• Alabama Type,  bibliophound

    he had lived hard and in his own view had deserved all his fields, if not more

    ‘A gentle afternoon rain was falling as his funeral procession left the house a house which he had built, and moved down the road between fields of cotton. The cotton fields, his and his tenants, were clean of grass and well advanced in growth. The silent rain made them look their best and seemingly beg for their master’s approval as he moved by for the last time. This he would not have otherwise, for he had always liked to look at good crops of cotton, especially if they were his. One of his keenest joys was to show his “brag” patches to visitors, and all the patches seemed to be “brag” patches today, and there were more visitors than ever…he had lived hard and in his own view had deserved all his fields, if not more.’

    -Herman Clarence Nixon, Possum Trot (via Sarah Newman Shouse’s (1986) book ‘Hillbilly Realist Herman Clarence Nixon of Possum Trot’.)

  • Alabama Type

    A Note from Union, 1876

    UNION.

    Mr. Editor: After a protracted drought of about five weeks, the copious showers of rain which have fallen here the past week have had a magical effect upon the growing crops, which were not materially injured by the dry spell, owing to their having been thoroughly cultivated. We believe in stirring the soil in this section, as the best protection against the evil effects of drouth. Our wheat crop was not all that we had hoped for it. In the language of the poet, it was “too thin”. We had to scare it up in the fence corners to cut it with scissors.

    We are glad to announce that a new industry has sprung up in our neighborhood, that of gathering blackberries for market. Dr. L. I am told has many hands employed to fill a large order from Oxford. Owing to the stringency of times, I understand they are in great demand at that place.

    Once of your fellow townsmen, Mr. Cave, is in his vicinity painting the dwelling house of Mr. Loyd. He is putting the “city agony” on it. I have heard from the Peeks Hill “localist”. He has gone into the manufacture of poetry. He fills orders for all kinds at factory prices, viz” 3c per yd. He has doubtless struck his talent now. I congratulate him upon his success.
    XX.

     

    JACKSONVILLE REPUBLICAN, SAT, JUNE 24, 1876

  • Alabama Type

    Postcard from Alexandria, 1882 ‘Dogberry’

    If brevity is the soul of wit, simplicity is elegance.

    We’ve had our short locals, and we’ve had our long locals, and as Dogberry’s partook somewhat of the last named species, he feels a tenderness in attempting all other.

    But, Alexandria is to the front; she must be notched, even if as the expense of printers ink and newspaper space. The Valley is as dry as a mummy in the way of sensations. Amusement is stale to stagnation with the exception of an occasional buggy ride, the parties, one of whom, Bill is which. The writer concluded to indulge in a like extravagance and made arrangments, to all intents and purposes to that end, but one of the contracting parties, one of whom Dogberry was not which, took tooth ache. You can imagine the finale. Dogberry didn’t ride much. “Such is life.”

    To the point, truely Alexandria valley is teening with abundant good cheer. She has reapeda bountiful harvest and now wears a smile as bland and winning as can be o’er the prospect of a good time coming. Miss Davis of Cave Spring and Miss Draper of Oxford are visiting Mrs. “Fate” Green. Cave Spring is proverbial for its beautiful women whilst Oxford shares equally in the eulogist le axiom, nor do we leave Alexandria out in the cold.

    Well good people, what tshall we have for Christmas?. Shall we roast a turkey, have a German, or a regular old house-warming.
    Certainly something must be done to drive away enui.

    Looking to my caption warns me that “Brevity is the soul of wit.” therefore I lay down my pen, take my cob-pipe, hoist my heels on the mantle and subscribe myself.

    DOGBERRY

     

    JACKSONVILLE REPUBLICAN, SAT. DECEMBER 16, 1882
    ALEXANDRIA ITEMS.

  • Alabama Type

    Heroic Act of Emmet Calhoun, age 9, 1905

    A Hero Boy in Alabama.

    East Lake, Ala.–East Lake has produced a Carnegie hero, and unless justice miscarries woefully, Emmet Calhoun, aged nine years, will receive a medal from the honor of libraries and giver of gifts. At the risk of his own life this East Lake youth dared what seemed sudden death to save the life of a young baby.

    Saturday morning Young Calhoun while out on Wahouma Heights picking berries with a number of playmates, discovered the house of James Brown nearby wrapped in flames. Running to the scene with all haste the boys began assisting Mr. and Mrs. Brown in saving their household effects. In their hurry to get out all of the furniture the father and mother had forgotten the baby that was sleeping peacefully in the house through all the uproar.

    All of the goods had been taken from the house with the exception of those in one room and the walls of the building were on the verge of collapsing. Suddenly the infant was awakened, its cries ringing out above the roar of the flames. The mother threw up her hands in hysterical agony. The baby seemed doomed. Without a moment’s hesitation, Emmet Calhoun darted into the burning house. Snatching the infant in his arms he bored it in safety to its mother, just as the walls of the house succumbed to flames and collapsed.

    THE OPP HUSTLER, FRIDAY, 1905

  • Alabama Type,  In Memory

    Sad Death of Lawrence Journey, Jacksonville, 1903

    SAD DEATH OF YOUNG BOY

    Lawrence Journey Killed in Accident Saturday.

    Lawrence Journey, son of Mr. John W. Journey, who was killed in an accident Saturday afternoon, was buried in the Jacksonville Cemetery yesterday afternoon.
    Young Journey was employed in a planing mill, running a moulder. In some manner, a piece of molding was broken and hurled back toward him. The missile struck him in the left side of his abdomen going entirely through his body. He lived only a few minutes.
    Journey was about sixteen years old, a brother of Mr. Ed Journey of this city, and a nephew of Circuit Clerk I.E. Watson.

     

    THE ANNISTON REPUBLIC, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19TH, 1903

  • Alabama Type

    Sunday Afternoon Blaze, Piedmont, 1891

    SUNDAY AFTERNOON BLAZE.

    A Small Frame House Supplies the Fuel.

    Nearly all Piedmont was at the scene of the immersion on last Sunday afternoon.
    Alex Henderson, a man who occupied a house near the transfer was among the number who were there.
    Alex. left his home standing up straight on its four walls when he went down to the creek. When he returned he found it a mass of flames, so fierce that nothing could be saved from among his household goods. His home literally melted before his eyes, to a heap of ashes and a chimney stack.
    On Sunday morning, breakfast was prepared by Mrs. Henderson, who let the fire die out when she was through with it, or thought she did.
    The family then left the house, and attended the immersion services, and when they returned home, it was home no longer but a furnace which absolutely forbid approach. Nothing could be saved and as Henderson’s whole stock of possessions was contained within the house he is left destitute. A subscription was taken up for him among the spectators who had been attracted by the fire, and $16 dollars were realized for his benefit.
    It is supposed that an overlooked live coal which had fallen through a hole in the stove was the source of the fire.
    The house was a frame one belonging to the Piedmont Land & Improvement Company from whom Henderson rented it, and burned like tinder.

    PIEDMONT INQUIRER, SATURDAY OCTOBER 31, 1891

  • Alabama Type

    Child Snake Bitten, Roy Webb 1937

    Child Snake Bitten
    What happily turned out to be a harmless reptile, gave an awful fright to the family of the granddaughter of Mr. and Mrs. Dan Couch, near Roy Webb School Monday morning.
    Mr. and Mrs. Harry Dempsey were passing when they heard the frightened screams of the family. They put the child in their car and rushed her to the doctor in Jacksonville, and all were greatly relieved when the doctor pronounced the bite as being from a non-poisonus snake.

     

    THE JACKSONVILLE RECORD, FRIDAY, 1937

  • Alabama Type,  In Memory

    Mrs. Mae Ford, Jacksonville 1977

    ‘Family’ feeling fading in Jacksonville’s mill area

    Mrs. Mae Ford of 21 A St has lived in the village – to the west of the square and mostly down hill – more than 50 years.

    “I married here in the Methodist church in town and I’ve lived in number 4, 21, and 41,” she said “I’ve raised my family here and made my steps right in here.” the silver-haired woman said as she looked over some pictures of mill workers taken in 1906.
    “It’s the best neighborhood to live in,” she said “The older ones were just like a family. If one got in trouble, the others would go to help them.”

    Mrs. Ford raised six children in the village, not an unusual number for the 1930s and 1940s she said.

    “Everybody had five or six or seven children” she recalled “Nobody could afford anything for Christmas except for a red wagon for the whole family.
    “There’re no children around anymore.”

    Mrs. Ford worked in the Profile Cotton Mill for 34 years before she quit in 1955. “I spooled for 14 years. I also was an extra. I worked wherever they needed me. I’ve done everything in all the mills.”

    Mrs. Ford said living in a company-owned house was convenient.

    “It was close and handy,” she said “I could run out when I’d catch up with my work and check on my children. It was a good settlement.”

    Living in the village was also economical.
    Mrs. Ford worked when the company had an order and usually brought home $32 a month. Her late husband who also worked at the mill, made less than that for years she said.
    From their earnings, they paid the company $4.80 a month in rent and bought groceries at the Profile Store on B Street.
    What they didn’t buy, they raised in gardens, hog pens and company-owned cow pastures.

    “I just had a few tomatoes and cucumbers this year,” Mrs. Ford said. “When you get 74, it’s time to slow down. I still cut my grass though, and walk to town and church.”

    Also featured in the article:
    Jud Harrelson of 54 B st, James Jocko Martin of 1 A st, James Harbin of 94 c st, Mrs. Bertha Barnwell of 116 D st, Treda Bonds of 55 B st, Sandy Barnwell of 44 B st.

    THE ANNISTON STAR, 77 (Monde Murphy) Excerpt

  • I Heart the Internet,  Out of Context,  Thinking Out Loud

    Mad at Breakfast| Thinking Out Loud

    I saw a video this morning of a young female in a nice-looking late model car, screeching into her smartphone camera like a rabid howler monkey about how dire her financial situation is (because it’s so hard to live in America). She goes on to rant about giving her greasy McDonald’s hashbrowns to some homeless guy (because she’s such a good person). There’s lots of crying, cussing, and, of course, you guessed it, virtue signaling that follows, but I’m still stuck on the McDonald’s. I have a sort-of allergy to emotional outbursts and tantrums, so pardon me if this seems insensitive to this person’s decidely public emotional meltdown, but I get this way sometimes. And this might be the undiagnosed ’tism I was allegedly smacked with, but here we go (before I implode) :

    • A McDonald’s hash brown typically costs between $2.00 and $3.50, and tastes like greasy trash.
    • For $3.42, at Walmart, you can get 10 of them. I don’t know why you would want one, let alone 10, but here we are.
    • Say you couldn’t go to a grocery store and exercise your right to make your limited resources work for you in a half million better ways (which you can), 4$ at McDonald’s gets you a (value meal) sausage biscuit, greasy hash brown, and coffee, instead.

    My point? If she’s poor, she must be new to it, because she’s certainly not exhausting all of her resources (critical thinking skills) barring any unincluded information (like was she shopping with giftcards or something, not cash) or she might not be in such dire straits. Poor people didn’t used to drive $30,000 cars, talk on $1,500 phones, pay 4 times as much for bad breakfast, and then give it away to a random passerby, let alone craft a dramatic narrative about it and publish it for the general public to enjoy. So long story short? I don’t get it. I’m out of touch and somehow, right about now, thankful for that.

    And I don’t mean to jab at this poor, injured creature while she’s down. She’s clearly unwell. Most people I know are suffering at the grocery store and gas pump right now, specifically. Don’t get me started on what’s going on with the power company. The problem with opening your life and finances up to the public, fishing for sympathy (or handouts), is that the public tends to have follow-up questions. We’re nosy. My best advice for this is, if you don’t want the questions, do like the rest of us and keep your financial embarrassment to yourself. As far as unsolicited advice goes, kids, that’s a good tip. Write it down. At some point, it will come in handy.

    And as for all the prattle about her being such a good person because she gave her greasy potatoes to some ‘homeless person’, in the words of Spike the Vampire–don’t make me heave. Who said you should starve yourself to death to feed random strangers (who, by the way, half the population of your town likely thinks it’s also their job to feed)? Anyhow, if you really loved the homeless man, you would have taken that five dollars over to Aldi’s and bought a bag of apples, kept them in your car, and shared them with him when he came begging, because those greasy plastic imitation potato bricks are NOT going to help him one bit, not his morale, certainly not his arteries. And they taste like a salty dish rag. That is all.

    Here’s a link to the X post and the goofy commentary waxing sympathetic about this female’s pitiful plite, if you feel like punishing yourself on this lovely Friday morning.

     

  • Peculiar and Funny

    Jeanne and Left Brain Go Rafting | ‘the Rafting Story’

    My second favorite Jeanne Robertson story was ‘the Rafting Story’, the tale of a well-intentioned getaway when almost everything that could have gone wrong did, and Jeanne insisting on finding the humor in the suffering. I think I’ve watched this one at least a dozen times. She was such a funny lady.

    What happens on the river, stays on the river.