Good Game, Buddy!

5/15/2007 8:19 AM

This is the beginning of what we hope will be a community project. George and I each have our own personal blogs. His is The Plantersville Connection, and mine is Ms. Sippi. Obviously, we are proud of our roots. So many have contributed their memories and old pictures, especially to his site, that I wanted to find a format where the pictures and written accounts could be shared more easily.  

The albums here are compilations of pictures we have collected from many sources. Viewing them is sure to stir old memories. Please take a moment to write down some of your favorite ones and send them to us. Don't think of this as Cathy and George's website; think of it as an expansion of The Plantersville Connection, a virtual museum. Your old pictures, your thoughts and memories are needed and appreciated. We hope to see the collection grow and will try to keep up to date with whatever you send.  

There is a guestbook at the bottom, so please sign it and let us know what you think. And you can add comments for each blog or for any picture. If you want to write a post for the blog, we'd like that, too; just send it to us. Registration is required for comments and the guestbook, but it's free. 

Cathy's e-mail address is magarr@bellsouth.net

George's is gkelly100@comcast.net

If you have trouble finding a place to add your name, as LaRue did on the first comment, just add your name to the end of your message.

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Honor your mother or grandmother on Mother's Day May 13th with a couple of paragraphs about her most admirable qualities. We'll post them here thru May 20th. And may all you mothers have a Happy Mother's Day!

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MARK YOUR CALENDAR

A reunion of Plantersville residents and former residents is being planned for July 28. Where will it be? The school? One of the churches? Tombigbee State Park? Estes Fish and Steak House? The mayor's house? Can't have beer at a couple of these. Tombigbee has a big conference center that's air conditioned. Will it be a BBQ/Fishfry/Cookout/Picnic, a catered meal, a White Trash Pot Luck Dinner? It is July, don't forget, and our tolerance for heat and sweat ain't what it used to be. cjg

Back in the Days
By June Harris

I can still remember my first day of school at Plantersville Elementary, even though it's coming up on sixty years since we started there. (Okay, so it's only fifty-nine. I rounded up.)

I remember waiting for the school bus with Jean West and my Uncle George Harris, my father's youngest brother. George had been designated as the person who was to deliver me to Miss Dixie. He and Jean were “big kids;” I think George was in seventh grade and Jean, perhaps in sixth, but to me, they were practically grown. I don't know how George was persuaded to take charge of me. To say that we were not exactly friends is a vast understatement. George had been the baby of the family until I came along, and his nose was out of joint over being replaced by me for years. Maybe my father bribed him to drop me off

At any rate, I remember being led to Miss Dixie's classroom, and little else about the rest of the day.

I do recall that we only went to school half-days for the first six weeks or so, because those of us who were farm kids had to go home from school to help pick cotton. When we started going all day, the town kids were unhappy, but I was ecstatic. I got to go to school all day!! Yay!! No more going home, changing clothes (verrrrry slowly), eating dinner (verrrrry slowly), and walking down to that #$%!&* cotton patch (verrrrrry slowly) to spend the rest of the day in hard labor.

I don't recall whether I knew any of the kids in the first grade except Burma Jo. As cousins, we'd known each other virtually since birth. I do know, however, that the group that began first grade that September was largely the group I left when I moved after seventh grade.

I recall that Mary Ellen didn't begin on the first day with us, but she came later. I can remember when her parents brought her to enroll.

Second grade was in Miss Maida's room. Miss Maida had a reputation for being-umm-harsh. I cannot ever remember seeing Miss Maida smile. We brought eggshells to school in the spring and strung them up, filled them with soil, and put seeds in them to make little plant hangers.

I can remember in Mrs. Blackwell's third grade that Mrs. B. stood up to a group of unbelieving eight-year-olds, dictionary in hand, to point out that the word "pretty" actually was pronounced “pritty,” not, as we would have it, "perty." That was the year I remember discovering the Book Mobile. We could check out a few books each, and the teachers could check out another stack. I don't know how often the Book Mobile came, but by the time it showed up again, I'd have already read all my books, several that I'd traded with classmates, and all the ones the teachers had checked out for us. Hey, what can I say? We didn't have TV. Life in Plantersville was not exactly a whirl of social excitement, and life in EAST Plantersville where I lived (not an actual place, just sort of a figment of the postal department's imagination) was even less thrilling. So, books worked for me.

When I started at Plantersville, there was a swing in front, sort of like a May pole, with bars hanging from chains. We grabbed the bars, ran like crazy, and swung on that contraption. That was about the only entertainment we had other that stuff like jump ropes, hopscotch, and such. Video games? What was a video? Later, maybe in third grade, we got a merry-go-round. That eventually led to the infamous “Let’s ride without holding on!” experiment that left a group of us girls dunked in a huge mud puddle. Some of the girls were wearing dresses under overalls (Yup, we did that then.) but alas, I was not. They could take the overalls off and still be almost presentable. I had to go home to my mother, mud from one end to the other.

My mother was not amused.

In fourth grade, the Gooches arrived in Plantersville, and we had Mrs. G. for fourth and fifth grade. I remember Mrs. Gooch's frustration in teaching us fourth graders geography: “When I ask you where we live, I don't want anyone saying ‘South America' again!” Well, we lived in the South; we lived in America. I suppose it was a natural mistake.

When we started sixth grade, we moved into the new building. Those cement floors provided a great place to play jacks. I earned the dubious distinction of breaking the first window in the place. The boys were throwing black walnuts against the wall and bouncing them off it; I tried it and missed the whole wall. That remains an early indication of my athletic ability (or lack thereof), and my friends will note that to this day I have never been good at any event that involved hitting one object with another object.

In seventh grade, my mother finally consented to let me attend the fair with my friends instead of going with her and my brother. As I recall, Mary Katherine, Mary Ellen and I did the fair that day. That was the fall that there was a fad for wearing poplin jackets with our names embroidered on them. We walked past a barker who looked out at us and said over his speaker, "Well, hello, Mary, Ellen, and June!” I was startled. How had he known our names? (What can I say? I was always a little slow on the uptake.)

I tell my own children about my Mississippi childhood, including stories about how we could go to the Strand (AKA the Tupelo Theater) and see a western, a B-gangster/Bowery Boys/Abbott and Costello film, a newsreel, a short subject or a serial, a cartoon (sometimes two), and have a coke and a candy bar for a quarter. They think I lie. I think it might have been our moms' way of getting an afternoon off from us, because we'd go in during early afternoon and spend the rest of the day at the movies.

After the movies, we were off to Woolworth’s or Kuhn's or some place similar. If I were with my grandmother, we'd have chicken salad sandwiches at TKE. (My grandmother Harris always insisted that I hold her hand crossing the street, even when I was certain I was much too old for such baby stuff. If my grandmother were still alive today, she'd still insist on holding my hand to cross the street.)

I have so many memories of my childhood: Spending an afternoon riding bikes up and down the road with George Morris and my cousin Price; going into the bank in downtown Tupelo to weigh ourselves on their scale; the jewelry story that had little mechanical, animated scenes in their window; that block of street just before the Lyric Theater that was brick; the statue of the Confederate soldier in Court Square; Vacation Bible School; riding to school on Mr. Willie Morgan's school bus. (Fred Westmoreland called Mr. Willie "Walking Willie" because he drove so slowly, but when Junior Morgan started driving, we sometimes got up to nearly thirty.)

Anyone else remember leggings? And do folks still do fireworks on Christmas Eve?

I don't suppose anyone would have bet on the success of a bunch of kids from a little country school like Plantersville in a place like Northeast Mississippi. Still, as I'm fond of pointing out to those who disparage my birthplace, it doesn't matter where you come from and what you've got. It's where you go and what you do with it that matters. I think we've gone far and largely done right well.

(Regarding the murder of his grandfather and Plantersville postal workers)

You mentioned that my grandmother was appointed Postmaster after his death. From the time my grandfather became Postmaster until I left the job of rural carrier there in 1985, at least one relative of mine worked in that Post Office in some capacity. After my grandmother retired, William Towery "Tack" Grant became postmaster. He was my grandmother's nephew. When he got the opportunity to do so, he took the job of rural mail carrier. He was in that job until I came to it in 1980. Incidentally during part of his tenure, the Postmaster was Carroll Mitchell who was my father's cousin on the Rogers side. So for the major portion of the 20th century I or one of my relatives worked in the Plantersville Post Office. That may not be of interest to anyone else, but it is to me.

I wish I knew when my grandfather became Postmaster. I remember my dad telling me that they were pretty sure who committed the murder, but there was insufficient evidence and as soon as the accused was released, he left the area for good. My dad told me that his father did not die immediately, but never woke up from the blow to his head. Apparently in his wounded condition he still managed to get the mail sack on the train that evening. After he was found, many people went up and down the railroad track trying to track down whoever had done it. My dad, as a seventeen year old boy, went one direction alone with the apparent murderer and told him what he would do if he ever found out who the guilty party was. He often thought later that at that moment he could have met a similar fate."

Another Cecil Johnson Story
When I was about 15 Year's old, this particular Saturday, I needed 25 Cents. That would get me a movie ticket at the Lyric, a bag of Popcorn and Train Ticket home. I noticed Cecil out in his grove of pecan trees, picking [up] pecans. I asked him did he need any help, I told him of my needs. He replied back, "No, didn't need any help." I just ignored him and started picking up pecans. We worked all afternoon and I did most of the talking and when we got the last bucket full, Cecil gave me a quarter and a dime !! When I left him, I ran all the way home, soo happy !! I also mowed his Yard a lot. I really liked Cecil.

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Back in the early 1940’s there was this story being told that involved Ed Parker, Hulon Parker, your (George’s) dad, E.C. Kelly and others, don’t remember their names. This group would meet on weekends at the old RR Depot and play poker. Ed and Hulon thought up a prank that they would pull.

They had gotten a pistol that shot blanks and they were going to act as if they got angry at each other, and one would shoot the other. They did this and as one of them fell over mortally wounded, E.C. Kelly fainted!! The prank backfired on them. They thought E.C. had died!

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As told to George by Jack about himself: One Sunday, he rode his bicycle to John Lester Gunter’s house; John Lester wasn't home, and as he rode back, someone, he can't remember who it was, came to the door and told him Pearl Harbor had been bombed. He rode all over Plantersville spreading the news. A couple of men debated where Pearl Harbor was, offering New Orleans and Jackson as possible locations. He said that a number of people in Plantersville later told him that they first learned about the Pearl Harbor attack from him.

(Roger Moore accounts gleaned from The Plantersville Connection.)

"I am Roger Moore, son of Mack Moore and Juanita Rogers Moore and grandson of Achilles Rogers and "Miss Willie" Rogers. I graduated from Plantersville High School in 1945. My first cousin, Robert Rogers, sent your Plantersville Connection blog site to his sister, Elizabeth Rogers Bilbo, who forwarded it to me. Thank you for what you are doing. Thank you for including the story about your mother relating the message about the death of my brother, Mack Jr., to my folks in 1942. Thank you, also, for relating the story of the murder of my grandfather. My mother told me that a Mr. Jones was tried for the murder and acquitted but confessed to the murder on his death bed.

I am glad that you are recognizing Cecil Johnson and the many things he did for the children in Plantersville. You asked for additional stories regarding Cecil. Cecil loved baseball. He played center field on the local baseball team in the late 1930's that also included Ed Parker, Hulon "Shine" Parker, Joe Rogers, Jiggs Monts and the men in that age group. The ball field was located in the pasture behind Mr. Brown Parker's house. It was a beautiful ball park. Cecil would spend hours mowing the field and scraping the infield. When I was a youngster, Cecil would spend a great deal of time knocking fungoes (fly balls) to the kids my age. Finishing up the practice, he liked to run laps around the outside of the infield. It kept him in good condition, which helped him when he was drafted during World War II, although he was nearly 35 years old. Cecil was sent to the South Pacific. His letters home were censored, as were all letters from the soldiers; however, Cecil would add a letter from the alphabet to the bottom of each letter home. He started with the letter "G", followed with the letter "O" in his next letter, etc., until he spelled out the words "Good Enough." That was an island just off New Guinea, where he was stationed.

"Thinking of Cecil, I remember my Dad and my Uncle Robert, Robert Rogers' dad, used to play tennis with Cecil at the tennis court that the McDonalds had at their house. They used to play with Lemuel, one of the McDonald boys. Lemuel, as I recall, was a Lt. Colonel in the Army during the invasion of France in World War II. The McDonald's son that was my age was Virgil (Raymond Virgil). Quinlan (Leroy Quinlan) McDonald was at State when I was there. A daughter of the McDonalds, Inez I believe, was an Army nurse and was on Corregidor when the Japanese invaded the Phillippines. She was captured and was a prisoner of war."

Harve Mitchell's store was next door to Arthur and Madge Bailey's house. The store was adjoining the woods across from the Mabry house that you used to walk through to get to your Aunt Grace's house. I got my social security number when I started to work for Harve at this location, working on his peddling truck that went up into the "tater hills" section, down to the Brewer community, and the Richmond area among others. I would box up eggs and put chickens in coops that we carried, as the farmers used eggs and chickens to barter.

Nearer to the turn of the century, the store was owned by Charles (Choc) Rogers, my grand-father's brother, and Tom Johnson, I believe, Cecil's father. Harve married Kittye Rogers, Uncle Choc's daughter. Uncle Choc's wife, Aunt Kittye, was the sister of Tom Johnson. When I was a youngster, Mr. Harve and Mr. Tom were running the store. It had originally been located next to the post office, which was across from the Lester Gunter house.

My mother's grandfather, Robert (Bob) Henderson Rogers, served [in the Civil War]. My mother used to tell of sitting on his lap when she was a little girl, and he would show her his cap that had a bullet hole through it that was obtained at Shiloh. The attached file is a letter written by him to the Secretary of Interior asking for information about his grandfather, James Rogers, who served in the Revolutionary War. Although R. H. Rogers lived about three miles south of the present Plantersville, his address on the letter is shown as Verona. That confirms your comment about Plantersville not yet being founded at the time he wrote the letter. James Rogers died in Monroe County, near Aberdeen ca. 1843. (See George’s blog Nov.6, 2006 post for copy of the letter.)