The Mill Pond: A Southern Legacy

By E. L. Vinson Bowers

Ernest Livingston Vinson, a resident in the small North Carolina lumber village of Brunswick, is an avid sportsman. On most Sunday afternoons, he heads for the old Richardson millpond to cast his favorite fly rod. Vinson is in his element when he is fishing, and it is a joyous day when he finally welcomes his ten-year-old grandson aboard his johnboat.

As grandfather and grandson cast their hooks into the water and wait, Vinson begins sharing his lifelong remembrances that span many generations and paints a vivid picture of the triumphs and tragedies that the families endured while migrating to Brunswick. Starting with the original journey to the New World from England and then through Virginia and North Carolina, Vinson leads his grandson down a magnificent historical path where colorful characters bravely faced seemingly insurmountable challenges in order to achieve their dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483429373

Book preview

2015

THE

MILL POND

A Southern Legacy

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E. L. VINSON BOWERS

Copyright © 2015 E. L. Vinson Bowers.

Interior Graphics Credit: Vinson Bowers

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2935-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2936-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-2937-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904262

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 4/16/2015

Contents

Prologue

Introduction

PART I

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

PART II

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Epilogue

In loving memory of my sister,

Julia C Ju Ju Mitchell Bowers Enderle

1949–2013

What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it!

—Gabriel Garcia Marquez

1928–2014

Acknowledgement

First and foremost, I want to thank my good friend, Robb Cross, for his encouragement, guidance, and editing of this book to help bring this labor of love to fruition.

I am deeply indebted to so many wonderful individuals who have given of their time and talents. Ann Coburn, Rebecca Proctor, Gaye Fisher, Martha Burns, Betty Singletary, Helen Fuller, Johnny McNeill, Jeff Duncan, Julie Singletary, Harry Mitchell, Glenn Sledge, Stuart High, Wallyce Todd, Mike Marsh and Eugene McMillian graciously shared with me stories of the past. Janie Utley Perrin, Karen Dodd, Betsy Hudgins, Charlotte Marion and Michele DeCamp offered their research and editing skills. Lonnie Dow and Johnny Smith were my loyal computer safeguards. In addition, Ed Campbell, Fuller Royal, Tom Spencer and Larry Rosenstrauch provided their photography expertise. Thanks to all.

I am also grateful for the assistance I received from the dedicated librarians at the Halifax County Public Library, Lawrenceville Public Library, Carolyn T. High Memorial Library, James B. Hunt Jr. Library, and the North Carolina State Archives.

A special thanks to Rick Edwards who presently owns the mill pond. He has been a great friend and has meticulously masterminded the preservation of this beautiful setting and the continuance of its rich legacy.

Finally, I want to thank the staff at LuLu Publishing for their kind assistance in helping publish this treasured story of The Mill Pond.

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Columbus County Courthouse

Prologue

I went south to clear my head of the everyday hassles in life and gain some perspective. My destination was my hometown of Whiteville, a small Border Belt tobacco market where I spent my youth. My dad had been a banker and my mom a cultural arts enthusiast, and though the family was gone, friends and neighbors were still the tonic I needed.

The courthouse in Columbus County is an old-fashioned, white-columned icon. As I maneuvered around the 1915 structure, my elbow was propped out the window and I was singing along to ’60s music maybe a little too loud. I got some stares, but I got some greetings as well. My mind had shifted to a slower pace as I drove into my hometown, the town that I have always loved. I reflected on years gone by, not the rush of business deadlines and pressures of family responsibilities. I temporarily escaped the stresses of daily life.

Whiteville had grown up as two adjoining towns: The north was the original county seat named after James B. White in 1811, called Uptown. The area became staid and cramped with some retail and much in the way of legal offices. To the south grew Vineland, so named to hail the arrival of the railroad in 1853 and celebrate the exported carloads of grapes and the associated wine industry of the nineteenth century. This part was called Downtown. Connecting the two areas was a one-and-one-eighth-mile stretch called Madison Street, a quiet residential street that was lined with beautiful hardwoods—a setting that was so comfortable and familiar to me. It was great to be home.

My drive had begun on Pinckney Street north of the courthouse, and it was like stepping back to when I was a teenager. The Coburns’ home brought back sailing stories of Dick at Lake Waccamaw and tales of Ann as a young child in time out, sitting on a board nailed six feet up in a gum tree at the millpond. Next door lived the Proctors, and every year on Christmas Eve they served the best spiked eggnog in town, a giant silver bowl filled with generous portions of Maker’s Mark and whipped cream. I well remember Becca Proctor being embarrassed when her seventy-year-old mother, Mrs. Huggins, proceeded to stand on her head after a few toddies. Across the street, Dr. and Mrs. Kate Greene lived, and I always marveled at the fact that Kate put an E on the end of Dr. Greene’s name before they moved to Whiteville because she felt it was more aristocratic. On the corner was Jim Brooks’s home; he played the saxophone in our rhythm-and-blues 1964 dance band. We played in town at local events to make a few bucks, and Tommy Whitehead was our fearless leader playing the trumpet. The Saturday night social gathering at Bob and Martha Burns’s tennis court was a Southern tradition. Few played; most just enjoyed their drinks and socialized. I remember Bob Burns puffing on his Cuban cigars and J. B. Lee’s deep belly laughs. Whiteville United Methodist was next door, where I was greeted by Ed McGirt on Sundays and sat with my father and Uncle Lester listening to the Reverend P. O. Lee passionately preach about the Devil and his sinful deeds—so you best kneel down now, brother, and repent!

Circling the courthouse, I was blinded by all the various law offices crowded together. However, it was fitting that John Gayle Barkley’s wonderful florist, Tip-Top, was nestled among all the thorns to give way to a rose or two.

Madison lay before me, and I recalled socializing at Simmons Drugstore and drinking freshly squeezed orangeades with many of my high school classmates. Down the street, I thought of Mr. and Mrs. John Thompson slowly cruising in their shiny black 1962 Lincoln Continental with the doors that opened from the middle. They were always dressed in their finest. I could never forget John and Betty Singletary’s home, where I spent part of my teenage years in their party room and, more recently, sat in their kitchen right after their son, Brad, died to hear his mother’s heartfelt words.

Approaching the prominent Whiteville Baptist Church brought back painful memories of my grandfather Vinson’s funeral in 1964. The stoic church was packed that day with local townsfolk, including a large assembly of blacks from the Brunswick community who idolized him. Passing Sam and Helen Fuller’s home, I thought of Edgar, their butler, who answered their front door and waited on me as if I were English royalty. Directly across the street, Mr. Sam and my grandfather Vinson normally skipped church on Sunday and spent the time at Fuller’s Stables talking mule trading and revisiting the days when hundreds of mules would literally be unloaded off railcars once a month in downtown and herded up Madison Street to a corral at Fullers. And I must not forget my friend, Kenwood Royal, who taught me how to drive safely. His driver’s education course was fun. We drove through the countryside and waved at almost everyone we passed and patronized country stores along the way.

As I craned my neck to look down College Street, I could get a glimpse of Whiteville High. What incredible memories … Carlton Prince, Doris Pridgen, Coach Jolly, Claire McGirt, Marion Martin, Carthon Hinson, Coach Powell, and so many others who influenced our young lives. And, of course, the 1965 football team; we won the State 2A Championship. In the last game of the year, I’ll never forget looking into the bloodshot eyes of James Smith, our lead running back, and thinking he was like a mad bull. Just give me the damn ball, guys, and block—I’ll take it home. And he did!

A block or two down Madison, David Smith’s home took me back to the times he told me stories about when he and my father went to Duke and he played football in Wade Stadium. Dad referred to David Smith as one hell of a college athlete in his day. Mr. Smith spent many hours patiently teaching me how to properly long snap a football. Whiteville was blessed with beautiful gardens, and in the spring Mrs. B. S. Thompson’s yard was filled with many colorful azaleas and camellias. Across the street, Mable and Chess Chesnutt’s terracotta tile home featured a shallow lily pool in their courtyard with giant goldfish. Right next door, Rachel Thompson was known for her painstaking piano lessons, and my sister, Ju Ju, was one of her devoted students.

In the next block was the home of Ruth and Johnny B. Glass. I could not help but smile from the memories of Daddy’s golf foursomes, which were comprised of J. B. Lee, Horace Bullard and Gene Sears on Wednesdays. If Dad was up to some serious betting of 25-cent Nassau on Saturdays, then he played with Johnny B. Glass, Monte Powell, and Jimmy King. They were avid golfers, and they loved their jokes and toddies at the end of the round. Right next door, the quaint Episcopal Church with its bright red front door stood where my BSA Troop 501 assembled every Thursday night under the loyal guidance of Scoutmaster Frank Gault. Frank could never live down the time the troop went camping. He was brushing his teeth one morning beside his tent and started choking on what he thought was toothpaste—but instead, it was his hair cream!

Adjacent to the church lived my sweet grandmother, Princy Pink Patten Bowers, who never got over the Great Depression and kept pieces of string and endless buttons of all sizes. My grandfather, J. S. Bowers, was a workaholic and had built a successful bridge-building business over his lifetime, but, in his later years, he was imprisoned inside an oxygen tent due to his severe emphysema. Directly across the street were two of the nicest older couples: John C. Maultsby, a wealthy lumberman, and his wife, Amanda; and Dr. Sadler, a prominent physician and businessman, and his wife, Hattie. Many times I chauffeured my grandmother Vinson to visit Ms. Hattie at their elegant home with giant white columns across their front porch shaded by the stately magnolia trees on their lawn. Their portly maid, sporting a beaming smile and starched white apron, would greet us at the front door, Y’all go right in and sit in the parlor, Ms. Hattie a’dressing, want some sweet tea?

On the same side of the street stood the Whiteville Hotel. My grandfather Vinson was instrumental in getting it established, and most Sundays after church, my cousin Joey and I would visit and order butterscotch sundaes. They were the best! When I think of Mrs. George McNeill and her lovely home, I also think of James Utley and my grandmother Vinson in search of the perfect camellia that they devotedly nurtured each year to be shown at local camellia shows. John and