Last week when Ben Creekmore and I discovered our connection, another foloer emailed to let me know of his maternal line’s close neighborly ties to Ben’s and my own (Ben, someone here is a half-Hadaway, how cool is that?!).
As you’d imagine, that got quite an email string of story-swaps goin’. Now another reader — the wonderful Rita Thompson of Hatley, MS — has sent me a set of photos that made me cry out in happiness. Now, while emailing back-and-forth with my second correspondent, I thought about adding my side of the family stories to the blog, but Ms. Thompson’s gift means I just have to. So if you’ll indulge me, the photos first, then the stories . . .
Ms. Thompson identifies these as taken in 1953, along what we all call Trace Road but others know as Highway 25, about five and six miles north of Amory, in Monroe (say MUN-ro) County, Mississippi. The second image on the left is the house Ben Creekmore grew up in, here identified “Brook’s house” because my uncle E.C. “Durg” Brook and his wife built it, and at that time their family still lived there. Soon after these photos were taken, DuPont transferred Uncle Durg out of the area, the Creekmores bought that house and acreage, and Ben’s daddy and his siblings became my best country playmates. Their place was — what, Ben? under a quarter-mile? — from my grandparents’.
The middle photo on the right is the store my granddaddy built in — well, I never knew when, but I think the 19-teens. If our eyes could follow off the right side of the shot along a paved walk that in spring was lined with jonquils, they’d pass a couple of big ol’ live oaks and the best-for-climbing magnolia there ever was, to arrive at the frame house my grandparents built as four rooms for newlywed themselves, then added onto as they needed to over the years, until by the time I knew it, it had twelve rooms on two floors. Ms. Thompson says that the photo shows either my granddaddy or grandmama in the shade under the store roof, but here on the blog, I can’t make out a figure.
Notice the Trace Road School’s bus at bottom right. Now when my mama (and her best friend, who would become a foloer’s grandma) went to Trace Road School in the mid-20’s, it was a one-room affair, about which I can tell a story that Ma told herself many times, and anyway, she and her co-star are past earthly embarrassment now, so heck, here’s what I emailed the half-Hadaway . . .
Little Mattye Greene Brook has to go to the privy. She gets her best friend, Meda Mae Hadaway, to go with her, and off the two little girls troop, holding hands, to the outdoor convenience. Now, as Mattye Greene (a very tiny little thing indeed) is seated, a passing snake startles her and she commences to fall in. She screams and grabs Meda Mae’s hand, and be dang if they don’t BOTH fall in!They have to walk home through the woods, mortified, to clean up and recover their composure . . .
But I didn’t stop there, so here’s some more . . .
Apparently my Daddy Brook (L.Z.) was quite the entrepreneur (a gene that seems to have missed subsequent generations), and I remember Mama Brook telling me one time after he was gone about how it used to worry her sick that, every time he paid off the mortgage on one little piece of land, he’d immediately buy another little piece. Finally came a day he walked in and laid a paid-off mortgage in her lap, saying, “That’s it, that’s the last one.” She told me, “That was the most relieved day of my life.”
I loved the store something fierce, you’ll understand. In my living room I have its wall clock that once had “Drink Coca-Cola” on the face in faded red script — until Mama Brook, not realizing what she was doing, had that face replaced with a new plain white one — D’OH! What I’d give to have so many things from that building that burned with it. I always loved the big Coca-Cola ad that spanned the whole wall above the front door — a bathing beauty on a white beach, with bottle-green surf and a storm-colored sky in the background — oh lord, those colors! But after Daddy Brook died and Mama Brook closed the store, Mr. Harry Morrow (who owned the drive-in picture show across the road) rented the building to store his hundreds of canisters of film. One hot summer day, spontaneous combustion got started . . .
I’ll never forget one Thanksgiving we all were home, the whole family with all us little cousins at the kids’ table, and we’d just said grace and started fixing our plates when came the call “Mr. Brook! Mr. Brook!”
Daddy Brook got up and went to the kitchen to holler out the back door, “Hello, Herschel, what do you need?” Herschel claimed urgent need of something from the store, so Daddy Brook sighed, told us “Y’all go on and eat,” and walked the 40-50 yards from the house to open up and help the man. Directly he came back, sat down, picked up his napkin, smiled a little, and said, “Know what he wanted?”
“No, what on earth?”
“A postage stamp.”
I loved swinging on the tire swing on the nearest oak with my little brother and Dan and maybe some Creekmores, as we watched people on election day come and vote at Brook’s Store Community Precinct. And any day, sitting out on the splintery wood benches and cane-bottomed chairs (3-4 of the latter now in my possession) along the front outside wall facing the two tall gas pumps. Them old boys lounging out there could, in a one-handed motion, pull paper and tobacco pouches from their overalls pockets, fill up a paper with tobacco, and in about two seconds, roll a tight cigarette in a gesture that looked close to snapping fingers. Marvelous.
I didn’t ever think of the Brooks as rich, but it did mightily impress me that they managed to get three kids to college degrees in overlapping years in the depths of the Depression. (For years I had a cheerful Wedding Ring-pattern quilt in yellow, red, and navy-blue patches — the navy patches had been Ma’s uniforms at the W. She said, if it hadn’t been for the uniforms W girls had to wear — that their mamas could sew at home for them — most of them couldn’t have gone to college at all. It grieved me when I took that quilt home from grad school one time for Ma to wash, and it proved one washing too many — the navy patches disintegrated.)
I think Ma grieved rather more, though, when she found out Mama Brook had sold the old player piano that she and Meda Mae learned to play on . . . not sure she ever forgave her mama that. Poor Mama Brook, sometimes she just didn’t appreciate what she was getting rid of, I guess.
As I say, the story-swap started when a foloer mentioned his grandmother had been a Trace Road Hadaway. Immediately I screeched back, “Wait — don’t tell me this is Isom Hadaway and family you’re talking about?!” He replied that Isom was his grandmother’s brother. So I wrote:
Oh. My. God. Somewhere around here there’s a photo of Isom Hadaway up on a tractor holding toddler [lotus] on his lap in L.Z. and Lora Brook’s barnyard. And I remember the day it was taken. I remember the smell of the tractor, and how impossibly high off the ground I was — looking out from so high up and hanging onto Isom’s knees, which made it safe.
Isom and his wife (whose name I think was also Miss Matty [nope, I had that wrong]) lived across Trace Road from my grandparents, and he was a tall, rangy red-headed demon fiddler. My bro and I loved him so much, that — well –
In December ‘93, bro and I flew into Springfield for what we didn’t know then was Ma’s last Christmas — me from Miami, where I was in law school, and bro from San Francisco, where he and wife live. He knew but I didn’t that we’d be on the same flight from Dallas into Springfield (imagine having to go from FL to MO via TX). So anyway, here I am sitting reading in the boarding area between flights, when over my shoulder comes a sudden (and familiar) voice, “Excuse me, but would you happen to know Isom Hadaway?”
I gotta start supper now, but later I’ll come back and tell you a story I know your mom has probably heard from hers. I’m pretty sure she’ll have told it.
But do you know, turns out, that booger Meda Mae never did . . . hmmm.
Welllll, since you brought all of this up, I just want to add that Ben’s brother (Sam, Jr) and Daddy (Dr. Sam) are two of the most wonderful folks you’d ever want to meet.
And if you think they’re wonderful, MT (and I can certainly vouch for Dr. Sam), I hope you get to meet the rest of the crew!
( Sam Jr. is actually Sam III.)
Correct Lotus–when I re-read that, I thought something was wrong… since we’re adding, let’s put Sam III’s wife in the mix… and kids, too!
Without a doubt you are kin to the salt of the earth. I too lived in “Mun-ro” County for over 25 years.
Mr Lou Brook is a prince of a fellow. No better man. We were neighbors for several years. He was a kind gentleman. Top-notch!
John Creekmore is one of the few lawyers in “Mun-ro” County I would trust. This would be Ben Creekmore’s cousin, I believe. No offense but the truth is the truth, lawyers in the Mother of Counties are not the most respectable characters. I could tell you tales. Mr. Sam Creekmore, John’s dad, was a real charmer with a gravel voice and courtly manners. And–John’s Mama–she too was a charmer. Stewart was her maiden name. Classy folks!
The gentleman that owned the drive in theatre adjacent to Brooks store was Herry Morrow. Francis is his wife. Truth be known she probably did own the theatre! Lol! Another good couple!
You know it’s true–everybody in Mississippi is either kin or know who someone who is kin.
Glad to know everyone’s pedigree.
Hello there, homey-mine, rnb! That would be my uncle Lu (for his initials, L.U., which — bless his heart, stood for Lorse Ulric).
John Creekmore is Ben’s uncle, and the first time I saw him, his mama Margaret had him in one hand as she drove the tractor with the other! Now go look at the story “Peacocks” on my AS I RECALL page for another little visit with her.
Daddy Sam was magnificent, wasn’t he? No other word for that pair, Mr. Sam and Miss Margaret.
Oh right, rnb — Harry and Frances Morrow, whose little daughter was Denise (a good playmate for John when we older kids were off somewhere).
lotus — I’m glad you posted this.
Monroe County is one of the oldest counties in the state and has birthed a lot of families. You should pick up a copy of “Mother Monroe” which my other grandmother helped write. It’s a great reference for all of the families that have come out of the Mother.
I sent a link to my mother who will very much enjoy it. One side of my family lived over on Trace Road, and the other lived on Hatley Road. I’m sure Mrs. Thompson knows my family — and my uncle still lives there just off Hatley Road on Pinewood. You can forward my e-mail address to the Monroe Countian if you want to.
Does this mean I need to change my name to “Curly Half-Hadaway?” (Actually, I’m just a Quarter-Hadaway …. a Hadaroon)
That’s right, Curly — I got so excited about the photos, I forgot how to count degrees. “Curly” does fine, but if you like, I’ll call ya “Curly H-H” . . .
You know, Curly, I bet my Mama Brook had “Mother Monroe” all straight in her head — she could go on for hours, rattling off the entire genealogies of everyone she knew. Made me sick that she died before I could get hold of a tape-recorder and capture all that.
Some years ago when I was an oil and gas landman, I had occasion to work for many months in Monroe County, and it was a fine experience. I spent many an hour in the beautiful old courthouse there in Aberdeen, running title, and did a good bit of lease acquisition up around Amory. The land and mineral owners I dealt with were invariably kind and pleasant, and I remember my time there fondly.
Love the name of the main funeral home there in Amory: “Pickles”. Always got a kick out of that.
Ahhh, Dragoman, I’m fixin’ ta get all blubbery again.
Uh-huh, IAG, and you missed a wonderful fellow (nick)named Chicken Pickle, too. Quite a Faulkner-worthy story to do with him, but I won’t tell it here. He gave me my first locket, which natcherly I teethed on (but by that time he was already dead).
I have been to quite a few funerals, but Pickle does the best ever, period! I believe Warren is 4th generation, and his son Robert is a mortician in Tennessee. I hope there is a Pickle around to bury me when I cross over.
Curly, thanks much for emailing that “Mother Monroe” link.
Better than Pickle Funeral home in Amory was the Tax Accountant located directly in vinegar Bend–Tommy Crook, Accountant.
I was always afraid for him to do my books becasue I always thought that the IRS woud check it with a preparer named that.
Now rnb, don’t you be besmirchin’ my second cud’n here — Tommy Crook is a grand fellow (sunny and smart)! Oh, and HONEST goes widout sayin’.
The town name Vinegar Bend reminds me that in the library at my office we once assembled a joke all condiment baseball team–
Vinegar Bend Mizell was a pitcher, of course
(Eddie Mayo, Pepper Martin, Pickles Dillhoffer, and I can’t remember who else were also among ‘em. We had nine players and a manager with condiment names)
Pish, you didn’t know the real Chicken Pickle, NMC.
(Col. Mustard in there anywhere?)
These were baseball players, Lotus. I know there was a mustard (and salt) but they don’t immediately come to mind.
Just thought y’all mighta drafted the Colonel to manage or be water-boy or sumpin, NMC.
Tommy Crook is a great guy and so is his son Neil.
good gosh–you are a true Monroe Countian–kin to the Crooks, Hadaways, Brooks–now if you were kin to the Leeches you would have all of the major families covered in the estern part of the county
You could never serve on a jury because you would be kin to all of the participants–
In Monroe County all of the lawyers, defendents, judges and prosecutors are related. You don’t ask for justice , you just ask for mercy.
Didn’t chicken Pickle drown in the Tombigbee River?
I’m tellin’ ya, rnb, I got me some ROOTS. (Not related to the Hadaways or Leeches that I know of, but my granny mighta corrected me on that one.)
Yes, he did, rnb 24 — spring flood-time of ‘48, not long after he gave me that locket. My folks didn’t get over that for a very long time.
What a great read!
i was born in smifille in 1938,left in 1950.i just read your article and remembered some of the names mentioned.i remember buying candy in brookes store.thank you for a wonderful read.
Aha, John Vines, welcome to folo. I’m so glad you found and enjoyed this thread. Seems quite possible to me that, though neither of us would remember, you and I saw each other in Brook’s Store. I’d have been an auburn-haired baby or toddler, you probably a dusty kid in overalls, and both of us crowding that candy case (though in summer, I also liked to crowd the sweaty, cold-smelling Co’Cola bin — remember that?).
In my living room today, I use as a coffee table an antique display case that reminds me of Daddy Brook’s — only, instead of Butterfingers and Baby Ruths and such, it shows off New Smyrna Beach and Sanibel beachcombing finds.