A Hollow Space

MONDAY, JANUARY 29, 2007

A Hollow Space

A Hollow Space 
By Elodie Pritchartt

"The big sweetgum by the front gate finally died." 

Every death affected him these days, animal or vegetable. 

"Oh, really?" I answered, still unaware of its significance in the scheme of things. 

"I took the tractor and went down to the gate to cut it down the other day." 

He crushed a pecan with a hammer. Shells skittered across the counter and spilled onto the floor.

"I hooked a cable onto it, up high so I could pull it down, you know?"

I nodded, having seen it done many times before. "

And then I went to cut a vee out so it'd fall the way I wanted it to. It's a big tree." 

I shuddered. He had no business pulling down trees like that sweetgum. He was eighty-two, and still doing the work of a younger man. But to tell him otherwise would be cruel. Better to let him die quick and violent than to take away his power. 

I remembered the time we brought the pony into town in the back of the Scout. The pony wouldn't budge. He was a stubborn brute with a mean streak. Finally, he reached down and picked up its front hooves and put them on the tailgate. Then he squatted down behind its hindquarters and lifted while we children watched, astonished, as muscles strained and bulged and 600 pounds of horse was heaved bodily into the truck bed.

Those boys are men now. They still talk about it in tones of marvel and wonder. 

"Well, when I started making the cut, I got about six inches in, and realized it was hollow. So I worried that it might not fall the way I wanted. I called Power & Light and told them they’d better send some people out to cut it down. It could fall the other way and bring down those lines out on the road. You know?"

I nodded, quiet."It was the weekend. So I left it hooked to the tractor 'til they came out on Monday. They brought a crane and cut it off at the top, got it down to a manageable size. Then they said, 'Let's go ahead and pull it down with the tractor.' So we pulled it over. It broke about halfway up the trunk. And you know? It was the strangest thing." 

"What was?""When it broke, the front half of the trunk fell off, but left the rest of the tree standing. And inside the trunk, about six feet up, was a horseshoe hanging on a nail."

"You're kidding." 

"No. You should've seen the look on the faces of those men. That tree had to be over a hundred years old. And it was solid, all the way around. No knotholes, nothing. And six inches thick. "

I had to see. Before we left the house, he put the cat outside. 

“Oh, no,” he said as he opened the door. “There’s a dead chipmunk out here. One of the cats probably killed it.”

“He's brought you a present.”

I smiled. He didn't. 

“I wish they wouldn’t. They’re cute little things and I hate to see them dead.” 

It surprised me to see him so upset over a chipmunk. I could remember when we were little, and he’d come home with a deer he’d killed. He’d hang it from the rafters in the barn, make a cut all the way around its neck and set a hook into the skin. He’d attach a chain to the hook and attach the other end to the bumper of the Scout. Then he’d back the Scout up, pulling the skin clean off the deer. It was quick and bloody with a thick, coppery smell that hung in the air. He didn’t give it a second thought. 

Now he spent his days putting out salt licks and corn, and chasing off anyone who dared try to poach a deer, in season or no. It was late afternoon and the light was slanting at sharper angles, sending shadows out across the field. We stopped by the workshop in the woods.

"See that metal post right there?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay, now look over there."

He pointed to another post some distance away. 

“Those two posts are forty feet apart. If you take a string and tie it between the posts and measure 20 feet, that's where you'll find the water line for the house. I know because it broke one time and I had a heck of a time trying to find it. When I did, I made sure to mark it. I couldn't mark the exact point because it's in the roadbed, but you measure, and that's where it is. I'm probably the only person who knows that."

He sighed and his shoulders seemed to sag.

"You’re going to need to know these things when I’m gone.”

I nodded but couldn’t speak. 

“You know, when people die, it really doesn't matter who they were or what they did. They're only remembered by the few people who knew them, and once those people are gone, you’re forgotten. It's like you were never here at all." 

I knew he was right. I’d thought it, myself, on occasion. We spied two deer eating acorns under the oaks before they saw us and fled for the woods. 
"Brandon died day before yesterday."

“Oh, no. ” 

Brandon was the golden retriever he’d rescued a couple of years ago. He couldn’t stand seeing a dog without a home and he now had a pack of about 14 dogs. At least two or three times a day, they’d gather in the front yard. One would begin with short, high yips and within a moment the others would join in, howling and yipping at ghosts.
Brandon had been a steady quiet, companion who never complained. 

“Remember how he chased after the car the last time you were here? A few days later he just lay down and died. He seemed just fine, and then he died.”I wondered how old he'd been.
We stopped beneath the oaks from which the deer had fled. He showed me how to tell the difference between a buck and a doe.

“The scat the doe leaves looks like little round balls, like pebbles. See?” 

I looked.

“Now, look over here. This is a buck.”

Several mounds of scat, larger than the first, like little mushrooms bloomed beneath the tree among the acorns and the leaves. I thought about all the lessons I’d missed by moving so far away. 

By the gate, the trunk still stood as he'd left it. I looked down into the hollow. Twisted through the trunk was some ancient barbed wire that emerged again on the outside of the tree.

"Only thing I can figure," he said, "is somebody hung that shoe on that fence a hundred or more years ago, and the tree just grew around it." 

He reached in and pulled out the shoe where he'd hung it. 

"Well, I'll be," I said, shaking my head. I wondered why the shoe hadn't become embedded in the tree. Who had put that shoe on the nail? How long had they been gone? Does anyone remember them? I tried to remember when barbed wire was invented. How many people had come and gone since that day? 

I remembered the arrowheads we'd found in the lakebed a few years before, just feet from that spot. 

"I'm tired," he said. "I don't know why I'm always tired lately." 

We started back to the house so he could lie down for awhile in the cool of the evening.

Ladies' Man

A few days after my father's funeral, I stopped in to see Mimi Miller at The Historic Natchez Foundation.  She told me she'd been too shy to get up in front of a crowd and tell one of her stories about my dad at the service, but if she had, one of the stories she'd have told was of the first time she met him.

"I was intrigued by him," she said.

My father had this -- je ne sais quoi -- charisma.  He was handsome and self-assured.

It was at a party my parents were giving with another couple.  Somehow the conversation turned to the question:  What is your favorite thing to do?

Most people had the usual replies:  traveling to Europe, watching football games, going to the lake with friends, dining out.

When it came my father's turn to reply, he didn't miss a beat:  "Carpool."

"Carpool?"

People looked confused.

"Yes," he said. "Every morning I get to drive my children to school.  I have them all to myself.  Sometimes I pick them up in the afternoon and drive them home.  It's my favorite thing to do, the best part of my day."

He didn't say anything about going out on the river, hunting....anything.  His children were his favorite thing.  The man who had every woman's eye on him wanted nothing more than to be with his children.

What a guy.

I only hope I lived up to what a child should be to her parent.  He did his part, in spades.

Celebration of LIfe - Howard Pritchartt, Jr.

On March 9, Howard Pritchartt, Jr.'s family and friends gathered for a celebration of his life.  My father's one request for his funeral was that he have no preachers speaking over him.  So instead, we simply invited one and all who knew him to come up and tell a story.

It started off with a beautiful eulogy by my dear friend, Brent Bourland.  After that, we all told some stories, remembered the wonderful times.  It got downright silly at times, and after it was all over, we all agreed he would've approved.

For anyone who'd like to hear what kind of man Howard was, this is worth watching -- some of it sad, some of it amazing, and a whole lot of wicked funny.

Because my father's life was defined by his days on the Mississippi River, we ended it with a gorgeous a capella rendition of Old Man River.  Enjoy.



Video created and produced by: 

Bill Slatter Video Productions
423 Main Street
Natchez, Mississippi 39120
(601) 446-9401

Incredible Honor

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.

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.