Thoughts From the Front Porch

It was only a few days after the murders, and Byrd thought of somebody who might have done it.

After the double funeral on Monday, he’d tossed and turned at lot — truth be told, he hadn’t slept much all week.  Byrd had stood right up there in the Methodist Church the day of that double funeral. Stood right down there in front next to the altar and pledged to himself, as he hoisted his part of Doc’s casket on to his shoulder, that he wouldn’t rest till they put somebody in jail for these killin’s. And he didn’t rest. He could barely close his eyes. But on Thursday morning he got right up and went straight on to the Sheriff’s house in Ashville, just like any good citizen would’ve done. He figured he had the answer.

He was awake most of those nights pondering on these killin’s and all the evidence that was being collected. He’d felt sure to start with, because of the fire, there wouldn’t be much evidence to collect. But, apparently, there had been quite a lot.

That Wednesday night after the Coroner’s jury come back with a verdict, Byrd begun to study on the question pretty serious. Hank Spain, the coroner, had done right well with that jury on Saturday. Near ’bout had ‘em come back that day with a verdict of accidental death. That would’ve been the best thing. That was what ever-body said it was, even the city newspaper. But a few of ‘em in there on that jury refused to cooperate. Hank said it was that Fate Wilkinson and Brother Herman that couldn’t be reasoned with. Said they insisted on waitin’ till the autopsy report was in. Dang elders of the Methodist Church.

Well, they adjourned on Saturday evenin’ and come back Tuesday morning to convene again. So Byrd went up there and parked his car out by the courthouse and waited a while, till he saw Rufus Samples drivin’ one of Hank’s taxis. Rufus dropped Lother Green off at the corner drugstore. Since he’d gotten so old, Lother always took the taxi to the drugstore on Tuesday afternoons about one o’clock. That was when the old men at Wisdom Corner got started up with their afternoon session of opinionatin’. Byrd tried to sit in with ‘em once in a while, just often enough the keep his finger on the pulse of the town’s opinion. Or more like to keep his finger in the pie. That day though, Byrd had something else on his mind. He waved Rufus over to send him on a little errand.

Rufus was accustomed to runnin’ errands around town. He’d go for medicine when somebody’s child was sick. Been sent to pick up a many a grocery order and went on in through the kitchen door and put the stuff up in the cabinets, if he knew where it belonged.  Been sent for home-made whiskey or bonded, depending on the customers’ tastes, when a body wasn’t able to git out and git their own for one reason or another. Anything that required an automobile where none was to be had, Rufus did it for a small fee. Lot of folks did without automobiles around town back then.

Byrd’s errand wasn’t going to take him all that far. All he wanted was for Rufus to go in there in the room where that coroner’s jury was meeting and get Hank to come on out and visit with him a while in his car. So Byrd scribbled out something on a little piece of note paper and folded it up real little, and Rufus carried it in there and slipped it to Hank in the jury room and left. And tucked the extra dollar in his pocket. Like fallin’ off a log.

In a little bit, here come Hank and gets in Byrd’s car. They disappear out back of the Wo-Co-Pep, and Rufus didn’t know what become of ‘em after that. He went on back to the taxi stand to wait for another call.

In the jury room, Hank Spain had told that he was going out to talk to Rufus. Since he was the coroner and the foreman of the jury, he put himself in charge. He said he’d go ask Rufus about that trip folks were saying he made out to the McIntosh house the night of the fire. Mrs. Buttram had said in town that it was Hank himself that went out there, but Hank had already denied that. So he told ‘em he’d go ask Rufus.

The jury and the witnesses waited for the coroner to come back before anything else was discussed. It seemed like the right thing at the time. And that state toxicologist, Rivers, that done the autopsy, he was there with his report waiting to tell about it. Brother Herman said he looked at his watch when the coroner stepped out of the room, and that it was about sixteen minutes after one. And after a while Mr. Latimer got to thinking about a Co-cola, it being so hot in there. And he spoke right up and said he wanted one and could he bring one back for anybody else. Mr. Wilkinson said he believed he would have one. So Mr. Latimer walked out to the service station to get a couple out of the cooler.

As he come out holding the Co-cola bottles in one hand, Mr. Latimer held the door open for Gladys Albright with the other and happened to glance back towards the alley. There was Byrd Richardson’s Lincoln, and the foreman of the jury, the coroner, and the owner of the taxi company sitting back there in the alley in the Lincoln with Byrd. And that just added up to two people total. Mr. Latimer found something odd in that, so he mentioned it under his breath to Brother Herman soon as he could get back in the room. Didn’t take five minutes before the whole jury knew where Spain was and who he was talking to. Of course, they managed to get it all around the room without lettin’ on to the witness, Dr. Rivers. But, in about twelve hours, everybody else in town knew it. And Hank Spain was defeated in the next election.

Brother said it was twenty-seven minutes altogether before Hank Spain come back to the jury room. And that’s when he told, with the straightest face you ever saw. that he had established without a doubt that none of his drivers made a trip to the McIntosh house the night the couple died. The jury just nodded at him and knew what they knew.

Then, finally, they let that doctor testify about his autopsy. He just started off and kept on till he was done talking and told it all in one piece. What he told made the folks that had to hear it cringe and  shudder quite a lot. Brother Herman turned green and got queasy. Two three times we thought he’d have to go out.

Seven knife wounds in the doctor’s heart and two in his left lung. His lower body and limbs so burned away as to make “determination of sex” impossible. The room full of men gasped all at once at the thought of that.

“The other body,” the jury knew, was Kathleen, although there was so little of her left, the doctor said, there was no way to tell for sure who it was. He said there was whole lot less of her left than there was of Doc. “Smaller in stature,” the man said, “her body was more nearly consumed by fire.” There wasn’t much left beyond just the internal parts of her torso, and not much of that. Almost all her the bones were gone, but just a bit of skull left. Her chest was almost all burned away. There just was enough of Kathleen’s heart left to tell there was an “intra-pericardial hemorrhage.” Meaning she was stabbed too. How many times she was stabbed or whether it was actually what killed her, it was impossible for Dr. Rivers to say.

It occurred to somebody that the fire had been hotter that burned the woman. So he asked was there more gasoline poured on her than him. And the doctor said that he couldn’t say for sure what the fuel was, as all of it, of course, had burned away, but in his judgment there was more of it used on the smaller body. And then it occurred to two or three people that maybe it was Kathleen the killer was really mad at.

There was the question of carbon-monoxide poisoning. On this the state toxicologist was clear. “They could’ve died of it, but it was the stab wounds that made them collapse into unconsciousness from shock before the fire was underway. They would’ve died from the stabbing, if there had been no fire at all. So the question’s moot.”

Mr. Spain sat and listened to all of this testimony on the autopsy and said right out before anybody else could talk, said, “It sounds like a clear case of murder/suicide to me,” and he asked if Dr. Rivers didn’t think it was too.

Dr. Rivers looked at him for a long minute and answered “No.” Said, “It couldn’t have been murder/suicide. Because in all my professional career, I’ve never heard of anybody stabbing their spouse to death and then stabbing himself to death and then pouring gasoline over both of them and lighting a match. If the point had been only murder/suicide, the addition of the gasoline and the match would have been superfluous.”

Murder/suicide had sounded about right to Byrd when he and Hank had discussed it. But when the jury come back they’d decided it was “murder by party or parties unknown.”

Byrd was near ’bout runnin’ on empty by Wednesday night. He hadn’t slept much at all since the latter part of the week before. Naturally, he’d been worrying about these murders. There’d been law all over the place. Autopsies and fire marshalls. State investigators asking questions.

When he got to Ashville Thursday morning, he told the Sheriff Dodge, “I don’t know why in hell I never thought about this un before now. Don’t know what took me so long.”

Sheriff Dodge looked squint-eyed at Byrd and said, “Say, you don’t?”

“Naw.This is the very one. Got to be. Got the motive. Got plenty of opportunity.”

Sheriff said, “Who you reckon did it then?”

Byrd was real pleased with himself. “Well, it just makes sense when you think about it. It had to be that hired man of Doc’s, lives out there behind ‘em. Eli Neeley.”

“What kind of motive’s he got. What did he have against Doc and nem?”

“Why, don’t you remember a couple years ago on Christmas? Doc come after him with an axe.”

So a week after the murders, the sheriff contacted the State Police and they come and got Eli and took him off to the jail. Searched all in his house for bloody clothes and the knife and such like. Turned ever-thang up and looked under it, Eunice just a-fussin’ at ‘em the whole time. Took his only pair of good shoes and sent ‘em off to be examined for evidence. Eli missed a week’s work at the cotton mill and figured it’d cost him his job too, being accused of something he didn’t do. Then he thought he’d be real lucky to get out of this thing alive.

Eli worried the whole time the law had kept him penned up in that jail. Not about them lynchin’ him or such as that, although that did cross his mind. What he worried about was that Miss Kathleen’s folks would think he did it. The law wanted it to be him. He had a tight alibi, but he didn’t know if they’d see fit to check it out or not. Been to Birmin’ham that night to the All Night Sing. A hundred different people saw him. After a time, a few days, the law give up. Eli reckoned they’d talked to some of those people. They couldn’t find nothin’ on him. But he knew they sho’ wanted to. They had to come and let him out, and he could see how bad they hated it. The state kept his shoes that cost him a days wages new. Never sent ‘em back. But the mill kept him on at his job and that was a blessin’.

And the next day, after Eli got let out, he gathered up his courage and went to see Miss Kathleen’s folks. He knew Kathleen’s Daddy and Miss Dolly, they might wanna cuss ‘im. They might hate ‘im. Might believe them white folks that said he was the one that done it. But he had to see ‘um anyhow. He wanted to look Miss Kathleen’s folks in the eye so they could see the truth in him.  He wanted them to know he never could have done such a thing as that. He wouldn’t never hurt the doctor nor Miss Kathleen. He was ready to take up the Scriptures and swear an oath on it.

And so Eli knocked on their door ready to be cussed. And he waited with a sort of wince on his face and in his heart too. But, when Miss Dolly opened the door, she didn’t cuss him. She said ” Oh, Eli. Come on in. It’s about time them witless scoundrels finally let you out.” Praise be to the Lord. Miss Kathleen’s folks didn’t hate him. Her Daddy said, “Eli, we knew you never did it. We knew you didn’t have it in you to be killin’ folks.” They all stood there in Miss Dolly’s living room and wept together and shared the burden of their grief with each other. Eli told ‘em Eunice was a-praying for ‘em all the time. And Eli prayed to Jesus right then and called out to Him that He’d lift them folks up. But Eli’s load, it was lighter already, ’cause Miss Kathleen’s folks believed him. They knowed it wasn’t Eli that done them evil killin’s.

The Right Southern Corner is a series by Sara Rast
Copyright: 2009 Sara Love Rast. All rights reserved.

The Right Southern Corner

Partlow Withers come back from the war and went to work over there at the Wo-Co-Pep gas station. Yeah. He worked there a couple a-months, bein’ a grease monkey, pumpin’ gas and what-all. And here come ol’ Byrd Richardson drivin’ up one day in that brand new, cream-colored Packard convertible. An’ you got to understand. It wadn’t nobody buying new cars in nem days. Hadn’t nobody seen a new car in them parts since before the war. Why, we thought they hadn’t made ‘em yet. But there was Byrd drivin’ one. ‘At thang had leather seats same color as the body paint. Like cream in the top of a milk bottle. It uz posh. So Partlow was filling up Byrd’s new Packard and checking his oil, and first thang you know, he was hired. Jest like ‘at. Had him a new career, bein’ Byrd Richardson’s driver or show-fur or whatchamacallit. Work seemed easy then, jest drive that car, keep her clean an’ her oil changed. Tune ‘er up and gas ‘er up. Couldn’t ask for nothin’ better. The pay was real good too. Ever now and then, when he was really tanked, ol’ Byrd uh’d throw a couple a hun’erd-dollar bills Partlow’s way. Partlow had to admit he was a mite disappointed when Byrd sold that Packard and bought hisself a Lincoln Continental. But, that was all right too. Only thang Partlow had to do that was hard was to stay sober. Gettin’ drunk, that was Byrd’s job.

At any rate Byrd never was apparently none too sober, but that was all right. Because he kept  Partlow on permanent retainer jest for drivin’ him around. That arrangement was convenient, Byrd said, in case the opportunity for impromptu drunkeness ever made itself available to him. As if there’s ever been any other kind. An’ Byrd still got hisself arrested for drunk drivin’ ever couple a months, seems like. Or for fightin’. He had Partlow to drive him, but he’d still take a notion and take off drivin’ hisself. And get arrested. Then he’d get paid out uh jail and let Partlow do all the drivin’ for a while. That was ’bout all Byrd did. Get drunk. Git in trouble and git paid out. Well, that and chasin’ women. That uz why Partlow never could figger why Byrd got rid of that Parkard. The women ud jest sidle up to that thang. They liked it.

They say Byrd used to have a seat up thair on that New York Stock Exchange. A seat on the stock exchange seems like a big ole responsibility. So how do you get one? You buy it. Partlow found that out. But then, what in the world do you do with it? Make money, Partlow reckoned. Partlow thought it was highly likely ‘at Byrd’s daddy bought that thair stock exchange seat, tryin’ to find something Byrd ud take a likin’ to besides women and al-ke-hol. Or, it might be that Byrd’s granddaddy bought it back in the day when they was goin’ pretty cheap. Byrd’s granddaddy and daddy, they was right tight with their money. Kept ninety cents out of ever dollar they ever made, folks said. Money didn’t interest Byrd though, cause he always had plenty of it.  He was great for a good time, most folks said, free with his money, ‘fraid uh nothin’, ready to try anything. Truth be told, he wadn’t that easy to work for. He was given to bein’ a mite unreasonable.

That uz how Partlow found hisself drivin’ up one side of the county and down the other, in the middle of the night, with two drunks, each one with their own vehicle. Partlow didn’t quite know how to handle that situation. That was a new one on him. They went that night first and caught up with the Sheriff down’air at The Ark in Riverside. Partlow figgered the Sheriff was collectin’ his protection money. That Ark was already landlocked then, in a reg’lar buildin’. Used to, it uz tied up to one dock or the other on the Coosa River, dependin’ on whether the Talladega County law or the St. Clair County law was paid up on their protection money. You know, one time the whole dang country was dry. Ever-body. Or them folks in Washington thought so. This here county never was dry, the whole time. Bootleggin’ was big business. When they got rid of that prohibition up yonder, it wadn’t long before Birmin’ham went wet. But this here county? No sir. They’d bring it up for a vote out here, an’ the preachers and bootleggers, they’d vote it down ever time. So The Ark ud be afloat out air on the river and they’d get wind of a raid from one side or the other, and jest take their party on out to the middle where they could drink an’ gamble all they cared to and the law couldn’t touch ‘em. The Sheriff, he got paid to tip ‘em off, back in nem days. When they got on land, the Sheriff jest made sure they wasn’t bothered.

Looked like that night, the Sheriff got paid off mainly in trade. He’d already had ‘im a snoot full ‘fore Byrd and Partlow got there. So Byrd had him a few and then he got the Sheriff in the patrol car and took off down towards New London to that camp where the Masons or the Civitan or whatever it was was havin’ ‘em a-meetin, and Partlow followin’ in the Lincoln. They stayed down there a while. Didn’t seem to Partlow like they uz none too welcome, but Byrd, he never took no notice of such as that. Jest went where he pleased.  And ol’ Byrd, finally he jest announces to ever-body that the Sheriff was too drunk to drive and so he was a-goin to drive the Sheriff home. Like as if he wadn’t jest as drunk. And he told Partlow to follow along behind. So Byrd th’ows the Sheriff in the back of the patrol car and he gets in the driver’s seat and goes to flying off up that dirt road in the dark like all git-out. Dust a-rollin up behind him so bad, Partlow couldn’t hardly see. But he knew how to get to Ashville, so that was the way he went. Wadn’t long he found the patrol car again out on the highway. And he jest fell in behind. But they didn’t go to Ashville. Now Partlow liked to tell this part. They didn’t even go towards Ashville. They was on 231 a-headin north, and all they had to do was jest to keep a-going. But they didn’t. Ol’ Byrd, he jest took that left right there in the front of the Baptist Church and went on through town on 78 up to Eden. With the Sheriff passed out in the back seat, thinkin’ he was a-goin home. If he thought a-tall.

Later on Partlow wondered why in tarnation he didn’t jest keep on goin’ north on 231. Like he hadn’t seen the sheriff’s car take that turn. It would a-been a sight lot better for him if he had. But he didn’t. He turned too, and followed  Byrd  on up Highway 78, toward Birmin’ham. Been a whole lot better if they’d jest kep’ on a-goin to Birmin’ham. But they didn’t. They turned in there at the doctor’s house.  All the lights was on. Look like they had ‘em some company. But that didn’t stop Ol’ Byrd. Lord no. Partlow knew better than to drop in on folks that already had company. His mama taught him that. Sometimes he wondered if Byrd’s mama ever taught him anything.

Byrd pulled up and parked. Partlow pulled up and parked too. Byrd got out. Partlow stayed put and, best he could tell, the Sheriff did too. Byrd went on in the house. Didn’t knock,  jest went on in like he owned it. His mama didn’t teach him nothing. Will and Lois Yates come out as he uz goin’ in. They spoke polite-like to ‘im. He didn’t say nothing. They jest looked at each other like who shot John, and ambled over to their car and left. The Yateses, they had them a big family of children at home.

Wadn’t long, maybe twenty minutes. Here come Mr. Spain’s taxi with Rufus Samples drivin’, but they didn’t get much chaince to visit. Cause soon as Rufus pulled up, Lavinia McCallum come a-runnin’, a-raisin all kind a cane and hollerin’ bloody murder for Rufus to get her outta there. Partlow didn’t pay much mind to Lavinia. He knew she was given to bein’ hysterical like that. But right on her tail, here come Howard Malloy an’ nen Billy Sparks and his wife. They got in their cars  in a hurry and lit out. Little bit later, maybe another ten, maybe fi’teen minutes, here come ol’ Byrd, jumpin’ in the driver’s seat uh that Sheriff’s car, a-takin off like a bat outta torment. So Partlow jest followed him like he was paid to do.

__________________________________

Nobody saw Sheriff Dodge around town for a few days. Partlow heard tell that the state police had to go up  to Ashville to see him. And the Sheriff and his wife gave the state man a sworn written statement sayin’ Byrd drove the Sheriff home, an’ they got there in Ashville at ’bout 12:30 p.m. Although Partlow was pretty sure they both meant “a.m.” They wadn’t payin’ too close attention to the details. Or the facts either. And they both of ‘em signed it. Partlow knew for a fact ‘at the Sheriff and Mrs. Dodge had done signed a lie.

A couple guys sitting on the Ashville courthouse square said they saw Sheriff Dodge git home by hisself ’bout 3:00 a.m. That ud be about right. They said they was there and they saw Sheriff Dodge get out of the car and walk to his house lookin’ mighty lopsided. Partlow never heard what those fellows was a-doin’ on the courthouse square at 3:00 a.m. But he didn’t care. He b’lieved ‘em.

For a long time after that night they wadn’t much else talked about in town. Folks was always askin’ Partlow to tell about it. And he did. It was a heavy load, knowin’ as much as he knew. And he uz glad to unload it on jest about anybody who’d listen. The ones ‘at did it, they told Partlow he’d git paid a thousand dollars for helpin’ with it, that part, you know, after them poor folks was dead. They told him they kill ‘im if he didn’t em help too. And Partlow couldn’t see no reason why they wouldn’t kill him, since they’d killed that doctor and his wife. So God forgive him, Partlow helped ‘em start that fire.

Partlow never did see any part of that money they talked about. But he didn’t ast for it either, like folks told. Truth be told, they tried to give it to him. He didn’t want no part of it. It uz jest like Judas silver to him. And they uz so wrathful at him he wouldn’t take it, Partlow thought they’s gonna kill him for that. His mama told him it uz one thing to sin, and a worse thing to lie about it. He uz scared of them folks, but he jest helt his ground anyway. They finally went on about their business talkin’ lies about them folks they killed and talkin’ lies about him too. They told that he begged for that money and they wouldn’t give it. And folks believed ‘em. That was the thing that got Partlow. They lied and folks believed ‘em.  It didn’t make no sense. They paid off plenty uh others. Why would anybody b’lieve that paltry amount they wanted to pay Partlow would-a meant s’much to em that they kept it on purpose? And they talked about it like they was proud to be payin’ folks off. Didn’t that mean they was guilty of the killin’s? But they knew nobody’d tell it. And they knew if they did tell nobody’d believe it. They told so many lies. So Partlow didn’t see why he ortn’t to jest tell the truth about it if anybody wanted to listen. And they uz plenty who did.

You know, they told in town that Partlow shot hisself and died. But he didn’t. That uz another lie. He never did. He uz rentin’ a house up there across from the hardware that summer. Little bitty house ’bout the size of a see-gar box. Not big enough to swang a cat in. And one night Partlow was a-sleeping in the bed, right up next to the open winder. It uz that summer, that August, right after it happened. And it uz hot as four foot up a—well it uz hot. And the winder was open. And somebody come up and put a pistol up against Partlow’s head and shot him. They said in town it uz meant to shut him up. They said in town ‘at Partlow was dead and folks b’lieved it too, till they saw him come a-walkin’ down the street. That uz something. To see folks’ faces when they seen Partlow comin’. That bullet went clean through Partlow’s head and come out on the other side. They found it in his mattress, that bullet. But the thang is, he never died. Not then. They told that he was dead, but he wadn’t.

The doctor said he’d seen about ever-thang. But that uz one ‘at took the cake. Said it jest wadn’t Partlow’s time to go. Said Partlow just had hisself a cheap low-bottom-ee. Said them thangs was always mighty crude and this un wadn’t too much worse. But Partlow reckoned it was a lesson to him. He figgered he lived for a reason. And it was to tell it about it.  And here’s the strangest thang. Partlow wadn’t scared of them people no more. But after that, he uz careful who he talked to about them murders.

He waited till Sheriff Dodge run for the legislature and got beat, where he wadn’t the sheriff. And till Mr. Spain, ‘at coroner, was voted outta office, cause he knew that man was in the killer’s pocket. The coroner ‘at uz elected right after Mr. Spain, Partlow sent word for him to come. And he did come and he was honest. He ast him ’bout them murders and Partlow told him all he could recollect. He always did feel bad for them folks in ‘at family. And that coroner took it down, what he said, and had it typed up and brung it back for Partlow to sign. And he signed it and swore to it. Cause it was the truth. Lot of folks told lies and swore to lies and said nothin’ when they ort to a-been talkin’. What Partlow told and signed his name to was the truth.

Then he waited for somethin’ to happen. But it never did. No arrest. Nothin’ in the paper. He told about it but it didn’t do a bit a good, except his conscience was lighter. But nobody ever did know what become of Partlow’s statement. It jest disappeared like ever-thang else.

The Right Southern Corner is a series by Sara Rast
Copyright: 2009 Sara Love Rast. All rights reserved.

The Right Southern Corner

In the spring of 1945, after my first year in school, step-father accepted the pastorate of three Cumberland Presbyterian Churches in Colbert County: Allsboro, Mt. Hester, and Maude. We were to move all the way across the state of Alabama, from the Georgia line to the Mississippi line.

The Stone House in Allsboro

All of our household goods were loaded on a truck, and we loaded ourselves into step-father’s Model-A Ford and left the little Brown House. We stopped at Granny and Pa’s to say good-bye, and we made a stop at Uncle John Winkler’s store on the bluff and said good-bye to him and Aunt Thelma. Then we headed down Sand Mountain to Scottsboro and on across the state.

It would seem that I would remember a great deal about such a long trip as that, but I don’t. We stopped in some town for the night. There were no rooms available in the hotel where we stopped, but the proprietor told step-father that we could sleep in the lobby. I curled up in a big over-stuffed chair and slept well. The next day we arrived at our new home in Allsboro, Alabama.

I loved the house we moved in to. It was built of sandstone and had a wide, cool front porch. And we had a crank telephone?something I’d never heard of before. I was admonished never to lift the receiver unless our combination of rings sounded. This was a party line, and it was wrong to listen in on someone else’s conversation. However, I did listen in?and enjoyed eavesdropping until the day I heard an hysterical woman telling someone how her drunken husband had beaten her. It frightened me so that I don’t think I ever eavesdropped again.

I must go back for a moment to Bryant and the war. On those evenings of talk on the porch, there was talk of airplanes and bombs, and I came to realize that people died from these things. But I don’t remember a plane until we moved to Allsboro. The war was still on, and we were not so isolated at Allsboro; so, there was more war news and talk about it.

It was here that I knew the war had come to me. Someone who probably lived in the Tri-Cities area (Florence, Sheffield, and Tuscumbia) had a small plane?or it could have been a crop duster, I guess. Anyway this Instrument of Death flew several times over our area, and I expected bombs to come bulls-eying in on me every time I heard that plane.

So, I took it to the Lord in prayer, and I beseeched the Almighty for protection. Specifically I requested that the bomb would blow everybody up but us. And I dreamed God complied. In my dream the whole world had been reduced to rubble?with one exception. High on a pinnacle that rose miles above the destruction stood our stone house, safe and protected.

I was in the second grade that fall in the Allsboro school. I’ve forgotten my teacher’s name; however, I can still see her clearly in my mind. She was a tall, old woman who wore her grey hair in a bun. She wore glasses perched upon her nose. She always knew what I was doing, even when her back was to the class. Her speech made an impression on me, probably because it was so different from the mountain speech I was accustomed to. I can still hear the soft r’s and soft vowels of her speech. She would not let us drink “wauta” (water) while eating an apple. After the apple was eaten, then we could have a drink of “wauta.” I was rather afraid of her and don’t think I liked her?nor do I think she liked me. She didn’t go to our church, so maybe I was not the right denomination!

Third grade was a different story. My teacher was a wonderful lady, Mrs. L. O. Bishop. Even today after having taught more than a third of a century, I think of Mrs. Bishop as an example of what a teacher should be: firm but loving; careful of a little person’s feelings. She probably perceived that it was not an ideal home situation for me, and I’ll bet she knew I’d grow up enjoying books and writing, music and museums. She encouraged my own artistic efforts. Mrs. L. O. Bishop was one of the really good things of my elementary school years.

It was during the fall of my second grade that World War II ended. Mother woke me up crying and laughing and hugging and kissing me. I asked her what had happened and she said, “The war is over! The war is over!” I knew that was something she had hoped and prayed for, so I asked why she was crying. “Because I’m so happy! she said. That was the first I knew that happiness could bring tears.

But the war was over, and her brothers and two brothers-in-law were coming home. The world was at peace again?for a few minutes.

Mama and Papa Reed's House in Allsboro

Our stay in Allsboro was less than two years, but I experienced a lot.

Mr. and Mrs. Reed? known to everybody as Mama and Papa Reed?had a large farm or plantation across the road from  our house and the church. In those days the Reeds owned 1,000 acres, and I think 900 acres are still in the family today. Most of the Reed’s farm workers were black, and I realized for the first time that some people were treated differently. I heard a white woman, in referring to the noonday feeding of the black field hands, say, “Just pitch it out to them like the dogs!” Mother was upset by this woman’s comment, and she and step-father talked about it in low tones in the quiet of the evening.

Father preached at the churches at Maude, Mt. Hester and Allsboro. The Allsboro church having more members probably had preaching 2 Sundays a month while the other two had preaching once a month. These were farming communities. One haying season, when a farmer’s barn was full of bales of hay, his barn caught fire. When we learned of the fire, we went to the farm in the trusty A-Model. We saw only the smoldering ruins of the barn, but I heard men telling Mother and Father that some of the horses ran back into the flaming barn and perished. That fire is a vivid memory and clear snapshot in my brain.

It was at Allsboro that I was led down the Primrose Path and took a puff off a cigarette. The older boy and girl were Papa and Mama Reed’s grandchildren. They had taken their dad’s cigarettes and invited me, on a Sunday afternoon at their house, to go with them to an outbuilding near the barn. They explained that we’d never be caught, because after we had taken our smoke, we would chew fresh green pine needles. The aroma of the chewed pine would cover our sin. So, we took our ease in Zion, so to speak, and smoked and chewed.
Misery and woe! As we chewed our pine needles, the children’s father appeared and demanded to know who was smoking. Before I knew what was happening, the boy and girl pointed their fingers at me and all was lost. I was taken directly to mother and step-father and all the blame was laid on me?as I remember it. Be sure your sins will find you out, but as far as I know, the other two wretches got off Scott free. And for the record, chewing fresh pine needles will not cover up the smell of smoke.

Papa Reed was a cotton planter, and he may have given step-father the idea of having me plant a small cotton patch between our house and the church–the idea being that all play and no work is not good for a growing boy! Wherever the idea may have come from, I had a cotton patch the summer between the second and third grade. I’m sure mother helped me tend it. When harvest time came, we picked the cotton and Papa Reed bought it. I think he paid $10.00 for it–far more than it was worth, probably. I don’t remember what happened to the money.

The living room of the stone house had a fireplace, and I had heard that Santa Claus came to visit through the fireplace chimney. I don’t think I ever believed much in Santa, for I remember discussing the matter with mother. But one day as the Christmas season of 1945 drew near, I wandered into the living room. Suddenly my eyes were riveted to the back of the fireplace?there was a long scrape mark in the soot?confirmation that Santa had practiced coming down our chimney. That Christmas I got a fine red wagon with slatted sideboards, and sometimes when I was playing with it, I wondered how on earth Santa got it down the chimney!

It was at our house in Allsboro that I asked mother about salvation. Mother always read me Bible stories at night?I still have the Bible Story Book that we nearly wore out. One day, when I was seven years old?when it was warm weather, for we were outside in the yard?I asked Mother how I could be saved. She explained the plan of salvation to me, and there under the trees at the side of the stone house, I asked Jesus to come into my heart.

Summer revivals were always important events in community life in those days. Specific revivals and names of visiting evangelists have not stayed with me, but the singing and the preaching and the altar calls are still in my heart’s memory. Services were held morning and night for at least one week and sometimes two weeks. The morning services were not as well-attended as night services, for there was farm work that had to be done even though revivals were held when crops were laid by. However, the church was usually full at night, and the singing was full and joyful. Those old songs became part of my very soul and they comfort my heart to this day. When the preaching ended and the altar calls were given, people responded, for the Lord moved in the peoples’ hearts. Revival time was always looked forward to with great anticipation. Modern revivals ain’t what they used to be!

It was while we lived here that I tried my hand at fashion designing– millinery enhancement, to be exact. In the 1940s no woman went to town without wearing a hat. We usually went to Iuka or Corinth, Mississippi, to shop. On this particular day we set out for town, Mother and Mr. Armstrong in the front and I in the back. However, on the way from the house to the car, I had picked up a lovely gray and black Bardrock chicken feather. Sitting in the back seat and looking at mother’s hat, I thought the feather in my hand would enhance it. So, I reached up and put it in her hatband.

On the way out of Allsboro we stopped at the Post Office, and it seems like we made another stop or two. And as I watched mother walk to and from the car at these places, I was completely satisfied with the addition of the feather to the hat–it definitely added class. At some point mother took her compact out of her purse and spotted the feather. She didn’t like it. She was mortified, in fact. There was nothing to do but retrace our stops so mother could go in and explain that she had been unaware of the feather her wayward son had placed on her hat!

During one of the shopping trips to Corinth, a ruckus arose over the purchase of a new wood-burning cook stove. He wanted it; she didn’t. There were angry words and a tense, silent ride back to Allsboro. In the next week or so, a crated iron stove was delivered to our house, but it remained on the back porch uncrated. And as far as I know, it was still on the back porch when we moved. Mother had asserted herself.

Sometime between the spring of 1945 and spring of 1947, we visited Granny and Pa once. I don’t remember why we went, but we made the trip by train there and back. Somebody met the train in Bridgeport and brought us back there to return to Allsboro. The train had a steam engine, of course, and the coach windows were open and our hair was full of cinders when we arrived. I remember mother shaking out her hair and having me do the same.

About February or March of my third grade year, I was surprised again by learning we were moving to a new place. And how these moves came about, I don’t know. I do not remember Mr. Armstrong being absent from us long enough to preach trial sermons at these churches, and we didn’t go with him if he did. However, we moved from Allsboro to Glencoe, Alabama, in Etowah County in the spring of 1947 before school was out (keep that thought in mind). From Etowah County there was just DeKalb County separating us from Jackson County where Granny and Pa lived.

We were getting closer.

Joe’s Meanderings is a series by Joe Whitten.

Joe's Meanderings

Mose Chapman is ninety-four years old, but you can’t tell it by looking. He looks to be about seventy-five. He was born April 6, 1915, two years to the day before the United States entered World War I. When we went to talk to him, he was eager to tell us that and took a good bit of pride in it. Mose seems to use historical facts for his landmarks, so he won’t get lost and take the wrong path as he travels back in time.  Mose’s mama, Bernice, lived with him after she “got down,” and he took care of her himself, until she died nine years ago at the age of one-hundred-and-two. He said she took a good deal of pleasure in making it to the year 2000. His sixteen-year-old great-granddaughter, Talitha, was keeping Mose company the day we went to visit.

The ability to remember and re-tell long past events is a kind of gift of the spirit that runs in Mose’s family. One of the fruits of that gift is a family history that’s passed down from mother to child. Sometimes that history includes events outside the family. Bernice told and re-told what she remembered and what her mother and grandmother had told to her. Mose still tells their stories, and as he told them to us, Talitha listened with intense interest. No doubt someday she’ll tell them too. We asked Mose to tell us about the “hoodoo” we’d been hearing tales of and just anything he felt like telling. He felt like telling about his mother’s earliest memory. So Mose told us about the explosion at the train depot in 1902, which Bernice remembered, even though she was only four years old at the time.

Lawd, have mercy. Mama tole that to me s’ many times, I feel lak I uz there too. Said she an’ her mama, Luz, walked to town ‘at day to pick em up a few little groceries there at Miz Tipton’s sto’e. Mama Luz kep’ chickens an’ ‘ud gather up the eggs an’ divide ‘em up into what they meant to use an’ what dey di’n't. An’ then she took what they di’n't mean to use, an’ set ‘em aside to trade. Miz Tipton always tak’n the fresh hen eggs on barter Luz ud brang, ’cause they uz always good an’ dependable eggs. They’d built ‘em up a trust between ‘em, see? Because Luz was honest in ‘er dealin’s, Miz Tipton trusted her.

Anyways they had’em a little clutch of eggs there in they basket that mornin’ to swap for a bit of sugar an’ coffee an’ such lak as zat. Mama said they uz a-goin’ to fix teacakes to have after supper. Well, they uz a-standin’ in that sto’e when the thang exploded—’at train car—an’ the whole town shook lak The Rapture. They was six or eight windah panes left in the front of that sto’e buildin’ an’ the rest done fell out in pieces all on the inside. Mama Luz fell down a-moanin’ an’ a-holdin’ onto Mama an’ got ready for the The Second Coming. Well, it wasn’t. But the depot was about ruirnt, an’ the new hoe-tell all down on the ground. Flat. Mama said the hoe-tell was flat. An’ folks uz kilt an’ hurt too.

Now my granmama, Luz, she was born in 1875 an’ lived on to 1969. An’ her mama, Naomi, was born in 1851 an’ lived to 1938. Oh she saw some turrible hap’nin’s in her life. I reckon it’s a blessin’ to live to be s’ old, ’cause you gets to know you own people. But sometime I git down an’ hurtin’ an’ I wished I’d git own done with livin’ an’ go up yonder where all them generations, theys all a-waitin on me up in the arms of Jesus. That’s the reward you want. That’s why you always want to live a good live and run when ye sees the devil comin’.

Now, y’all uz a-wantin’ to know how them Richardsons got the hoodoo done on em. ‘At right? Well, I tell ye. My great granmama, Luz’s mama—Naomi—Naomi used to tell us this stoh-ry ’cause she uz born down there in Cropwell, an’ when she was real young, she worked for them Hickses ‘at had the sto’e back then.

Mister an’ Miz Hicks, they was good an’ kind to they people. Mama always said Miz Hicks would come to see Naomi when she got down with some ailment an’ bring ‘er some little sumpn good to eat an’ some med’cine. You know, they wasn’t many like that in nem days. That fam’ly of Hickses chil’ren? Naomi raised them ten chi’ren till they left outta here. An’ not a one of ‘em died in childhood, an’ not a one was left in ‘is county when Naomi married in 1870, but that Miss Addie that was the oldest girl.

It uz sometime not too long after that War Between the States, an’ here come ole Sam Richardson over from Talladega on the ferry. He come from way up yonder in Carolina, they told. That uz a bad day for folks down that-a-way.  It uz said ‘at Ole Sam tole ‘is story on hisself of a-meeting up with this here boy on the Talladega side of the river. That pore boy was a-headed home to Wetumpka to see his mama who uz sick unto dyin’. An’ he had jus’ enough for the flatboat fare down the river. Ole Sam sized ‘at boy up an’ saw he was a easy mark. Sidled up to him an’ tempted ‘im to a game of gamblin, an’ took ever-thang he had. Took that boy’s las’ six cents in a game of pitchin’ pennies. Left him standin’ on the dock, jes’ lookin’ at Ole Sam a-laughin’ an’ a-crossin’ to the Cropwell side. If I’d a-been Ole Sam, I’d a-been ashamed to’ a-told that. ‘At man uz mean. Mean as Lucifer hisself.

It uz jus’ about the time Mr. Hicks had got all his money gathered up in one place, an’ ‘at store wuz a-doin’ real good business, when he got down with the dropsy. An’ Ole Sam heard tell about it, an’ here he come, jes like a devil, talkin’ like butter wouldn’t melt. Talk s’ full of charm, jes like a devil. Now Mister Hicks had a-worked ‘at sto’e twelve hours a day six days a week for twenty-nine years, layin’ up a livin’ for his family. An’ he weren’t without good sense neither. But in about two weeks, Ole Sam done talked Mr. Hicks out of Miss Addie, his mos’ precious child. On the day they’z married, Naomi said she tole Miss Addie  “Mr. Hicks done sack-a-ficed his daughter unto Satan.”

Well, it wadn’t long after that poor ole Mr. Hicks died. An’ Ole Sam, ‘fore he was done, he take’n over ever-thang. Got his hands on all the property an’ money an’ the cotton gin an’ the sto’e. It uz a bad day for this country when that man crossed the river. All the rest of them chi’ren, even the little ones, left out a-here together on one ole wagon an’ the axle not right. Mule sick ‘n’ ’bout to die too. An’ they mama with ‘em. They did the right thang, ‘cus they lef’ that devil behind ‘em.

Naomi said she quit ‘im. Said she tried to stay aroun’ an’ see about Miss Addie, but that Ole Sam was too mean to his people. So she found work right close with another family of country people. She was right there in the neighborhood when it happem.

Now, it uz along ’bout the time at dat cow up yonder kicked over the lantern an’ caused ‘at fire ‘at done burn up Chicago. Naomi’s cousin, Samanthy, she uz married to a man ‘at worked down at the cotton gin name of Amos Silo. They had ‘em a little boy about se’m year old. An’ he wuz they onliest one. They set right lot of store by that little chil’. That little boy come up the road one day from where he’d been a-fishin’ down there in the river. He wuz a-takin’ that little catch he had home to his mama.

An’ here come Old Sam in his buggy an’ one them fine, high-strung, geldin’ horses a-pullin’ it. An’ ’bout the time they’z passin’ one another, that littl’ ole boy he just switch his ole cane fishin’ pole an’ ‘at string of little bitty catfish over to his other shoulder. An’ it frighted Ole Sam’s horse. Well now the hoss took off one way an’ that little boy the other, but Ole Sam, he got thow’d out. He come for that boy with his lash an’ whupped that po’ little ole boy slap to death. An’ that’s the gospel truth.

Well, Naomi said she never saw the lak of the grievin’ them pore folks did. They loved that little one so. An’ Samanthy couldn’t never seem to get over it. She an’ Amos, they couldn’t put one foot before the other.

Childrens died back in nem days. Sho did. Oh, a whole lot more ‘n now. They didn’t have this here penicillin. Didn’t have nothin’. So they’d get sick sometimes an’ get all right. An’ sometimes they’d die, an’ folks ud take on so, take it as hard as Samanthy an’ Amos. But they’d think on it as the Lord’s will. After a time, they’d begin to mend.

Them Silos, though, they couldn’t believe the Lord would will such as ‘at. Rich man livin’ up in a big fine house. Got ever-thang he could want. Never cold. Never hungry. He just didn’t have no call to do such as ‘at to their baby. Naomi said you could hear ‘em a-wailin’ up in the night sometimes, they uz grievin’ so.

So Samanthy begun to visitin’ down at the hoodoo man’s house. He prayed with her an’ they’d read passages from Job an’ Psalms together.

Fret not thyself because of evildoers,
neither be thou envious against the workers of iniquity.
For they shall soon be cut down like the grass,
and wither as the green herb.

Sometimes Amos would come with her, an’ they’d sit up all night with the hoodoo man an’ pray for the Lord to take the grief from ‘em. Looked like He wouldn’t.

Finally Samanthy said “I cain’t git no peace unless you puts a hex on him. If you hexes Ole Sam, an’ it don’t take. Well. That’ll be the Lord’s will. But if it do take.That’ll be the Lord’s will. An’ I’ll know we done all we could.”

Well, all right. The hoodoo man told Samanthy to wait till the new moon an’ get him the contents of Ole Sam’s chamber pot in the mornin’ an’ a whisker from off of Ole Sam’s chin or a hair from off his head. And he took Amos aside an’ told him the price was like to be high ’cause they’d be a-bringin’ in some help on this un. He told Amos to git ‘im the dry wishbones outta three chickens. And a smooth sandstone big as his palm from the river an’ three mussel shells with no mussel left in ‘em.

Samanthy didn’t have no trouble with her part. She knew one of the girls that worked in Ole Sam’s house ‘at washed an’ ironed his bedsheets. She’d get her part done. Amos had a little more to do, with the price to git up an’ all, but he could do it. Naomi said it uz a good thing for them people to have ‘em a little sumpn to plan and do outside a grievin’. Said a bit of work will soothe the soul.

But now, it uz the hoodoo man that had the work to do. He had him a mojo bag an’ some quicksilver. But he wasn’t too sure an’ certain what kind a spell would be jes right. He felt lak there might be one of them devils down at the crossroads own this un. And he needed help own it. So he sat up that very night an’ wrote down a letter an’ sent it off in the mornin’ down at the Cropwell post office.  Then he know’d help would be a-comin’. Meanwhile, one damp night, the hoodoo man waited for Ole Sam to leave his sto’e an’ walk back out to his house near the river. He went though a bit of red mud there an’ left a footprint. When Ole Sam was good n’ gone, the hoodoo man took a flat wooden shovel an’  slid it up under that footprint an’ took it up from the river bank an’ carried it on home an’ put it by the fire to dry.

Come about nine days down the road an’ this feller steps off the ferry from Talladega. He come all the way from Savannah just to help the Silos with their hoodoo conjuration. That was the famousest hoodoo doctor anybody ever heard tell of in nem days that came to Cropwell. But he took care to look like as near to nothin’ as he could. He kep’ his head down an’ went on straight to the hoodoo man’s house.

Them two, they put they heads together an’ come up with a spell. They gathered herbs an’ bones an’ made all kind of secret charms together. Naomi heard tell they met a harpy at the crossroads too, but she didn’t like to dwell on that. And on the day after the next new moon, here come Amos an’ Samanthy with their part. They spent the next three days in that house. Folks said candles burnt all night in there with em. Didn’t none of em come out for nothin’. Nobody knew or noticed when that hoodoo doctor come out an’ went back to Savannah.

But when Samanthy an’ Amos come out. They uz changed people. Peaceful lak. As calm as angels. They come back to the church an’ sang with the congregation an’ never shed none other tear nor showed any grief or fear. Folks ud ast em what spell or curse it was them hoodoo doctors put on Ole Sam. They never said a word about it.  Wasn’t long after that they had’m another baby boy. And then a girl, an’ two more boys. They got great-great-grandchi’ren livin’ around here right now. And all over this country. Some in California and some in Ohio. Some gone to college.  An’ all of em livin’ good lives. Got one teachin’ up here at the high school. Got one a fine doctor up in Tennessee.

Nobody know’d what the spell was in all Amos an’ Samanthy’s lifetime. Look lak them Richardsons went right on a-living an’ a-prospering. An’ folks seemed to forgit all about the hex. Had em three chil’ren, though that eldest boy was never seen much. Kept him in a room at the back of the house an’ hired one of Emmit Formby’s boys to look after ‘im. That uz the only job he ever had or ever needed. Folks said that boy was afflicted with sumpn. Emmit tole me they wadn’t nothing wrong in his mind. Said he just couldn’t git no control over his limbs. They took keer of ‘im all right, but all the life he had uz in that house with Emmit’s boy, but he said they got along fine.

That girl of theirs, she uz odd. Seemed like she uz ‘fraid of her own self somehow. Wouldn’t touch doorknobs. Kep’ her hands plumb raw from a-washin’ em all day. Wore gloves all day ‘n’ night, summer ‘n’ winter. She went off to school. They said she uz right smart. Must-a been. Never come back around here none, once’t she got grown.

‘At middle chil’ though. Aw Lawd, he’p us. He uz lak to a-been spit out by Ole Sam. Mean as ever a devil they was. Plum’ cruel, he uz a mean chil’,  Ole Byrd was. An’ the older he got, the worse he got. Now Ole Sam uz too sharp to drink whiskey. Oh he’d sell it to ye. Di’n't care if it uz poison. But he wouldn’t never git drunk, ’cause he’s afraid somebody’d git the better of ‘im. But Byrd, Lawd hep us, I never see such a drunkard as he was. Mean sober and meaner drunk.

They went up north up there to Florence or some place an’ got Byrd this hi-falutin’ wife. High class people she come from. They cleaned ‘im up and he courted her and married her. That poor woman didn’t take no time figgerin’ out she’d done married a devil. She packed up ‘n’ got out in one day, they sez.

And it wadn’t till a few weeks before Mama Luz died in 1969 ‘at she got it figgered out. It uz ‘at week, you remember? ‘at dat Armstrong feller walked on the moon? She couldn’t hardly believe ‘at she’d lived to see such as ‘at. We sat out ‘at night an’ looked up at de moon, and she uz  right disappointed we couldn’t see ‘im walkin’  aroun’ on it up there. So we jus’ come on in the house an’ looked at it on the television. Mama Luz, she just set up in bed the nex’ mornin’ a-laughin’ an’ said ‘I got it! I b’lieve I dreamed it. I got what it wuz.”

Course Mama says “What? Whatchu got?”

And Luz says “I done worked out Samanthy’s conjure. All ‘em Richardsons is gone from here, aint’ they? Poor old Miss Addie’s chil’ren—that afflicted boy an’ ‘at girl that’s askeered of doorknobs? they gone, with no children to remember ‘em.  And ‘at middle boy ‘at uz jes’ like Ole Sam?  They all gone. Gone from this earth an’ ain’t no soul left mourn for ‘em. No seed left to scatter. They ain’t nobody to tell they stoh-ries.”

The Right Southern Corner is a series by Sara Rast
Copyright: 2009 Sara Love Rast. All rights reserved.

The Right Southern Corner