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Saturday, April 4, 2015

Natchez in the Limelight

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/




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

The monumental earthworks at Poverty Point were built by laborers who carried 300,000 cubic yards of dirt in fifty-pound baskets. The site’s hallmark feature is the six concentric, semi-circular rings surrounding an interior plaza. Scale model by KiwiMill LLC. Photograph by John Smillie.
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.