a family there.  Around 1910, Anne Snyder Munger moved to Natchez to live with her daughter and their family.

To be fair, Munger probably suffered from PTSD. The Civil War was anything but civil, and he'd been in skirmishes and seen things that no one should have to see.  He started out as a fresh-faced young man with fair skin and an open, friendly, handsome face.

According to a passage from The18th New York Infantry in the Civil War:  A History and a Roster by Ryan A. Conklin, McFarland & Co., Inc., Publishers, 2016, Munger landed in Texas and became a vagabond, wandering all over the state looking for work.  He continued to drink and was described by saloon regulars as "ugly and quarrelsome" when drunk.  His last known whereabouts was in Beaumont, TX in 1901, where he failed to pick up his last pension check.  It was assumed that he had died, but how is not known.  His grave can be found in Lufkin, Texas in a pauper's cemetery called Strangers' Rest Cemetery where a small stone plaque  displays the names of known burials from early records.  On that plaque one can find the name, Harry E. Munger.

It took many years of going to the Congressional Library to find when he had died before she was finally able to get her "widder's mite,"  veterans' benefits for the widows of those who'd served.

For pictures of and stories about the house on the bluff, see https://shantybellum.blogspot.com/2011/09/long-farewell.html

Upon arriving in Natchez, Anne had two or three possessions that were valuable.  She was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln, and, as such, had received a handwritten invitation to his inauguration.  Lincoln was one of those rare people, especially in such early days, to be a celebrity in his own time, and anything signed or written by him was worth its weight in gold.  Lincoln had written to her to personally invite her to his inauguration, which she dutifully kept, but later lost.  She was known as a terrible housekeeper and may have simply thrown it away accidentally. We looked in places she might've hidden the invitation to prevent theft, and upon taking the back off of the following photo, was excited to see a partial address on Pennsylvania Avenue.  It did not turn out to be the lost invitation; however, we discovered it is an original Matthew Brady photo, whose studio was on Pennsylvania Avenue.

H.S. Munger by Matthew Brady

H.S. Diary

She had her husband's Civil-War journal and a large book of paintings of American Indians, which she later sold.

She also had in her possession her brother's (Joseph Baker) naval commission, which he received in 1861, after having enlisted without his father's knowledge or permission.  

He was appointed in June, 1861, as lieutenant in the Marine Corps.  The commission, which is still extant, was signed by Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy and Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States.

He commanded the marine detachment that served the quarterdeck pivot gun on board the U.S.S. Congress during the historic battle at Hampton Roads in March, 1862.  The Confederates had seized the Union's ironclad, Merrimac, and sank the wooden Union ships Congress and Cumberland,  making wooden fighting ships forever obsolete.  He escaped the sinking Congress, however, and was described by a correspondent for the New York Herald thusly:  

"This young officer was twenty-one years of age on the evening before the battle, and is said to have conducted himself with unusual bravery and coolness."

Baker had also fought in the first battle of Bull Run, in which he was badly wounded and carried off the battlefield by his brother, John Pope Baker, who was a Cavalry officer.  He served through the war and rose to the rank of captain.  He was found dead in his quarters at the Marine Barracks, Boston Naval Yard, October 2, 1876, from the effects of Yellow Fever contracted during the war.

William Howard Pritchartt, Jr. R.I.P.

William Howard Pritchartt, Jr., 86, died March 5, at 1 a.m. at Natchez Community Hospital after a brief illness.

Mr. Pritchartt was born April 14, 1926, at the Natchez Sanitorium and attended Natchez Schools.

At the age of 18, Pritchartt volunteered to join the army during World War II, where he served in intelligence and reconnaissance.  He traveled to Europe on the Queen Mary and had many memories of his exploits overseas. 

Pritchartt was an entrepreneur.  Although he studied at the University of Mississippi, at Washington & Lee and at Amherst in preparation for his appointment at West Point, he left early to begin his career as a realtor and developer.  With partners and friends Paul Green, George Guido, and Waldo Lambdin, he developed several subdivisions, including Broadmoor and Pineview Subdivisions, and the Trees.  He also was involved in the development of Woodhaven next to Trinity Episcopal School and La Grange Subdivision near Liberty Road.

Pritchartt was instrumental in creating Trinity Episcopal School, visiting schools all across the country to learn about how to build a proper educational institution.  He also donated the land and built the main building on Highway 61 South.

Pritchartt’s life was defined not only by his children but his love of the outdoors and, in particular, of the Mississippi River, where he spent his youth with friends rowing the river, camping on sandbars, hunting, fishing and enjoying all that nature had to offer.  His love of the river was inspired by his father, who often took him and his friends on expeditions up and down the river.

His other great love was for his children with whom he spent nearly every weekend on the river in a cabin he built for that purpose.  With them, he showed them the outdoor life: fishing, swimming, hunting, boating, and riding horses through the woods – an opportunity few children shared.  He shared with them his time, his attention and his help, both emotionally and financially. 

He will always be remembered for his kindness in mentoring other businessmen and entrepreneurs and his overwhelming love and concern for other creatures.  Throughout his life he had numerous pets – cats, dogs, and chickens, and fed and protected the wild creatures that lived on his property near Kingston Road. 

Related posts:

A Man in Full

The Weight of Water

Army Humor

Road Trip

Howard's Revenge

Daddy

Adventures in World War II and Pritchartt Recalls Life of Boating on the Mississippi River

The Shanty-Boater

Balls of Steel

A Hollow Space

Army Humor

My father, Howard Pritchartt, Jr., volunteered for the army when he was 18 years old.  He was in intelligence and reconnaissance in France and Germany.  In preparation for his service, he was sent to Amherst, Massachussetts, where he made a name for himself as somewhat of a prankster.

He began drawing cartoons of the officers there and posting them secretly at night when no one was around, raising the ire of those portrayed.  I think he was pretty darned good and may have missed his calling as a cartoonist.

This is the only one not done at Amherst.  On the back it reads, "Europe Jan 45 - Aug 46

A Man in Full

My father died on March 5.  I invited my old friend Brent Bourland to give the eulogy.  He'd known him for years, and seemed to have an innate understanding of my father's personality and character.  They both seemed to share the same joy of life, love of the outdoors and grabbing life by the horns and enjoying the ride.  And they both seem ageless, youth refusing to leave them be.  This is the eulogy Brent gave, which was beautiful, heartfelt and eloquent.  Thank you, Brent.

A MAN IN FULL, Howard Pritchartt was A MAN IN FULL.

As I look around, almost everyone in this room has had the good fortune to be a part of Natchez and its rich past and continuing history.  But very few of us have had the great fortune to be the ultimate insider and also a dedicated and stubborn outsider.  Howard Pritchartt chose that course.  You could say that Howard was born a Natchez blueblood with Mississippi river mud in his soul. 

Having been born into one of the "oldest" families in Natchez, Howard, as a boy, was welcome walking into the back door of Stanton Hall and then getting out of there as fast as he could to go look for adventure in the mud on the banks of his great friend the River.

Howard was comfortable with the powerful of Natchez, whom he loved to skewer with relish at every opportunity but he was really in his World with his many friends Under the Hill, like Joe Remondet and Steve Stevens, as well as George Guido, Johnny Ogden, Lucius Butts, Neville Marshall and a host of others I can’t recall off the top of my head. .................... 

Howard kept his beloved boats tied to Steve's makeshift barge Under the Hill with its walkway made of old boards, oil drums and cables.  How it stayed afloat and tied to the willow trees along the bank we'll never understand.   Howard would grab Joe and Steve and any other handy river rat and head out for a day on the river, a bunch of overgrown Huck Finns, just glad to be alive.  Howard was always alive, very, very alive.  You could also count on a big fish fry of river blue cats when they got back.  Life was good for Howard and his many friends, Howard made sure of that. Howard shared.

I can still see Howard walking in the unlocked back door to the President's Office of City Bank and Trust Company.  Ethel would shout, "Leslie, Howard's here", (that was the intercom of the day) and Leslie Carpenter would shout, "Well, tell him to come on back", of course by that time Howard was already sitting down in front of the desk.  Five minutes later a financial transaction would be struck on a handshake and paper work might or might not be done later.  These were men of character, along with many others of their day, and they knew each other and they knew that they were good for their word.

Howard shared. Few people knew all the many quiet kindnesses that Howard made happen.  If a man needed a handy job to feed his kids, Howard seemed to find one for him.  If someone was behind on her rent, well, somehow it just got taken care of.  If a kid needed a little help getting through school, Howard had a way of making that happen, most of the time without them ever knowing who or how.  Howard Shared.

Howard was a protector and he could be fierce and he could intimidate when he needed to.  Just try being a young man trying to get anywhere near one of his two daughters.  I’m surprised either one of them ever got a date before they were 25 years old. 

My first real memory of Howard was going to pick Elodie up at her house on Linton Avenue to take her to the King’s Ball.  It was about dusk but Howard was in the yard watering the lawn, he didn’t speak when I walked by.  When Elodie and I came back down the sidewalk, long dress and tux, Howard causally turned the water hose on us and made his feelings clearly known.  That is my daughter and you watch it boy. (You might also add he laughed his ass off as he did it while we fumed)  It was clear, Howard Pritchartt was not a man to be crossed.  Howard would do whatever it took to protect what he loved most, his family.

A few years later on a hot, steamy summer day, a bunch of us were over at Howard’s place on old river.  I wasn’t sure Howard was very pleased to have me there.  After a while Howard said he needed help with a fishtrap out in the river and asked me to go out and check it.  It was about 100 feet off the bank in about 4 feet of muddy water.  I wasn’t crazy about the idea but it really wasn’t a request; it was more of an order.  It was a test and we both knew it.  Howard wanted to know what kind of a man you were.  He already knew what kind he was.  So out I went deeper and deeper over my waist.  I got to the trap and got a grip on the big homemade fishtrap and lifted up out of the water to eye level.  I was face to face with the biggest snake on the entire Mississippi river.   It was just a water snake, and drowned, but big as an anaconda, especially face to face.  Howard knew it was in there.  I flunked the hell out of that test.  You might say Howard and I had a little rocky start.  But I think I really learned how to swim really fast that day. 

Howard loved and pursued life with a passion, a fierce passion.  Howard was fit and he made sure he stayed that way because that gave him the physical presence to pursue all of his life's many passions.  When most men in their 60s, 70s or even 80s are taking it easy, winding down, looking for a rocking chair, not Howard. You were likely to find him on his side porch, drenched in sweat, on his Olympic bench press lifting more weights than a man in his twenties.  Howard hated old age and he fought it.  He fought it fiercely.  No man will ever win that fight and Howard knew that but it didn’t keep him from fighting it at every turn.  And he damn near won.  After all Howard Pritchartt was A MAN IN FULL.  

Delivered March 9, 2013 at the funeral of William Howard Pritchartt, Jr. by Brent Bourland.

Howard's Revenge

Pictured from left, back row:   Howard Pritchartt, Jr.; Devereux Marshall; Elizabeth Patterson; Bubba Patterson; Sophie Junkin; Mimi Brown; Neville Marshall
Seated, from left, front row: Alma Kellogg, Andree Benoist, Sally Junkin 
The identity of the woman in the photo is unknown.  I do wish I knew who she was.  She's got the sweetest expression on her face, and should be recognized for playing the role so well.  She's a good sport, to boot.

Utter the name "Katherine Miller" in Natchez, and the reactions you get vary wildly. She's either the patron saint of Natchez or evil incarnate. Sometimes both. But you have to give the old girl credit, for it was Katherine Miller who spearheaded the formation of the Natchez Pilgrimage, which saved this town from certain doom.

During the 1930s, Katherine traveled the country with a projector slideshow of antebellum homes, inviting prospective visitors to see how the Old South used to live. Because of the success of her campaign and the cooperation and efforts of the other ladies in town, people who were barely eking by during the Great Depression were able to hang onto their homes in Natchez.

For over sixty years, she ruled Natchez society engendering fear, admiration, adoration and loathing in equal measures. Under her direction, grown men were persuaded to dress up like Southern planters and dance the Soiree for strangers. They even allowed their wives to smear rouge and lipstick on their sons, and dress them in lace and knickers and ballet shoes to dance around a Maypole with little girls in hoopskirts.

Sure, for the rest of the year they wore camouflage, slapped each other on the back, broke wind, hunted wild game, played football and talked about the price of oil. But March belonged to the women. No disgrace was too demeaning to keep them from following the orders of the matriarchs of Natchez.


When General Douglas MacArthur visited Natchez after World War II, a photographer captured a photo of him being told to look at the camera by The Mighty Katherine Miller. She was a'scared of nobody, and her legacy lives on even now as every year March comes in like the lion....or lioness, and goes out like the lamb.

It was under the shadow of this matriarchal monopoly that my father, Howard Pritchartt, spent his childhood. His mother, Bessie Rose, was Katherine's sister, and boy, was she disappointed when her only child wasn’t the girl she’d always wanted. She'd had visions of playing dress-up with a beautiful little girl. Not to worry. Bessie Rose decided she'd dress him any way she darned well pleased, and that's exactly what she did.


Every morning she'd send young Master Howard off to school in a sailor suit or Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, where he'd get beaten up for wearing sissy clothes. When he got home, she would rage at him because he'd ruined his outfit. He remembers one incident, in particular, when she ripped off his jacket and started jumping up and down on it in a fit of fury as he backed away, awed and terror stricken.

Like my great aunt Katherine, Bessie Rose worshiped at the altar of high society, and for her, every night was a party. Nearly every evening, they’d leave Howard at home with his elderly grandmother. He and the old lady took care of each other. He would bring her milk toast and they would keep each other company in the silent house. It was a lonely time.

One night, he begged, "Please don't go, Mubba. Stay home, please?"

"You ought to be ashamed,” his mother replied. “You ought to be happy so many people want us to join them.”

So he grew to hate social events and all that they entailed. As he grew older, my grandmother and her sister tried teaching my father the importance of the social graces. The harder they tried, the more he rebelled. He wanted nothing more than to be a man’s man, happiest when he was out on the river with his friends, hunting and exploring the muddy banks and back bayous of the Mississippi.

Handsome though he was, he always felt at odds when dressed for a party. And though he did his part by participating in the springtime madness that is the Natchez pilgrimage, he never tired of thumbing his  nose at it all.

He still laughs when he remembers that when he was still in the army, his aunt Katherine sent a letter to his commander asking him in all earnestness if they could let him come home for the month of March so that he could be king in the pageant.  I mean, sure, World War II was important and all, but this was Pilgrimage!

“They’d never heard of Natchez,” Daddy laughs. “Those women thought Natchez was the center of the universe and that, of course, I should be excused to be king. God, I was embarrassed.”

One of his fondest memories is of his best friend, Johnny Ogden, sneaking into the City Auditorium the afternoon before the pageant with a dead fox he'd found beside the road. Dragging the fox by the tail, Johnny made his way up and down the aisles, over and under the seats of the room, laying down a scent and then slipping back outside.

They roared with laughter that evening when during the tableau for The Hunt, the beagles and hounds used for the scene broke their leads and climbed across horrified tourists' laps, baying loudly, drooling, trembling and peeing with excitement, as they tracked the scent of the long-departed fox.

And now at eighty-five years old he, like Katherine, is one of Natchez’s most colorful characters. And although he lives in the country in a house with ancestral portraits on the wall, more often than not you’ll find him wearing a wife-beater t-shirt with a do-rag on his head, driving his tractor all over the property, happily pushing things around, stopping to eat a can of sardines, an onion, and a slice of bread. He spends his days feeding the deer, dogs, cats, birds, squirrels and other assorted animals that call his place home.

From left:  Howard Pritchartt and Joe Remondet, circa 1979

And like his aunt Katherine, he's loved (and loathed) in fairly equal measure, but no one laughs louder or longer at Howard Pritchartt than Howard, himself.

And so, at last, with all that being said, I now offer you his original poem about Natchez, making no excuses for the portions of it that are politically and socially incorrect.


Natchez
If you doubts your social fame, 

git an old house and give it a name. 

If you still lacks social position,
git it put in the Pink Edition. 


If your position is still not clear,
git it decorated by a Natchez queer.

But, really, the mostest important of all
Is finagle your brat into the Pilgrimage Ball.
But really the mostest, most ultimate thing
Is finagle the brat into Queen or King.

We're all aware of the social mystique
that sticks to the gal with the finest antique.
So, ladies, ladies, let’s hold a quorum,
to see who’ll rule the Antiques Forum. 

To us this is now our holiest cause, 

since we’s all well into menopause.

So you give a luncheon and I’ll give a tea. 

And I’ll snub you and you snub me.
And when it’s all over, we’ll make our amends,
pretending to be the closest of friends.

What makes it all so goddamned funny
Is all it takes is a little money.
And when it’s all over, we’ll have to admit
The whole damned thing is a big pile of…
old furniture.

~~ Howard Pritchartt, Jr.
circa 1985

Story by Elodie Pritchartt