World War II Letter from My Father to My Great Grandmother

Dear Dear, (He called his grandmother Dear)

     By the time you get this letter I guess Mubber and Daddy will be on their way to see me.  You will probably get this Saturday morning because the mail from here won't leave out until Thursday morning (tomorrow morning).


     The other day I finally managed to take the time off to go and get the packages Mubber sent me.  I really needed the stuff and clothes that were in them.  Also I cashed the money order for $15 that Daddy sent me.  I didn't need it just yet though.

     Today they taught us how to conceal ourselves in the bushes and spy on the enemy.  That is just what I did all last winter when I was hunting ducks on the sand bar.  That's why I wanted to get into the infantry where each man is a single unit.  Yesterday we threw hand grenades.  You pull out a little pin and hold down a lever on the side of the grenade.  As long as the grenade is held tight, the lever stays down.  When you throw it, the lever goes up and sets off a fuse.  After a while the grenade explodes, giving you plenty of time to fall into a trench.  It's a lot of fun, but I won't do it any more, so you don't have to worry.  You see, we are through training with hand grenades.

     We march and drill a lot during the day and also we attend lectures by the officers.  They teach us a lot about first aid and many other things.  It's quite interesting.

     Well, I can't think of anything else worthwhile to tell about, so I'll have to go.  Tell Aunt Bessie and Fannie Rose that I will write them soon.  Also I will write to Taddy again.  I guess Anna and Ida have gotten my letter by now.

     Well, take care of yourself and be sure the gas is off at night.

                                                                                                     Love,
                                                                                                            Howard


For more of my fathers adventures in World War II, go here and here.

Matters Familia - Letter from Greenville 1947

Natchez Cotton Carnival 1921

A New Lease on Life for our Strays in Natchez/Adams County, MS

Annet's House

Found another photo of my great aunt's house on the bluff overlooking the river in Natchez, Mississippi. They had to work to keep that afternoon sun from heating the house. They tried vines and awnings and trees. Last photo is the house as it looks today. The new owners did a fabulous restoration.

The last is a link to a .pdf file of a Union pass I found in the house.  It belonged to my great grandmother, who was from Alton, Illinois.  She was allowed to go back and forth across the Union lines because she was a good dance partner and could play a card game called Euchre.

This link is for the Union Pass.

To read about the history of the house, go to:  http://shantybellum.blogspot.com/2011/09/long-farewell.html

The Showboat's Comin'! - 1951

I've had this picture a few days and have been trying to get information on who's in it and where they were going.  I found out yesterday from Bettye Jenkins that these Natchez belles were on a train on their way to the 1951 film premiere of Showboat, which was filmed in Natchez.  Please see the caption under the photo for identities.  If I've mistakenly identified anyone, please feel free to let me know.

So far, here's what I have:

Man seated in center aisle, Xaviar Cugat, a famous band leader who was married to Charo; woman seated next to him on the right, Gladys Schaifer; seated far right, Katherine Miller; man behind the partition, Joe Kellogg; woman standing in between two other women, Ruth Adele Hayles Lovitt, who was serving as Miss Hospitality in Natchez.

Chicago Negro Tells of Her Experiences

Civil Rights March
Alabama
1965

While going through old family papers, I came upon this little bizarre piece of history.  It appeared in the summer of 1963.  Click the link.

At first, I thought it couldn't have been written by a Black person, but upon doing a Google search, I did find Sallie Mae Lewis and the article.

I don't usually post controversial topics on my blog but this was just so unusual, I felt I had to share.  If anyone knows more about this article and story, feel free to comment.  Please note, however, that all comments will be moderated.

New Municipal Building of Natchez, Mississippi 1903 - 1924

I've been going through boxes of family photos and documents, and came across this little gem, which is known today as Natchez City Hall.  Two of my relatives are listed herein:  C.F. Patterson, my great uncle, who was a judge, and lived right across the street from where I live now.  We knew him as Judge Charlie Patterson.  Also W.H. Pritchartt, who was my great grandfather and was an alderman.  I've included a photo of him as a young man, taken in 1852 at the Strauss Photo Studio, 1818 Franklin Avenue, St. Louis, MO.

Natchez Rifles Group

Natchez Rifles Group
John Davis, Kirby Grafton, P.D. Whitney, (illegible)
Sponsors
Miss Bessie Rose
(Mrs. C.V. Patterson)
Maids of Honor
Miss Jennie Raworth
Miss Estelle Schwartz
(Mrs. Tom Carson)

I've written the identities of these folks exactly as written on the back.  If anyone can help me with further identification as well as a date, and the history of the group, I would greatly appreciate it.

Long Gone

In the pictures
we seldom smiled.

Stubborn children
forced to pause
and pose before the hearth
in the cabin
in the woods
in the childhood
in the life
he'd built
in the
happy time.

He pulls the tattered box
From under the bed,
studies each fading moment
for clues.
The lamp sheds no new light
On the mystery of us.

The smell of dust,
the screen door’s slam,
the island in the pond
saddles in the shed,
the boat, the chill,
the sweat, the water,
the shadow and the light
the silence of a Sunday
night waiting
while he locked the gate.

Turned the key
On another memory.

The sandbar,
Alligator gar and
Busch beer in a pull-tab can.
Dinosaurs, all gone
like the sound of a horn on a barge,
first large then drifting away.

He puts the pictures back,
Hopes the phone won’t ring,
bringing something new
to grieve.
Lying back, he sighs,
Closes his eyes and waits.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Civil War Journal of my great, great grandfather, Henry Elias Munger

Last night I dreamt I was out at Daddy's. He and I had gone through the attic and the barn and the basement and pulled out all this old family-related stuff. My grandmother had a brother named Joseph Niebert Carpenter who died when he was two. I dreamed we found his baby shoes and his first efforts at writing and drawing. Silver with his initials on it.

There were paintings of people and places I'd never seen. There was a diary written by someone named Miller from the 1800s. World War I and II guns and photos and letters.

I was just asking Daddy to put stickum notes on everything explaining who these people were and how we were connected to them when Tommy came in to wake me up. It was such a sweet dream, visiting with Daddy and talking about old family stories. I didn't want to wake up. Ever.

I've lost my parents and several of my friends' parents in the past few years.  If you can, try to sit and listen to the family stories.  Record them with your phone and write them down.  Go through the old family albums and identify the people, places and times they were taken.

It is a gift that will reward you and your descendants for years to come.

Book Signing at Turning Pages in Natchez, MS

On Monday, May 18, Turning Pages Bookstore is hosting a book signing by author Gayle Harper, whose book, Roadtrip with a Raindrop, is currently a finalist for Book of the Year in the Travel category of Foreword Reviews annual INDIEFAB competition.

Turning Pages Bookstore is located at 509 Franklin Street, Natchez, Mississippi 39120.  It is across the street from Natchez Coffee Company.

5:30 p.m. - Book Signing
6:00 p.m. - Multimedia Presentation
7:00 p.m. - Book Signing & Visiting

Gayle will be on Book Tour throughout 2015, and this is the only scheduled visit open to the general public in Natchez.

It's a beautiful book.  I've seen it.  Y'all come!

For more information, call Mary at Turning Pages Bookstore.  601-442-2299

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/

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

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!

http://youtu.be/m0zmzxmkj4s

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.

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.

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.

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

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