The "Shanty-Boater"

My father built this boat, himself.  I believe it was the first one he built.  This photo was taken around 1947, I  think.

My father is dying.  There.  I've said it.  I don't know how long it will take, but it's clear that his time here is limited.  So I've been going through his things, looking for evidence of his youth that I can share with others.  I found several essays he wrote when he was about 17 years old.  His personality shined even then.

The "Shanty-Boater"
By William Howard Pritchartt, Jr.
English I, C-3
18 September circa 1943
Theme No. 1
Instructor:  Mr. Read

Grade B-minus

There are many picturesque phases of American life, which basically have not been altered by the advance of progress during the last century.  Among these is the life of a "shanty-boater"along the banks of the mighty Mississippi River.  This broad, muddy, twisting stream has long been the theme for innumerable poems and songs, which still reflect the color and adventure of the antebellum steamboat days.

To me, the "Ol Man River" has always seemed a living thing, for among my first recollections are those of staring from the steep bluffs of Natchez out over the river and into the green haze of the Louisiana lowlands beyond.   Consequently, as a growing boy many of my summer days were spent rowing for miles along the willow-covered banks, stripped to the waist, reveling in the calm and peaceful freedom which the river seemed to express.

Living along the banks of the Mississippi, usually within several miles of a town, are the staunch and sturdy "Shanty-Boaters," a tribe unto themselves.  Their homes consist of shanties or small shacks built on small barges approximately fifteen by thirty feet, and are usually moored in some sheltered cove or eddy, safe from the wind and current.

Invariably, these humble dwellings are guarded by two or three hoarse-voiced mongrels, whose sole responsibility in life is to serenade any boat or stranger who approaches near enough to arouse canine suspicions.

The average male "Shanty-Boater" might well have stepped from the pages of a Stevenson pirate novel as far as appearances are concerned.  Tanned to the texture of leather, grizzled whiskers, squinting eyes, tobacco-stained teeth, and muscular physique, this child of nature presents a startling picture.  His sole means of support is matching his wits against those of the catfish, buffalo, garfish and turtles which infest the Mississippi, for every river man has a strong aversion to any type of confining work.

In the spring or other seasons when the fish are running plentiful and silver begins to jingle in the tattered pockets of the "Shanty-Boater," his greatest pleasure is to have a wild fling in some river saloon where soon the wine, women, and juke-box music have separated him from his hard-earned savings.

Then he returns to his boat, drunk, tired, a little rueful, (but happy in the knowledge that here on the river he is free from the bonds and responsibilities of modern civilization.)

Note from instructor:  You're talking me into this as a profession.


Personally, I cannot for the life of me understand why he only got a B-minus.

You Never Send Me Flowers Anymore

Back to 1975
When I was a freshman at the University of Mississippi, I lived in New Dorm, at that time the largest dormitory on campus.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Ole Miss, it is rife with fraternities and sororities that have a chokehold on social life at school. I was a Delta Gamma pledge that first year, sans boyfriend. Even though I was in a sorority, I never felt like part of the crowd. I always felt a bit like an outsider.

I'll never forget stepping off the elevator on the lounge floor that Valentine's Day morning and having the scent of literally THOUSANDS of flowers hitting my senses. Every girl in that darned dorm must've gotten a bouquet of flowers...except, of course, for me.

All day girls would rush up to the desk that ran the width of the front of the dorm between the two sets of double doors out front, squealing with delight that their boyfriend had sent them flowers for Valentine's. It was a depressing cap on an already depressing day.

When I got back from my first class to find even more flowers and more screaming, ridiculous girls, I'd had it. I went up to my room and pulled out my new American Express card -- the one I'd gotten only for emergencies. Well, this was an emergency, wasn't it? I dialed the florist:

"I'd like to order some flowers, please."

"How much would you like to spend?"

"Hm...let's see. How about fifty....no. Make it seventy-five bucks."

In 1975 you could get a heckuva bouquet for $75.

"What would you like on the card?"

"To my darling, sweet beautiful Elodie from your secret admirer."

I left that stupid bouquet down in the lobby for two days and fielded all kinds of questions from my sorority sisters whose bouquets couldn't hold a candle to mine. It was glorious. Well, almost. I still hadn't really gotten anything from anyone.

It wasn't long before I realized that the reason I felt like such an outsider was because I wasn't the kind of girl who squeals out loud when some kid sends her flowers because it's Valentine's day and he's supposed to walk the walk. I wasn't the kind of girl who enjoys spending hours discussing what color material we were going to choose for our rush outfits the next year. Don't get me wrong; that's fine for some people, really fun stuff. Just not for me.

So I turned in my little anchor pin, put on a peasant skirt and joined the counterculture in Oxford, Mississippi, working at The Gin and The Hoka Theater, and enjoying it immensely.

If I had it to do over, I'd not have joined that sorority, but I gotta admit, I really did think it was a stroke of genius to buy those flowers and watch while those women chewed on the mystery of my secret admirer.
*In order to be truly Southern, I tried to find a photo of a heart-shaped red-velvet cake for this post, but alas, I couldn't. Hope you like the flower.
*Photograph by Elodie Pritchartt

The Wedding

At your cousin's wedding

your mother and her sisters

talked of husbands no longer there.

Their eyes whispered,

"Do not be so cautious,

for even love that lasts

is lost."

They wore bangles

bought by men

they thought they would know

forever,

dresses made of silk

they would trade for one last

memory.

A diamond for a touch,

for one warm breath upon a face

lined by time.

A thousand recollections

floating in a champagne stem,

held in trembling hands

that once touched

skin and lips and

never thought about

goodbye

Let us love, you and I,

while we have time

and life and each other,

and drink a toast

to remember.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

4/21/2008

In a Dream

In a Dream

At dawn when the fog
lay heavy on the lake
and sounds were muffled,
I picked blackberries
In a dream.

The world was soft and white,
no vivid blue sky to
sear my eyes and make
them tear.  I stood where
the bluff sloughed off into
emptiness, and peered down
to see if I could find myself.

I listened, but heard only
The grass whispering, shhhh,
Its lilting voice urging calm.
I saw a jeweled coil
At my feet, and thought
It was a gift from you.

I reached, but it moved,
And before I knew what
Tricks can lie in fog-shrouded
Dawns and dreams, it struck 

And as I fell headfirst into
Whiteness, I woke, in sheets
That wrapped me up in dread.
Our bed.  In white.

The Phantom of Kingston Road

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!

Where the Dead Lie Buried

Dunbar Cemetery

When Courtland Smith returned from battle after the War of 1812, he was a changed man — disfigured, and embarrassed. So instead of living in town, he chose to live in relative isolation near the Kingston Community south of Natchez.  He picked an Indian mound as a site on which to build his house. 

 His family tried to dissuade him, but he liked the spot. The hill offered a lovely view, and most of the Indians were gone. He should have heeded their warnings. Not long after the house was finished, he was found dead in his bed with an arrow shoved through his heart. Burial places are sacred. 

Harrisonburg 

For eons man has honored his dead with physical monuments. Nothing speaks of place and our relationship with it as where we choose not only to live, but also to be buried. The arrowheads that reappear above ground after the rain are as much a testament to those who came before as the ivy-covered angel that weeps above the grave in a forgotten wood. Each grave and stone is a testament to someone’s journey on this earth. History is all around us. Indeed, it is underfoot. 

The Historic Natchez Foundation has an exhaustive list of burial places and the names of those interred. Many are on private property, but there are still a few in that are both beautiful and accessible. 

Kingston Cemetery

Not far from where Courtland Smith built his fated house is a beautiful little cemetery in the Kingston Community. Rising on a gentle knoll shaded by large oaks, are several old family plots with names of the original Kingston settlers: Ogden, Swayze, Thorne, and others. A beautiful spot for a fall picnic.

Ogden Cemetery at Retirement Plantation

Courtland Smith’s tomb is in the Philanda Smith burial ground on Retirement Plantation near Second Creek in Adams County, just off Kingston Road. It is one of three small, private family cemeteries attached to Retirement. What is not found at Retirement are the graves of some 40 slaves, who were tortured and hanged after the rumor of a slave revolt was discovered. 

There are many private, family cemeteries scattered throughout the area. The oldest, which is still in use and within the original family -- the Surgets, whose descendants are the McNeils who also own Elmscourt -- can be found near Kingston at Cherry Grove Plantation, which has been in the same family since it was obtained as part of a Spanish land grant in the late 1700s. 

Surget Cemetery at Cherry Grove

There is a family cemetery at Lansdowne, on land that has been in the family since the 1780's.

Longwood Plantation has a small cemetery as well, which is open to the public. A short walk down a wooded path brings you to several graves in a small opening in the trees. Thanks to the late Alma Kellogg Carpenter’s indefatigable efforts, many of the names of people interred there have been identified. 

Longwood Plantation

 On Lower Woodville Road just up the street from Longwood Plantation is Gloucester, the home of Winthrop Sargent, first governor of the Mississippi Territory.  Although Sargent is not buried here, many in his family are, including a beloved pet with a small, simple stone reading, “Pug,” and that of Sargent’s son, George, who had returned to Gloucester after being wounded in the Civil War, and was murdered. 


Catherine Van Court included an account of that murder in her book, The Old Home. It was told to her by Anne Swayze, who with her husband, George, was visiting one night: 

George got up and limped over to the fire where he slid one log over another. …Suddenly, the half-smile on his face drifted away. Something had attracted his attention. Back in the dark recesses of the house bells had begun to jangle. They were ringing rapidly and seemed to be growing louder every moment. I looked up at the clock. Twelve o’clock was late for us to be riding about the country. 


‘Who can it be?’ I asked. …At that time, we were cautious about opening the outer doors at night.

 George chose one of two doors – the one with heavy inner bars before it. 

"As the door opened slowly, two men crowded close. 

 ‘What do you want?’ George demanded. 

 ‘We’ve lost our way,’ a broad-shouldered Dutchman announced. It was evident he had been drinking. 

 ‘But fellows,’ George said. ‘You’re not lost. You are on the Natchez Trace right now. The town itself is only a couple of miles away.’ 

 ‘We want a bed,’ the smaller of the two pleaded. 

 ‘Just two more miles,’ George urged, ‘then you can get a bed, eats and everything.’ 

 When the men insisted, George informed them that there was a lady in the house and it was inappropriate, especially in their inebriated state. 

"‘To hell with her!’ the Dutchman yelled. ‘You open this door, you dirty Reb, or I’ll…’ 

‘What’ll you do?’ George asked tauntingly. 

The muzzle of an army pistol was thrust through the bars. A flash flared. George’s big body swayed for a moment. Then he crumpled to the floor. …’Blue uniforms, I thought, as I slipped an arm under George’s head. ...By the time [we had gotten] George upon the sofa both Philip and I realized he was dead. He had been shot directly through the heart.” 

Routh Cemetery

 My favorite plantation cemetery is directly across the street from Dunleith on Homochitto Street. As a child, I spent many an hour playing there when visiting my friend Alma Carpenter, who lived at Dunleith. 

The cemetery is connected with the Routh family whose home, Routhland, was built at the site where Dunleith now stands. Although the gate is locked, the giant oaks and crepe myrtles dripping Spanish moss welcome visitors. 

 Peering through the gate is like coming upon a secret garden that still whispers about the past. There are the usual obelisks and headstones and crucifixes, along with a cast-iron sculpture of a large, Newfoundland dog, which was commissioned by the family patriarch, Job Routh. 

When he was eight years old, Job fell into the Potomac River and nearly drowned except for the efforts of a beloved family dog. He never forgot it. 

 Driving south on Highway 61 toward Baton Rouge, and about a mile south of Mammy’s Cupboard on the left side of the road, you can see the family cemetery for the long-gone Forest Plantation, sitting amidst oil field equipment. 

Dunbar Cemetery

 Surrounded by a brick wall, it holds the grave of the Scottish scientist and inventor, William Dunbar and his family and at least two of their slaves whose inscriptions are a testament to the real fondness the family felt for them: Lucy Barnes was nearly 100 years old when she died. “Welcome Sweet Day of Rest.” Mammy Betsey Bruin’s reads “Faithful Unto Death.” 

 Heading north of Natchez is a small Presbyterian church, which served the residents of the plantation community known as Pine Ridge. Although the1828 Federal style church was destroyed in a 1908 tornado, the existing church, which echoes the appearance of the earlier church and was dedicated in 1909, still stands with a small cemetery alongside.  There you will find many old Natchez family names: Bisland, Chamberlain, McCalip, Henderson, Archer, Lamdin and Foster. 

 Heading north along the Natchez Trace and on into Jefferson County are more small cemeteries, one of which can be seen just off the road in the woods near the community of Church Hill, known as the Wood Family Cemetery. Efforts to restore this cemetery are ongoing. 

 No cemetery is more beautiful, however, than the one at Christ Episcopal Church in Church Hill. Sitting on a gentle knoll, the church and its graveyard are reminiscent of medieval Europe with its Gothic architecture. To get to Church Hill, you pass Emerald Mound, the third largest Indian Mound in the United States. Yes, many have left their mark. 

Photo by Walt Grayson

 Further down the Natchez Trace is the tiny community of Rocky Springs, a once-thriving community of nearly 3,000 people.  The community disappeared due to hardships, including the Civil War, bad land management and mosquito-borne epidemics. All that is left of the town are the remains of two old safes, one from the post office and one from a store, which are on a beautiful little nature trail. 

The most poignant reminder of hardship is the small cemetery next to the only building left at Rocky Springs—the church. Wandering through its plots, one is struck by the number of babies and children buried there, a testament to the ravages of cholera and yellow fever:

Agnes, age 11

Blessed be the dark 
that wafts us to the shore 
where death-divided friends
part no more 
join those there 
herewith thy dost repose 
all the hope 
thy hapless Mother knows 

 Louisiana’s flat delta land with its shallow water table is not conducive to cemeteries, but a short drive past Jonesville to the tiny, historic town of Harrisonburg reveals one of the most beautiful cemeteries in the area. Giant old cypress trees tower like pulled taffy over the graves, their evergreen boughs reminders of everlasting life after death. 

Harrisonburg Cemetery

 There are also cemeteries that are returning or have returned to the earth — the ones we no longer see. Bodies have been uncovered at Fort Rosalie in Natchez. The most recent was a skeleton found in 2011 with its head facing west, its arms crossed neatly over its chest. 

Fort Rosalie

Another is the tragedy known as The Corral. After the fall of Vicksburg, mobs of hungry, frightened ex-slaves descended on Fort McPherson, which was located on what is presently the Natchez City Cemetery. In order to house them, Federal officials built a stockade on the batture lands Under the Hill near Learned’s Mill Road, where they died by the hundreds from drinking polluted river water, and without any sanitary conveniences. 

A letter written by a Confederate officer’s wife reads: 

It is said 20,000 negroes have come to Natchez. All the able-bodied men are put in the camp at the Forks of the Road, and the old men, women and children are put Under-the-Hill. We hear they die there, sometimes twenty a day… 

A former slave in the Davis-Kelly family related what she’d seen: 

I saw the Corral. It was the terriblest thing that ever was. People died there like sheep wid distemper. The dead wagon would come around ever mornin’ goin’ from tent to tent where people stayed an’ got the dead. Then they hurried off to bury them in pits one on top of another. They didn’t even shroud ‘em or nothin’, just piled ‘em up like cotton sacks guine to the graveyard. ~ excerpts from Natchez-Under-the-Hill by Edith Wyatt Moore, 1958. 

 Left to her own devices, nature takes back what is hers. On a visit to a forgotten cemetery in the woods, I saw a headstone nearly completely enveloped by a tree. The next time I visited, it was completely encased. No sign of the stone remained. Peering through the forest, I witnessed a battle for superiority between the forest and the stones, reminding me that no matter how important we think we are, we are not so mighty in the grand scheme of things.

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley