Amazon Studios and Sony Pictures is working on a television series based on Natchez's own Greg Iles's, novel, Natchez Burning with Toby McGuire.
Read about it here: http://deadline.com/2015/04/natchez-burning-tv-series-tobey-maguire-greg-iles-david-hudgins-amazon-sony-792390/
and on the Natchez Democrat website here: http://www.natchezdemocrat.com/2015/04/02/natchez-burning-to-be-television-series/
Pull up an ice chest or a cotton bale, peel yourself a crawfish, make yourself comfortable and have some fun at the coolest little shack in town.
Search This Blog
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Monday, March 2, 2015
Let's Have a Ball while We Save the Hall!
Greetings!
Who is the Pilgrimage Historical Association – PHA?
In 1970, a small group of concerned and farsighted ladies founded
a nonprofit historical association, qualified as a tax-deductible 501(c)3, toward
“preserving the historical antebellum buildings in Natchez and Adams County,
Mississippi.”
What does PHA do?
The PHA wants to increase its endowment for the ongoing
preservation and restoration of PGC’s two premier National Historic
Landmarks: Stanton Hall and Longwood. There
are significant projects at both houses including
the repair and restoration of the dome,
the dependency, and the kitchen at Longwood, and analysis and repair of
structural issues impacting the exterior dentils at Stanton Hall.
When and Where?
The party will be on March 21, 2015 from 9:30 pm until 1:00
am at Stanton Hall in Natchez, Mississippi.
How do I get a ticket?
Tickets are $100 per person for the Ball and $125 per person
for the Ball and with reserved seating at the Tableaux. Tickets are available through Natchez
Pilgrimage Tours at natchezpilgimage.com or call 1-800-647-6742 or 601-446-6631. Patron tickets are also
available. Please contact freibergerkatiea@bellsouth.net
for more information on patron giving.
Why a Ball?
Because Natchez loves a party! The Save the Hall Ball hopes to gather donors
and old friends at a black-tie party with great food, open bar and a dance band
like the traditional Natchez pilgrimage balls. We also want to give tourists and other
interested people insider’s access to
this special event. A great party on the
grounds of Stanton Hall is a wonderful way to remind us of the beauty and
importance of these historic buildings.
They started it. Now it’s our
turn.
Donations can be sent to
Pilgrimage Historical Association
PO Box 347
Natchez, Mississippi 39121
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Roadtrip with a Raindrop
Fabulous trailer for the new book by Gayle Harper, who documents a raindrop's 90-day journey down the Mississippi from its headwaters to the Gulf of Mexico. And best of all? I'm in the book!
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Looking for Love on Valentine's Day
This little girl is looking for a forever home. She was found Valentine's Day morning on Cemetery Road, covered in ticks and very thin. She's had a bath and had all the ticks removed and is hoping someone will give her a place to call home. She's about two months old, and will make a fine pet.
If you're interested, please drop me an email at epritchartt@yahoo.com.
I'm delighted to announce that this pretty pup found a forever home the very next day with a young couple from Houston.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Laska by Frank Desprez
Anyone who reads this blog knows I like poetry. Here's an achingly beautiful recitation by cowboy poet Joel Nelson of Frank Desprez's piece, Laska.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Matters Familia - Ephemera


I used to have a little online bookstore. I loved venturing out to libraries, Goodwill and Salvation Army stores looking for books to sell on my online site. 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.
Monday, December 1, 2014
The Tractor
Photos by Randy Laird. Used with permission.
|
It stood motionless,
the Deere at the edge
of the woods, as though waiting
for something, for someone
to bring the come-along
and finish
what we started.
The bushes moved
in like guerilla soldiers. Stealthy.
The bush hog lay
wounded in the weeds.
And standing in that patch
of angled sunlight,
the heat ticking off
the hours
and minutes
and days
and moments
of reflection and rejection,
it seemed as though I heard a sigh.
The trees, their reply,
a sudden shudder,
showered leaves like trouble
you'd just as soon forget.
Birds burst forth with screams.
Why? Why?
Had the tractor been brought to clear the brush
or had the brush moved in to claim the tractor?
Who was the warrior here? Who the vanquished?
Insect battalions chant their nightly ululations
and the creepers crawl.
Like a Confederate soldier
fighting someone else's war,
the Deere stands, a silent sentinel
slowly bleeding
precious oil into the ground
and asks us to remember, or
at least not to forget.
Will man ever make order out of chaos
instead of the other way 'round?
Listen to the land. She will tell you.
Beyond the darkening woods,
behind the hill, you can feel it
a distant rumble
thunder, hoofbeats
the coming roar.
August 14, 2006
Saturday, November 15, 2014
The Journey
I spent the day enfolded
in the car, searching for reasons
not to go back to the house,
yearning for something
I couldn't name.
I left the inland desert,
traversed the valley and listened to
the songs of my youth.
A young Neil Young sang
to the old man I'd become
and I was struck with such
a sudden sadness it shocked
me from my reverie.
I looked around at other drivers,
their faces expressionless,
resigned.
No one saw the difference.
The car rode the crest
of the Sepulveda Pass and eased
into its descent like rolling off
a bed mid-dream. Before you know it
you've hit the floor, slightly hurt
and wondering how you'd not
seen it coming.
The Getty loomed like Mount Zion
in the sky, all angles and white.
The trolley sidled up the canyon wall
like a magician delivering
the sinners to Saint Peter.
The City of the Angels crouched like a cat
below, and the air suddenly changed.
I exited on Santa Monica Boulevard,
and waited at the light.
The bums are back.
It's like it was in the '80s,
and everything new is old again.
The blush of dusk hung
like a dirty persimmon
on the horizon.
Numb with anonymity,
I followed the stream
of lights that curled
back into the valley.
This is all there is.
No rhyme. No reason.
Just this.
And more of this.
I stopped at Circle K for milk,
and when I turned the corner
onto Copperhill, I braked.
A coyote.
In the sweep
of the headlights, he was
beautiful and lithe and seemed
right at home, even here.
I wanted to tell him so.
He trotted easily and crossed the street.
Unafraid.
He stopped at the edge
of the brush and turned to watch me,
as if to tell me something.
Go home.
And I cried because home is
so very far away.
~~ Elodie Pritchartt
Photo by Jeff Ackerman
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Poverty Point - Seeing History in a Whole New Way
Quick! What do the
pyramids in Egypt, the ruins of Machu Picchu in Peru, the Taj Mahal in India,
the Great Wall in China and the earthen mounds at Poverty Point, Louisiana have
in common? They are all recognized as UNESCO
World Heritage sites — natural and cultural sites of outstanding universal
value, which means they are important to the whole of humanity and should be
protected for present and future generations.
What is Poverty Point?
It’s one of the most amazing native-American earthworks in the Western Hemisphere,
and also among the oldest. Its discovery has altered the way historians view
the evolution of society in the New World.
Before its discovery the Middle East was considered the
cradle of civilization. But at nearly
the same time as the pyramids were being built in Egypt, people in the New
World were building cities, establishing trade routes that crossed thousands of
miles and creating a complex society in an age that predated agriculture. Hunter-gatherers were leaving their mark on history
in a spectacular fashion.
I’d never heard of
Poverty Point until a few years ago when someone mentioned it in passing. But that name! It’s kind of wonderful, isn’t it? It sounds like the name of a scary
movie. Cape Fear. Poverty Point. And so my first question on arrival was to
ask about the name.
Situated in northeastern Louisiana a few miles outside the
town of Delhi along the banks of Bayou Maçon, it was named after Poverty
Point Plantation, a 19th century farm that belonged to Phillip Guier
who settled in northeast Louisiana in 1832 with his wife, Sarah. He acquired the land in 1843 and in 1851, the
plantation became known as Poverty Point or Hard Times Plantation.
“Mr. Guier moved down here from Kentucky,” said David
Griffing, Poverty Point Site Supervisor.
“There was actually a place up in Kentucky called Poverty Point,” he
continued, “and we think maybe he named it that to make his wife feel more at
home.”
Archaeologist Jessica Crawford added, “Yes. He brings her to this place out in the middle
of nowhere and says, “Welcome home, honey!”
We all laughed. I
couldn’t help but think of Jack Nicholson in Stephen King’s The Shining, a
frightful smile on his face.
“Honey! I’m home!”
While the mounds and artifacts were well known, it wasn’t
until 1953 when the discovery of a 20-year-old aerial photograph revealed six
concentric ridges in the shape of semicircles around an open plaza that people
realized what a treasure lay there. The
man-made structure is so large it defies recognition from the ground. This new information revealed evidence of a
highly developed, ancient American culture.
The site consists of six earthen mounds as well as six
enormous, nested, C-shaped ridges and a large, flat interior plaza that likely contained
big circles of wooden posts. No other
site has a similar design.
Prior to the discovery of the photograph, the land had
been farmed from the 1840s all the way into the 1970s, and plowing had leveled
the ridges to only about a foot in height, but at one time they were between
four and six feet high and about 140 to 200 feet apart. The semicircles measure a distance nearly
three quarters of a mile. Straightened
out, they would stretch for seven miles.
The ridges served as living space with huts along the top
where people lived and manufactured tools and prepared food. Though the population likely varied
seasonally, it is thought that it held from several hundred to as many as 4,000
people, year-round for as many as 600 years.
At the center of the site is a plaza that covers about 37
acres. It is believed it was used for
ceremonies, rituals, dances, games and other activities. On the western side of the plaza,
archeologists have discovered several deep holes in circles of various sizes,
which they believe held long poles, possibly serving as calendar markers. Also located within the plaza are Dunbar
Mound and Sarah’s Mound, named after Sarah Guier, who is buried in it. Evidence suggests that Sarah’s Mound was constructed
about 1,000 years after the decline of the Poverty Point culture.
Outside the Ridge enclosure are five other mounds. “The mounds probably served a variety of purposes,”
said Jon L. Gibson, Ph.D. “But their
form and their particular location suggest that they were part of the
protection system the Indians had set up to protect their way of life.
“They’ve got six mounds that form a square or at least a
partial square,” he said. “They’ve got
six rings that form a semi-circle so they looked like there were two methods of using
some insurance to protect their activities inside. Southeastern Indians believed that geometry
is the main protection against outside evil.”
Scientists believe the mounds were used for special
activities or as gathering places for the elite.
A tram tour gives visitors a relaxing way to view the
entire site, which, if hiked, is about two miles long. For the last day in August, the weather was
unseasonably cool with an overcast sky — perfect for enjoying a ride narrated
by our extremely knowledgeable guide, Park Ranger Cleon Crockett.
The largest — Mound A or “The Bird Mound” — is believed to
be an effigy mound constructed in the shape of bird in flight, flying due West.
Today it is 72 feet high, and 600 by 800 feet wide. Before 3,000 years of erosion, however, this
mound was probably over 100 feet tall.
It was built entirely by hand by hunter-gatherers without
the advantage of domesticated pack animals.
This amounts to over 300,000 cubic yards of dirt, carried in well over
15.5 million 50-pound baskets from the borrow pit behind it. That would amount to about 18,000 dump
truckloads of dirt.
And the most amazing thing of all? Archeologists believe that Mound A was built from
within 30 to 90 days. Core samples taken
from the mound showed no evidence of grass or vegetation sprouting within the
mound nor was there evidence of leaching from rainfall within the mound or any
residue left from earthworms, grubs, molds or any other boring animals. That meant that the mound was built in one
continuous episode over a very short period of time, during one season.
Riding around to the rear of Mound A, we emerged from a
copse of woods to an open field. Ranger
Crockett pointed across to the edge of the woods.
“There’s a black bear, right across over there. See him?
I can see him.”
As the bear lumbered quickly back into the shelter of the
woods, I thought about the hunter-gatherers who found game so plentiful
here. I imagined an Indian wrapped up
warmly in a bearskin cloak during the cold winter months. No remains of
clothing have ever been found, so what they wore is anyone’s guess.
Although no one knows exactly why the Poverty Point people
settled exactly where they did, they obviously liked the margins of the ridges
like Maçon
Ridge. This afforded them high ground, which kept the site dry during seasonal
flooding and afforded good living conditions adjacent to very rich bottomland
forest, abundant with plants and wildlife and fisheries.
Mound B is a domed mound.
Although domed mounds were often used for burial, no excavations from
Poverty Point have revealed burial sites.
Mound E is a large, flat, square-shaped mound. Offsite sits Lower
Jackson mound, which is privately owned and is about 1,300 years older than
Mound A. Mounds A, E, B and lower
Jackson form a straight line that runs due north and south. It is believed that the Poverty Point people
purposely aligned the later mounds with the lower Jackson mound to form that
north-south line.
“In terms of the artifacts, Poverty Point probably
contains just about every kind of artifact that was made by the archaic peoples
in the eastern United States. It also
has some artifacts that were not made by the general southeastern peoples or
other eastern peoples,” said Dr. Gibson.
Besides the enormous earthworks and mounds, another
hallmark of the Poverty Point culture is long-distance trade. The later cultures didn’t build the large
mounds.
“The other difference is the trade was not nearly as
extensive as it was during the heyday of the Poverty Point occupation,” said
archeologist Robert Connolly, Ph.D.
Since there were no local stones on the Macon Ridge, rocks
were major trade goods. They acquired stones from the Ouachita, Ozark and Appalachian
mountains. Even copper from the Great
Lakes 1,400 miles away.
“Rivers were almost certainly used in bringing in the
trade materials because we’re talking about such a massive volume of
material. In fact, we’ve estimated over
71 metric tons of foreign flint occurs on the Poverty Point site,” said Dr.
Gibson.
The predominance of fish and reptile bones at the site
suggest most of their food came from slow-moving water. Indeed, archeologists have discovered what at
one time was a large lake where only farmland remains today.
Fishermen may have used cast and gill fishing nets
weighted with plummets to cast out for the fish.
“You really don’t have to angle to catch fish. You can set out traps,” said Gibson.
These traps did the work for them while they did other
things such as making tools or hunting.
“It put an awful lot of food in their larders.”
Other game was also plentiful, including rabbit, deer,
ducks, geese, turkeys, etc. Spears,
arrowheads, cooking balls, tools, pottery, beads, ornaments, effigies, etc.
have been found in abundance at Poverty Point.
Many of these items indicate that there was a social structure in the
culture, which differentiated the important from the common person. A visit to the main museum at the site is an
eye opener to the civilization that had heretofore gone unnoticed.
Poverty Point is only the 22nd World Heritage
Site in the US.
“This is a huge win for Louisiana,” said Lt. Governor
Jay Dardenne. ““The World Heritage designation solidifies Poverty Point as one of the
world’s greatest archaeological treasures.”
Poverty
Point State Historic Site is open daily from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $4
and provides access to the area museum, video and seasonal tram tour. Children
under 12 and senior citizens are admitted free. Poverty Point is located in
West Carroll Parish, east of Monroe, on La. 577. For more information, visit www.LaStateParks.com or call 888.926.5492.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)