Our friend Courtney Taylor has a new article in Country Roads Magazine this month about two of our favorite Natchez characters -- Phil and Jimmi Lou Vasser -- who've lived and loved the lives they'd always dreamed of. You can read the article here.
Story by Courtney Taylor Photos by Elodie Pritchartt
"Mister Pritchett, I want you to know that Billy Ferrell, the sherifff? He's a Russian spy."
"Oh?" My father would laugh that silent, wheezing laugh like Muttley, the cartoon dog, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver.
"And the mayor? Tony Byrne? He's a communist!"
"Oh, lord. What a nut," Daddy would laugh as he hung up the phone. A couple of times he even recorded the conversation. I wish I could find those old recordings. What a wonder it would be to hear the ghost voices of the past coming back over the speakers, if only for a moment.
Other times, Cee Tee (Charles Thomas) would appear at my father's office. He'd make all the same pronouncements -- the mayor and the city attorney are selling dope; the communists are taking over; the sheriff's a Russian spy.
"I wish you'd call the FBI and let them know," he'd say. Then he'd spin on his heel and walk back out.
"Wait! Cee Tee? I want to ask you something."
But Cee Tee just kept on going. Not another word.
A small Southern town just wouldn't be the same without its crazies. How come we never hear about the ones up North? Are they as beloved as ours? Are they as interesting? Or are we just better storytellers?
Around here we cherish our lunatics -- heck, sometimes we are our lunatics. And here in Natchez where just about everyone is related to each other, we find that if we aren't kind to the town nut, well...we might be hurting the feelings of a second cousin, once removed.
So we nurture them, put them out on the corner, say hello to them every morning on the way to work, pat them on the back, humor their ravings, and tell fond stories about them after they've gone to that Big Sanitarium in the sky. We laugh like mad remembering the outrageous things they said and did, and secretly hope people aren't going to be remembering us in much the same way a few years down the line. The memories of my own childhood are punctuated with several of these special folks, but none is more vivid to me than Cee Tee Kelly.
In a way, Cee Tee personifies a big part of my Natchez childhood. He was always there, disturbing and delightful and infuriating and tragic and funny, and without him, some of the magic of a small-town Southern childhood would be missing.
My memory of Cee Tee (my spelling) was of a pear-shaped little man standing on the corner of Main and Pearl Streets, catty-cornered to the Eola Hotel, twitchy and nervous, constantly in motion and combing his thin, black, greasy hair. Badly myopic eyes peered out at the world distrustfully from behind a pair of thick, Coke-bottle glasses perched on the nose of a tiny little toothless head. He sort of resembled Popeye's hamburger-loving friend Wimpy. Because -- I assume -- of his bad eyes, his face was always pocked with bloody spots where he'd nicked himself shaving in the mornings.
But his clothes....well, his clothes were carefully chosen and certain to make a statement. He always wore a brightly colored, neatly pressed shirt topped off with a big, bright tie. Polyester leisure pants, equally tidy and creased, seemed to ride up forever, practically reaching his armpits. To finish it all off, he wore clean, white, freshly buffed shoes. Yep, Cee Tee was a snappy dresser.
Knowing how bad his eyes must've been, I often wondered who dressed him, assuming it had to be a mother who loved her poor, confused child, whose madness was said to be the result of a fever he suffered as a child. It made me sad to think she might die. Who would dress him then? I later learned that he lived with two sisters, who loved him fiercely, and at times he lived over on Madison Street with his brother who worked at the post office, and who was said to be a bookie.
Not everyone was kind to Cee Tee. Young boys would sometimes taunt and tease him, and I've heard he'd chase them down and hit them with his belt as they laughed and giggled and ran away. I'd never witnessed that, though. A "good morning" from me was always met with a smile from Cee Tee, who asked how I was doing and went about his business.
Sometimes Cee Tee was on the corner and sometimes he wasn't. When his ravings got too bad, his brother would call Sheriff Billy Ferrell, whose duty it was to gather him up and take him to Whitfield,the state mental hospital 15 miles south of Jackson, for treatment. There, he probably received electroshock therapy and drugs until he was placid enough to send back down to Natchez.
"That's why he hated lawmen," said Tommy Ferrell, the late Billy Ferrell's son, who also served as sheriff in Natchez for many years.
It was this combination of Cee Tee's paranoia and the political and racial climate in small-town Mississippi during the 1960s that served to create the Perfect Storm for some comic relief in Natchez at a time when there was little to laugh about.
In 1964, when the Civil Rights Act was passed, violence and unrest destroyed the serenity of life in the South. The South was in an uprising and the Klan was in its heyday. There were riots and boycotts, bombings, violence and murder. Churches were being bombed. Blacks were being murdered.
The FBI opened a field office in Natchez, and staffed it with 24 FBI agents, looking high and low for troublemakers. So when poor Cee Tee came along, fresh out of Whitfield and ranting about the sheriff being a Russian spy and all the cops being "kluckers," the FBI was ripe for the picking. They didn't know he was crazy. In fact, they put him on the payroll. Let him write reports.
It's said that J. Edgar Hoover actually read reports from Cee Tee Kelly. Yee ha! Now, that is some funny stuff. We had Maxwell Smart on TV and Cee Tee Kelly in real life.
Cee Tee would often stand around at the bus depot, and when people got off the bus, he'd tell them how the town was overrun with crime, drugs and communists. It got so bad that sometimes they'd get right back on the bus and leave. The bus depot finally sued Cee Tee to get him to stop. I'm not sure if it worked.
I moved away from Natchez in 1980, and don't know when or how Cee Tee died. He's one of those people I suddenly remembered years later and wondered what had happened to him. And whenever I think about him, it makes me sad. I hope there's a heaven for Cee Tee Kelly where everyone respects him, believes and admires him, and wants to be just like him. So long, Cee Tee. Thanks for the memories.
*Woodcut print "Karma" by Chelsea Semb Shantybellum sports a couple of little Voodoo dolls in the kitchen. One of our guests, Chelsea Semb, was so enchanted she sent us an original piece of artwork she did after she returned home.
If you're not familiar with Voodoo, the word is derived from the religion known as Vodun, which originated in Africa and was brought to America on the slave ships. The word "vodun" means "spirit."
According to the website Religious Tolerance, the Vodun religion, which is practiced by 60 million people worldwide today, goes as far back as 6,000 years in Africa. The Vodun religion has many similarities to the Roman Catholic religion. You can read about it here.
Then there's Voodoo. Yes, that's the fun stuff we see in movies and horror tales. Voodoo is an evil, imaginary religion based on bizarre rituals rife with violence and terror where the dead can rise again as Zombies and people can be controlled and affected by the use of voodoo dolls and pins.
Practitioners can do good deeds with white magic or evil deeds with black magic. But who wants to hear about white magic? Let's face it. Black magic is lots more fun.
From the Religious Tolerance website:
"Sticking pins in dolls was once used as a method of cursing an individual by some followers of Vodun in New Orleans; this practice continues occasionally in South America. The practice became closely associated with Voodoo in the public mind through the vehicle of horror movies."
The first time I ever came across a Voodoo doll, I was traveling back to California, flying out of the New Orleans airport. They had Voodoo dolls in the gift shop complete with pins and instructions on where to stick 'em.
My little girl had been bothered by some bullies at school, and it struck me that this might be a fun and harmless way to let her vent her spleen and give her a feeling of power again. When I returned to LA, we got the doll out and said, "Hmph! Take this, mean girl," dissolving into giggles, happy with our new-found power.
Who knew a little Voodoo would do you so good? I do. And now you do, too.
Toodle-oo!
*This just in: Patty Killelea made one of the dolls in the Shantybellum kitchen. Patty's a wonderful artist here in town. A lot of her art is centered around the Catholic Church and religious icons. They're gorgeous. Catholic icons....voodoo dolls. Maybe there IS a connection, eh?
*Click on the photos to see full size. They're wonderful! The first two pictures are four journal pages from the Gesslers' trip through Natchez and northern Mississippi. The third is the cover of Diane's book on New Orleans, which I plan to take with me on my next visit later this month.
There's a funny thing about Shantybellum. The little pink house on the corner seems to beckon to people with an artistic eye. About a month ago Tommy and I were standing on the porch next door when I pointed across the street.
"Look. Someone's taking a picture of Shantybellum."
"Well, Girlfriend, they're probably just horrified that anyone really puts those tacky pink flamingos in the yard. I told you not to do it. They just want proof when they go back home and tell their friends."
The Hawaiian-shirt flag was bad enough. But the day we put those flamingos on the lawn? All heck broke loose. My father called me on the phone:
"Elodie, listen. Everybody knows that pink flamingos are tacky, tacky tacky!"
For a minute there, I could actually hear the ghost of Bessie Rose (My dad's mother) fussing about people who have no taste. Ha! The flamingos stayed.
We waved at the couple, who rather than covering their mouths and sniggering, seemed quite taken with the place. So we went went over to say hello, and ended up giving them a tour.
Diana and Paul were on their way back home from New Orleans, and were looking around Natchez a bit before moving on. This is a couple who have combined their love of travel and their eye for detail with Diana's talent with a paintbrush.
Diana has written several travel books that she illustrates, herself, in beautiful, bright colors and published by Algonquin Books. Diana has books on Washington, DC; Charleston, SC; New Orleans, LA; the state of California, et al. Diana also gives classes on creating your own illustrated travel journal. In fact, the July/August issue of Southern Lady has a showcase of Diana's work in two spreads.
After a really pleasant visit during which Diana signed a copy of her New Orleans book for me (Thank you, Diana!), we sent them off to Ferriday, LA to visit Frogmore Plantation and the Delta Music Museum.
We hope they'll return someday soon to come see more of Natchez and the surrounding area, and that they'll enjoy their visit with us as much as we enjoyed ours with them.
In 1980, I married and moved to Los Angeles where I stayed for 27 years. As the years crept by, I began to worry about my parents, who were getting old, and I began to think it might be time to finally make the decision to come home.
I began visiting more often, and kept a journal of my visits. While looking through some old entries, I came across the following.
June 20, 2006
Now that I've been home a couple of weeks, my father and I have fallen into a routine of sorts. It's more of a contest of wills than routine.
He leaves messes; I pick them up; he complains loudly that he can't find anything because I've hidden everything. I return his withering, long-suffering gaze and reply that it's right in front of him or right where I told him to look."No, it's not," he says irritably. "When you're gone I'm not going to be able to find anything around here! I'll have to call you all hours of the day and night."
He's been a slob forever, and gets utterly irritated that I try to clean up behind him."Stop it," he protests. "If you keep cleaning, the housekeeper won't have anything to do and she'll quit!
I have to leave enough of a mess to make it worth her while to come out here," he says as he tosses an old piece of ham onto the counter to wither and dry.
"Don't touch that," he warns. "Where the hell did you put my toothpicks?""Toothpicks? I never saw any toothpicks,"
"Dammit, Dee! Now, I'll have to go all the way to WalMart. They're the only place in town that carries them."
He hates WalMart.
"They're nice and flat and they're really cheap and come in a greatbig box. I can't stand the ones at Piggly Wiggly."
"Well, where were they?"
"They were right there on the butcher block. Oh, why do you have to hide everything?"
"Oh, good grief! They're right here under the napkins."
"Why on earth would you put them there?"
Suddenly his look of annoyance is replaced with one of sadness.
"Oh, it's going to be so grim when you're gone. What will I do?"
It was the sweetest, saddest moment I remember having in quite a long time.
We spent that afternoon working in the yard. I'd gone after the weeds full tilt when I first arrived, only to break out with a terrific case of poison ivy the next day.
Today the gardeners came -- a couple of women who share a house, a job and a life. The last time they worked for Daddy, they returned the day after they'd finished to clip his golden retriever, for whom they'd developed a special fondness.(I'm horrible with names, and couldn't remember theirs not five minutes after meeting them, so I've invented names for them here.)"He reminds me of our golden," said Jane. "And he just looked so darned hot."
That was all my father needed to hear. They were good people.I showed them how I'd pulled huge, horrid vines from the azaleas a few days before.
"Somehow I got into some poison ivy while I was doing it," I said, showing off my battle scars. "See those big vines in that tree there," I said. "It was that stuff. I couldn't reach this one."
"Yup." the short one replied. "That's poison ivy, all right."
"Impossible," I said.
Each leaf was as big around as my hand.
"Poison ivy has small leaves."
"Nope. That's a fully mature poison ivy vine," she assured me. "I'msurprised you only got it as bad as you did."
I felt pretty foolish.
After discussing what would make nice plantings for the yard, Daddy handed me his wallet and an old pickup truck and sent us off down Kingston Road to the nursery.
We picked out ten big, hardy crape myrtle trees -- seven Natchez whites and three crimson something or others -- and started back down the road.
The humidity had finally had enough of itself and grumbling with thunder, squeezed out a few fat, overdeveloped raindrops, which only served to muddy the already filthy windshield."I have no idea where the wipers are on this thing," I said nervously as the road disappeared in a brown, watery haze.
"I can't see a thing," said Jane."Uh, oh," said Joni. "Here comes a truck."
I tried to appear calm as my eyes searched for signs of roadway through the watered curtain."Aha! Here's the switch," said Jane, and we all let out horrified giggles as the wipers switched on and had absolutely no effect on the glass. We were about to die.The tanker truck and I managed to avoid each other, but not before making us stare mortality in the face.
Afterwards, I picked a clear track on the glass between which I could see and peered cautiously at the road until we'd managed to make it back to Daddy's house safely.I'd assured them that Daddy would hook up the auger to the tractor and make fast work of any holes we needed to dig. Ahem.
We spent the next three hours digging holes in the hardest, rock-strewn, clay soil I'veever had the misfortune to dig into.
After squirting each hole with a high-pressure stream of water to loosen the soil, we attacked the ground with shovels, pickaxes, hoes and posthole diggers. Two hours later, we three youngish women were covered in mud and sweat and blisters and wanted to sit down, but my 80-year-old father was still happily chopping away at the earthwith a posthole digger.
"By the time I hook up that auger," he'd say between blows, "...we'll have these things all dug!"
When we were done for the day, I asked Jane and Joni how much we owed.
"Here. Take an extra $10 for combat pay," I said, referring to my father's refusal to let us do anything the easy way.
"No kidding," said Joni. "Especially after making us ride with you in that truck in the rain."
Everyone's a comedian.
Tonight, as I turned out the lights and walked through the house before coming upstairs, I made one last trip to the kitchen. There, waiting to greet me was my father's Bowie knife sticking up in a big chunk of hoop cheese next to a pile of shredded red wax coating, beaded with oil that was soaking into the butcher-block counter.
I smiled, left it on the counter and went to bed.
*This just in from Casey Ann Hughes: " I believe the women are Andrea & Brenda from Weeds & Things."
Thank you, Casey. I think you're right.
The first time I noticed him it was the holidays – I can’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. I was driving home on Kingston Road when I saw the little white dog running down the road after a car. I slowed my car and he started running toward it. Then another car passed. His ears perked up as it neared; then as it blew past, he ran after it.
It was obvious what had happened; it broke my heart. How could someone just dump a little dog like that? You could almost hear him shouting, “Wait! Wait! You forgot me! Come back.”
As the car drove on, he gave up and trudged back toward his post by the gate where he’d been left. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. He was just a little terrier mix, cute as could be and desperate to find his family.
I parked my car and got out. He stopped, eying me -- wary and distrustful. Remembering all the dog advice I’d heard throughout the years, I tried to make myself as unimposing as possible, and crouched down on my knees, holding out my hand.
“Come on, fella,” I coaxed in my highest singsong voice – the one reserved for babies and pets. It almost never fails. “Come on, baby!”
But he wouldn’t come. If I tried to inch closer, he ran away, refusing to be bribed with kindness. So I went home to get something more tempting. I came back with cold cuts from the fridge. But he was adamant. All he wanted was his family, who he was certain were in the next car coming down the road.
The weather forecast for later in the week was for below-freezing temperatures. Lying in my warm bed, I wondered how he’d make it. The next day, my father and I set out a humane animal trap, baiting it with leftover roast and hiding it behind some branches so it wouldn’t be stolen. But no matter how many days we left it freshly baited, he wanted nothing to do with it.
In the meantime, we and several other area residents began putting out food and water for him, comparing notes on our efforts to catch the little scamp. Somehow he survived the cold weather, even seeming to thrive. He moved up onto the embankment by the road, where he’d sit like a proud watchdog, guarding his little kingdom by the Kingston Road, but still chasing after passing cars, certain his family would finally stop. Hope must spring eternal in the canine heart, too.
Every day on my way to and from town, I’d hold my breath, hoping he hadn’t been hit by a car. Often, I’d not see him at all, and wondered what had become of him. Then one day there he’d be, watching for cars and running after them, day after day, then week after week, the little white, elusive phantom of Kingston Road. I dubbed him “Phantom” in my mind, and saluted his "dogged" persistence. Some days he looked so cocky and proud I laughed aloud, and began to look forward to seeing him surveying his little kingdom.
Finally one day about three months later as my father crested the hill, he saw what we’d all been dreading. Phantom lay beside the road, perfectly still while a kind and concerned woman bent over him, looking for signs of life. He lay breathing but unconscious and broken. Daddy took him to the vet where he died later that night. It was painful and it was sad and it was all so unnecessary.
I often wonder about the people who left their little dog by himself on the side of the road at holiday time. I wondered if they ever traveled down Kingston Road and saw him bravely trying to recapture his people. I wondered if they had a happy Christmas. There are crosses along Kingston Road where people who’ve died in automobile accidents are honored, their memories cherished. There is no cross for Phantom; only regrets.
I regret not calling the Humane Society – something that in all my efforts, hadn’t occurred to me. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’d have been able to catch him and prevent a senseless death.
The local shelter is in the final push to raise money for a new shelter with more room and better facilities than the one they’re presently using with even enough room for the occasional horse, mule or other large animal.
In lieu of a roadside memorial for Phantom, I think I could honor his memory best by asking you, Reader, to make a donation to the Natchez Adams County Humane Society. And, please, please, don’t leave your pets to die painfully on a lonely road. The phantom of Kingston Road will haunt me for years to come.
Natchez Adams County Humane Society 392 Liberty Road Natchez, MS 39120 601-442-4001
Mailing address :
P. O. Box 549 Natchez, MS 39121
Please denote on check whether your donation is for the building fund or the general fund. Thank you. Only checks denoting that it is for the building fund will be used for the new shelter. * Photo Credit: Http://flickr.com/photos/wizmo Thank you, Wizmo!
I'm happy to announce that all the puppies have found homes. I'm keeping the mama dog, whom I've named Madonna. She's the sweetest, most gentle creature I've ever seen.
Yesterday Tommy, Guylyn Boles and I were driving around Concordia Parish investigating fun things for road trippers to do in the area when we took a detour off the main road near Lake St. John so Tommy could show us an old church he'd like to move and renovate. It was at the end of a gravel road.
On our way back, I saw something little and black in the roadway and realized it was two little puppies. So we stopped the car. I was ready to put the puppies in the car and head back home when more puppies began streaming up out of the ditch where they sought shelter from the unrelenting sun and heat, along with mom, who was tired and desperate for some help.
We counted eight puppies and could hear another one across the ditch. After knocking on someone's door, we found out they'd been dumped, along with a bag of food a couple of days before. The couple at the house had several dogs already and couldn't take them. Besides, they said, they were leaving town the next day. My car was too small for the dogs and three people. I had a case of canned cat food in the car, so I started opening cans and feeding the dogs.
While doing that a truck drove by with a man and a little boy inside. I begged them to take a puppy, but they refused and started on down the road. By this time, I was finished and climbed back into our car, but noticed the truck had stopped and seemed to be waiting for us to leave, which we did.
So first thing this morning I went back with my dad and his truck and got them. There were only seven of them. I'm fairly certain the man with the boy went back and took a pup. At least I hope so. We put the pups in back of the truck and let the mother ride in the back seat. After a few minutes, she forced her way into the front seat where she crawled down under my dad's feet on the passenger's side and curled up and went to sleep. When we got back to Natchez, she and the pups in back were all sound asleep. Poor babies! They were exhausted.
Anyway, these look like three little Catahoula Hound Dogs and four little Labador Retrievers. They're fat and playful and sweet and desperately need homes. We've got them in the chicken coop out at my dad's house.
If you or anyone you know would like an 8- to 10-week-old puppy, please give me a call at 601-431-7737,
Angola Prison has always fascinated me. Trips to Baton Rouge or New Orleans always took me past the sign on Highway 61 just north of St. Francisville, Louisiana that pointed to the prison with the African-sounding name famous for its violent history. I'd always heard that most of the prisoners at Angola were serving life sentences. This was where they sent people who had committed the ultimate crime, and for many of them, this was where they would live out the rest of their lives. Such people, already violent, had little to lose if they committed further violence, and for years it was known as the most dangerous prison in America.
In the 1970s, I heard about the annual Angola Prison Rodeo, and as a cub reporter for the local newspaper, I planned to attend the rodeo for a story, but mostly because I was curious. I heard stories about prisoners who braved incredible risks for a moment of glory, and I wanted to see it all, myself. But life interfered, and I never made it down there.
Then sometime in the 1990s I saw a story on television about Angola Prison's magazine, The Angolite, and its editor, convicted murderer Wilbert Rideau, who escaped execution when the death penalty was overturned in 1972. With the help of a young editor at a New York publishing house, Rideau learned the art of writing and eventually became the editor of The Angolite, winning numerous awards and international recognition. My curiosity, piqued, I subscribed to The Angolite for about a year, just to see what hardened criminals had to say to the world, their families, and other prisoners.
So when Tommy suggested we go visit the Angola Prison museum on the way back from Hammond, Louisiana last week, I responded with a quick yes.
The road from the turnoff at Highway 61 -- Highway 66 -- meanders 20 miles through some of the most beautiful country in America, rivaling The Natchez Trace for pastoral beauty. The museum sits outside the entrance to the prison, negating the need for a search of your car. Well, okay. I don't even know if they do search cars going into the prison, but it would seem prudent to do so.
Much of what I expected to see was no surprise, although it was, indeed, as interesting as I'd hoped it would be. There were exhibits that depicted everything about prison life, including a case full of homemade shanks and weapons that had been seized from prisoners throughout the years. It was a sobering reminder that Angola's history is filled with misery and bloodlust. In fact, during the 1960s, it was the bloodiest prison in the South, perhaps even the country. The mock-up of a typical prison cell in Angola's museum is stark and depressing.
Since the 1970s, however, prison reform has transformed Angola prison with rehabilitation efforts on behalf of the prisoners as well as adequate medical care. In addition to the annual rodeo, prisoners are encouraged to create artwork and furniture, which can be sold at the rodeo.
One of the first things to see at the museum is a taxidermy collection of fish, animals and reptiles that have been caught at Angola, including the biggest alligator gar fish I've ever seen. There is also a pretty darned big alligator gracing the exhibit.
Museum visitors can see Old Sparky, the electric chair that was used to execute prisoners prior to the advent of lethal injection. There are stories and newspaper clippings of famous escapes and prison uprisings and much to read about life at the prison, both past and present as well as death. One exhibit includes a beautiful funeral carriage, handcrafted by prisoners and carrying coffins also made by prisoners used to usher inmates from this world to the next, pulled by a magestic white Percheron horse, giving an air of dignity to a life lived where few dignities were allowed.
For sale at the museum are tshirts, photos, keychains and other tchkotchkes as well as several music CD albums with Blues, Spirituals, Worksongs, and other music created and played by Angola inmates. Tommy is trying to book the Angola Blues band to come play at Ferriday's next music festival.
The museum is definitely worth the side trip.
Museum hours are Tuesday - Friday from 8 AM - 4:30 PM
Saturday from 9 AM - 5 PM
Sunday CLOSED
Closed Major Holidays
The museum is operated by the Louisiana State Penitentiary Museum Foundation, which is a nonprofit organization. Although no admission is charged to visit the museum, donations are accepted to help defray the cost of operation. For information on scheduling a group tour, contact Marsha Lindsey, museum director at (225) 655-2592 or write to:
LSP Museum General Delivery Angola, Louisiana 70702
As some of you may already know, I have a little online bookstore. I'm forever venturing out to libraries, Goodwill and Salvation Army stores looking for books to sell on my site, Bambooks Booksellers. When I first started doing this, I was stunned at the inscriptions and the objects I would find inside books -- ephemera, as it's called -- and how moving it often was.
One day I came across a book written by a mother about her son's suicide. I opened the book and a piece of folded paper fell out. On the outside, written in a child's scrawled hand, was this: "To all the Momis [sic]..."
I opened it up. Inside, was a picture of a sad face (like a happy face with the smile turned down). Next to it, "To all the momis. I'm sorry."
I feel certain it was a suicide note, and wondered if the family who gave all their loved one's books away knew the note was inside before releasing it to the world.
Another time I picked up a book to list it on the computer when I discovered a piece of notepaper stuck inside. The name of the book was Stone Alone: the Story of a Rock-and-Roll Band by Bill Wyman and Ray Coleman. It is, of course, about the Rolling Stones.
I often get a mental image of the kind of person who reads a certain kind of book. So I'm looking at this book on the Rolling Stones and I'm thinking it's probably someone about my age and into Rock-and-Roll. Someone who sowed their wild oats during the '60's or '70's. Someone who's laid back, relaxed, probably divorced by now, contemplating a hair transplant and a neck lift, and is wondering if that cute chick he laid at Woodstock is an insurance broker now.
Then I pull out a piece of notepaper. In carefully scripted cursive writing is the following:
When one seeks refuge in a miracle, perhaps it is that they are not reminded that God has so inundated this great accident of life with them; that it is perhaps impossible to fit another one in. Hence, it is only a matter of reminding the seeker of where they might be found. And, as common as they seem - they are not without the provision of God.
It sounded like the writings of someone with a terminal illness who'd had an epiphany and realized that the miracle they hoped to find is, perhaps, not the miracle they need. That perhaps their small life is not as important to the workings of the world as it is to him or her. I tried Googling the poem, and found nothing, so I assume it's original. That the person who bought the book wrote the poem.
It's really the old books that affect me the most, though. I remember finding a used bookstore one time that was filled to the ceiling with antique books whose owners had died many years before, the inscriptions inside providing clues to their lives, to their hopes, their fears and loves. And I remember becoming overwhelmed with a feeling of loss. I stood there in the stacks and found myself crying. There's just something so sad about lives that are only dust now, remembered by only a few and growing fewer every year.
I was reminded of these discoveries while going through Annet's house yesterday and finding the ephemera, if you will, of my predecessors.
My great, great grandmother, Anna Snyder from Alton, Illinois, was a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln. I've always heard the story that after the Civil War, she was abandoned by her husband. Destitute, she came to Natchez to be near family, clutching little more than her uncle's naval commission, signed by Lincoln, and a personal, handwritten invitation that Lincoln had sent to her for his inauguration. Being one of those rare people who was a celebrity in his own time, she knew that those signatures had more than sentimental value. If need be, she could get money for them.
We still have the naval commission, signed by both Lincoln and the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles. But the invitation was lost. Annet used to say that Nana was a terrible housekeeper, and throughout all my searches, I had hoped to find it tucked away in a book or trunk tucked into the attic of the house. Alas, I've been through pretty much everything now, and the invitation has not materialized. I climbed into the attic to see what was there, but found that racoons had taken up residence therein and turned everything up there into confetti. If it was there, it's not there now.
But I did find something interesting. During the Civil War, Nana had permission to cross the Union lines. The story goes that she was good at a card game called "Whist," and was allowed to go back and forth to play whist with the officers. So when I came across an envelope on which Annet had written, "Nana's things," my heart skipped a beat.
Rather than the elusive Lincoln invitation, I found the Union pass allowing her passage back and forth. Written on the pass was her hair color (fair), her place of residence (Alton, Illinois), and "peculiarities," on which was written, "Good dance partner." Ha! (photo above) I also found a lock of her hair, the same color as mine. I'm the only one in my family with blonde hair, and had always wondered where it came from.
And yesterday, when I went through the last closet in the house, I found her marriage license, dated 1865, and signed by all who witnessed the ceremony.
Oh! I almost forgot. I think I found the ottoman spoken of in the newspaper article. I'll take some pictures and post them later.
But the most touching thing I found was a tiny little diary that had belonged to my grandfather. Grandaddy was a sweet, gentle, quiet man -- Annet's brother. I knew him as a patient man who seemed to have an aura of quiet sadness about him. For all the years I knew him, he suffered verbal abuse at the hand of Bessie Rose, his wife. She railed at him constantly, berating him for whatever struck her fancy, and he, quiet as always, simply endured it without comment.
Bessie Rose and her sister, Katherine Miller, were well known for meanness. I remember a conversation I had about them with Catherine Meng, who used to receive at Hope Farm for my aunt Katherine. Mrs. Miller had reduced her to tears one day when she upbraided her in front of a group of tourists about how she had delivered her spiel. And on another day, she'd greeted her at the door with, "Why, Catherine, what on earth convinced you to wear that color yellow? It's horrible." Or something to that effect.
Bessie Rose did the same type of thing, not only to me, but to others, as well. She lost several good friends because of it, but never stopped her behavior. Mrs. Meng told me that she thought maybe Bessie Rose was jealous of the attention her sister got for her efforts with the Pilgrimage, and I think she's right.
"The more attention Katherine got," recalled Mrs. Meng, "the meaner Bessie Rose became."
Many of my grandmother's friends lived in antebellum houses passed down through the generations. Grandaddy, however, was an insurance salesman, and although they lived comfortably, never lit the world on fire financially. She would bully their friends to buy insurance from him and berate him for not doing the same. Toward the end of his life, he told my father that she'd told him he was never a good provider.
"That's a tough thing to take at this point in my life," he muttered. "A tough thing."
It would be fair to say that my grandfather lived Thoreau's life of "quiet desperation." So, when I opened the little diary and found that my grandfather had had another love before his marriage to Bessie Rose, I was delighted to see a playful, happy side to him that I had never seen before.
The diary begins on January 1, 1919, when he was 21 years old and working at a bank in town. Every entry in the diary refers to a woman named Kate, who apparently lived in another town and with whom he was completely besotted. Tucked into a pocket in the front of the diary was a little calling card: "Miss Kate Doniphan Prichard"
I sat down and read every entry out loud to Sherry, who was helping me clean the house:
"I took an eight-mile hike in the morning - wrote to Kate in the evening. A full day!"
"2 a.m. up and off for a hunt. Had a three hours' row. Broke the stock of my gun and killed one goose. The day was very cold -- ground frozen. Wrote to Kate."
"Had a busy day. Collections took a lot of time & I only made two. Am gaining speed on the machine. off at 9:10 p.m.. No letter from Kate."
"Got my balance off early today but statements kept me till 6:30. Went down to the river & arranged for a boat for Sunday. Spent remainder of evening at home. No mail."
"Still no mail from Kate. Am getting worried. Finished work and wrote to Kate and went home."
"Got up at 1 a.m. Had a five-hour row. Percy [Benoist] and I hunted all day & never shot at a goose. Came home and wrote to Kate."
"Got a letter from Kate and read it three times, as usual. Wrote to her and now I am going to read hers again. Good night!"
"Just finished a rather interesting serial in Harper's. It furnished much food for thought. I can't decide whether it was disappointing or not. Wrote to the sweetest girl on earth -- alias Kate."
Remembering my sweet, kind granfather, I got a lump in my throat. My eyes welled up and tears started to fall. I had to stop and pause several times before going on. I think I scared Sherry half to death.
"This whole week will be heavy. Today was fairly so but watch tomorrow and Wednesday (underlined) I had another date this evening. Good-night, Kate dear. I am going to write you tomorrow."
"Rode around with Percy a little this morning & we went rowing this afternoon. Got a special delivery from Kate (underlined with a little arrow here pointing at Kate) and {red ink}. Wrote to her."
"Another letter from Kate. She is treating me splendidly. Wrote to Kate."
"Wrote to Kate this evening. Kate dear, I have been more lonely for you than ever today. I tried to tell you all about it in my letter. I am more in love than ever, dear."
At one point, he frets because he's done something to upset Kate, and he promises never to put her in a bad humor again. From the looks of things, though, he was more infatuated with Kate than she was with him. The diary stops on January 17 with nothing particularly notable. I guess he just petered out, as I did with my own diary attempts when I was young.
When I got home, I called my father.
"Who's Kate?"
"That was Kate Don Brandon," he replied, "Mary Ann Jones's mother. Her maiden name was Prichard, like ours but spelled differently. We'd always heard they had a thing for each other."
I called Mrs. Jones.
"Yes," she recalled. "We'd always heard there was a thing with them, and now we've got proof!"
Mrs. Jones mused that her mother was probably away at school at Newcomb at the time. Grandaddy was 21 years old. He married Bessie Rose in 1924, five years after the last entry in the diary.
Kate Don and he had both spent their lives in Natchez, married to other people. I wonder now if the flame he carried for her was ever truly extinquished. Did he love her from afar? Was she a reminder that life could hold better possibilities? If so, he never said anything to anyone, and never showed an inappropriate emotion.
A wonderful but bittersweet discovery in the leavings of the house on the bluff.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I've been going through the house my great grandfather built in 1900 on the bluff overlooking the Mississippi River.
He was a purser on the Anchor Steamship Line. When he settled in Natchez, he wanted a house from which he could watch the river he loved so dearly. His great niece and my cousin, Annabelle Rupert, found the following items about him:
Name: William Howard Pritchartt. Newspaper article from St. Louis Newspaper about 1885 "SURPRISE - Among the many gallant and courteous gentlemen who do service in the offices of the various steamboats coming to this city, and particularly those of the Anchor Line, there are none perhaps more courteous, polite and efficient than Mr. W.H. Pritchartt, of the steamer Arkansas City.
As a proof of his popularity, and the esteem in which he is held, especially by the ladies who are fortunate enough to secure passage on this boat, Mr. Pritchartt was presented, on the last trip to Natchez, with a beautiful stool or ottoman cover, exquisitely finished, and wrought in various colors. To say that the fortunate gentleman was surprised would be putting it mildly.
The fair donors of the handsome present were Mr. Capt. C.B. Ziegler, Mrs. Oscar Moore, and Miss Anne Mounger, all of St. Louis. These ladies are making the round trip on the elegant steamer. Mr. Pritchartt is proud of his treasure, but cannot realize how the ladies managed to resurrect Joseph's many colored coat of ancient fame, with which the dainty piece of work is finished."
Excerpt from his obit in 1934 - Natchez Democrat:
". . . For a time he was connected with the Anchor Line steamboats on the Mississippi river. When he came to Natchez in Sept, 1889, he went into business with the late Captain S.E. Rundle. In 1905, with W.R. Wade, he organized the firm of W.H. Pritchartt & Company and was connected with it until 1916. ............" William Howard Pritchartt was born in St. Louis in 1856 and died in Natchez MS 1934. He married the lady Annie Munger that made him the stool.
His daughter, my great aunt, Annet, lived there her whole life. She was a spinster lady who died when she was about 97 years old, way back around 1992.Our family is cursed with sentimentality, sometimes to the point of -- well, let's just say -- eccentricity?
Even though my brother has lived there for the past ten years or so, none of Annet's things had been touched."Oh, I hate to get rid of them," he'd say. "They remind me of coming over here when I was little."The clothes were still in the closet in her bedroom; her shoes tucked neatly away beneath a table by the door; her hairbrushes, jewelry, medications, powders and creams still sitting on the dressing table. And over all was a thick coating of dust and spider webs. It reminded me of Miss Haversham's house in Charles Dickens's Great Expectations.
So I finally decided to take matters into my own hands, and I've been cleaning out her things. It has been a journey both of adventure and discovery, but one that leaves me sad at going through the things that tell of the life of one I loved so dearly, disposing of what no one would want, and saving all the flotsam that would tell stories of our family's past.
Annet was a woman before her time -- keenly intelligent and independent in an age where neither was particularly encouraged. She went to Stanton College for Ladies here in Natchez, and then on to Barnard and Columbia University in New York where she majored in history. After school, she took a trip to Europe, alone, sending home postcards and letters that had all been lovingly saved and preserved.
Although history was her major, she had a knack for mathematics, which she taught at Braden School in Natchez for 40 years. I've been told that through her tutoring efforts many a boy was able to enter West Point with grades so high, they weren't required to take math. I remember she once told me that the lowest grade she'd ever made was in calculus, and that was an A-minus. Alas, I didn't share her talent with numbers. I still count on my fingers, can't do simple subtraction and division is a soul-sucking impossibility.
But I loved her dearly. I remember many a time going over to her house and entering to the smell of homemade applesauce on homemade melba toast. I found the grinder she used to grind the apples with, scraping it off the sides into a big pot she'd set on the stove with spices. She made pull taffy and fudge and always came for Thanksgiving with a batch of uncooked cranberry relish with orange rind.
Animals seemed to sense that her house would be a refuge, and even two of my own pets moved to her house, just because. One day she went out onto the back porch to find a fully grown rooster crowing on the top step. As it turns out, the neighbor behind her, Mr. Logan, had owned that chicken and planned to make dinner of him. He escaped with his head intact, however, and went straight to Annet's house.
We brought him to our house and he lived the happy life as head of his own little harem for many years to come. We named him Mr. Logan.
Yesterday, I went into a trunk in the hallway and found scores of little Victorian dresses -- dresses that Annet had worn as a child, a Mardi Gras outfit dating back probably to about 1904, and even the dress she wore at graduation. That's Annet in the dress on the front porch of the house.
I'm terrified to disturb the items, and am trying to determine what should be done with them.I suspect one of the small girl's dresses is the one she's seen wearing in a book of photographs that was published by Dr. Thomas Gandy called "Norman's Natchez." She's about two years old in the photograph and is a beautiful, angelic-looking child in a white dress.
As soon as I have access to a scanner, I'll scan it for you, Readers, to see.A woman in Natchez whose name I can't recall made a doll that looked just like the photo. It's nearly life-sized, and I'm thinking it would be really nice to dress the doll in the original dress and donate it to the Natchez Historic Foundation or the Mississippi Historic Archives.In the meantime, I'll dig further and let you know what treasures I find.*Thanks to Annabelle Rupert for sending the photos of Annet.
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