James: Memories of my Brother

By Frazer Hart

For as long as he could remember, Frank Hart always looked up to his older brother. Their father, killed in a drunken gun duel and their erratic mother having long-since abandoned them, they had nothing but each other to rely on growing up in the dusty town of Union Springs, Alabama.

These are tales of rising adventure. These are tales of two discarded boys as they find their way out of their sometimes-sinister hometown in the Deep South, and surface thousands of miles away in the stunning city of New York as two well-educated young men in the midst of the Great Depression.

But what exactly happens when they finally have a chance to rise up above their humble beginnings and take the world by storm?

These are tales of my grandfather’s early life with his brother, James. He recounted these tales for his nephew who would never hear these stories told from his father’s lips.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frazer Hart
• Release date: Jul 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301395590

Frazer Hart

This book is about my grandfather's life. not mine. He saved us from a different life and gave us a better life when I was only 1 and my mother needed to make a change in her living situation. Things were not working out for us down in New Orleans with my father. So she technically kidnapped us and brought us up to NJ where my grandfather met us at the airplane. From there he looked after me - without me knowing I was being looked after. He was my saving grace in many ways and I will always be grateful to him for the normalcy he gave us in his home.

Book preview

James

Memories of my Brother

By Frazer Hart

James

Memories of my Brother

By Frazer Hart

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Frazer Hart

Published by Chrystine Gaffney

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Thank You!

Thank you’s go to my family who kept reminding me of the boxes of books my grandfather wanted me to have. And more recent Thank You’s go to all my pre-readers, designer and loyal friend John Giordani for the thoughtful cover art, Rick Gualtieri, my self-publishing mentor and dear Husband and friends who watched the kids while I got this book ready for you to read.

Forward

My grandfather wrote all my life. When he retired, he turned his backyard of trees into a massive garden and the dining room table into his writing desk. A big bucket of soft-lead pencils. Stacks of yellow legal pads. Folders of notes. Streaming afternoon sun.

He split his time between writing his books with gardening in the summer and reading on

his patio or in his easy chair in the winter.

He had all his hand-written stories typed up by a professional typist. He had many copies made. He sent them out to various places. But nothing came of them.  

While I was in college, he spoke to me directly several times about his books; how he did not want an Agent. He did not want a big, fancy Editor who would insist he change things around and take a cut of the proceeds, etc. He wanted me to read them and get them published. I agreed. I didn’t know how I would do it. I knew little about how hard it was to get books published. I don’t even think I said try, I just had to do it…somehow.

I never knew how serious he really was.

When Grandfrank died on July 8th, 1992, I had just graduated from college. It was an incredible loss for me. He had always been my biggest supporter, always made everything better. His presence alone brought solace. The funeral was horrible: a too-small turnout for someone so exceptional. But he had already been to everyone else’s funeral.

Then there was his Last Will & Testament. While his financial treasure went to other family members, he left all his unpublished books solely to me. It was a huge honor, but also a gigantic undertaking, and of course, possibly fruitless. I was only 21. I had no idea what to do with such a significant task.

So a few years later, I pulled out my copy of James at work and started putting his work into the computer, careful not to edit him.

Since then, I have attempted to develop a cover letter for this book. But nothing got done to any completion. Life kept happening. I went to Graduate School, my mother died, I got married, had two kids. So here we are. With self-publishing at its zenith, there is no time like the present.

So here you go, Grandfrank. You gave me so much in my life – truly the best memories of my youth. The very least I can do in return is bring the memories of your youth to the readers of this book, as you asked. I hope this is what you had in mind. I will love you always. I miss you still.

Chrystine Gaffney

James

Memories of my Brother

By Frazer Hart

Union Springs, Alabama

1905 - 1913

Bullock County is in the heart of the black belt, a strip about forty miles wide and extending from Macon, Georgia to the delta region of Mississippi. The word black, in black belt refers to the color of the rich, sandy soil well suited to growing cotton. At this time, something like 45,000 bales of cotton were grown in the county and brought into the town for ginning and baling each year. For this commerce, the Central Georgia Railroad used the town for the junction of two lines. Four passenger trains came in twice a day, one line running between Montgomery and Eugaula and another between Andalusia and Columbus, Georgia. Watching cotton grow and going down to the depot to watch the trains come in was the big excitement of the day. The trains brought in from the outside world, drummers, or salespeople who were taken to the town hotel in horse-drawn hacks with fringes on top.

The main thoroughfare was named Prairie Street and there in the center of town was a handsome marble statue of a Confederate soldier near Bullock County Court House, the seat of the county. Every year in early April there was a big parade of the children with wreaths to be placed on the gravestones of the honored dead who were resting in eternal peace in back of the Episcopal and Baptist churches. The parade was led by my grandfather’s brother, Colonel Thomas Sidney Frazer, on a beautiful white horse. The custom of leading citizens assuming the rank of colonel was then in full sway. Colonel Rosenstil, the town jeweler, was one of these who were given this honorary rank by common usage and habit.

Of the many veterans left, all had ranks above captain and were men who leased their lands, called plantations, to both black and white farmers. These veterans gathered in the mornings and afternoons under an oak tree on the small Court House lawn. There they told their stories of battles won by bravery and military cunning over the Yankees. A person growing up with these bull sessions going on daily (except Saturday and Sunday) would be forgiven if he believed the south won the war. The War Between the States, that is. The terms Civil War and the War of the Rebellion were never used. These veterans were as much a part of the landscape as cotton bales and these men were held in high esteem. When in later years a young gung-ho, on fire Presbyterian minister came to town to revitalize his flock, he dared say harsh things about these loafers under the oak tree.

They did not ride this preacher out of town on a rail, but he was soon gone with his wind.

The churches were the social backbone of the town, splitting the population a bit unevenly. The Methodists and Baptists were the larger churches, the Presbyterian in third place. The Episcopalians had a small elegant church with only enough members to form a jury. The favorite opponent of ecclesiastical attack by the preacher was the Catholic Pope in Rome. They used harsh words against his holiness and Catholics in general, saying they were disciples of the devil and practiced evil too vile to give in detail. Of course, these attacks were an unseen foe. There were no Catholics in the county and only one family of Jews. When the tirades against Catholics palled the churches took out after each other, since it was more fun to lambaste someone you can see but are not on good terms with. In this connection, when my Aunt Mabel married Daniel Feagin, a Baptist, and went over to his