Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Franz

Forever A Hillbilly: Uncle Franz: I was born when my dad was 52, my mom 40. The youngest of the Gillum Wing generation. My cousins were grown and gone, all my sibli...

Uncle Franz

I was born when my dad was 52, my mom 40. The youngest of the Gillum Wing generation. My cousins were grown and gone, all my siblings were gone by the time I was 12. So, I pretty well grew up with all the old folks. The Gillums mostly lived side by side, or about as close to side by side as we got in Wing. A mile apart.

     Most of my uncles and my dad were pretty serious, no nonsense, hard men. At least, they were by the time I came along. I never knew any of them when young blood flowed through their veins.

     But Uncle Franz was different. He still laughed a lot, and he found things in life to enjoy. He was very, very, smart. He spent much of his working life teaching, as an administrator, or as a Civilian Conservation Corps director after the depression. He had retired by the time my memories of him began. He came back to Wing,  built a house, a big fishing pond, got land and cattle. His girls were still finishing up school, so Aunt Grace hung out at Conway until they were grown. He was so sick of dressing up every day, he came back living and dressing like a sure enough hillbilly.

     He taught at Fountain Hill awhile. He told me once they lived in a pretty rough part of town, and when they came back to Wing for a visit, (Everybody from Wing comes back as often as they can. Wing is just about the perfect place to be. Just about. The one thing missing is a lot of options about what to do for a living. So he, like me, had to scramble around in other, lesser parts of the world to make a living and raise a family.) He was a little worried about his house and his stuff while he was gone. So, he found the biggest, roughest, meanest man in the neighborhood, took him his house key, and asked him to watch his stuff while he was gone. That worked perfectly. Nobody ever messed with his stuff. I told you he was smart. It was a hard day's drive from Southeast Arkansas in those days, what with all the mudholes to get through.

     Uncle Franz seemed to go to bed about the time the chickens went to roost. But he was up by the middle of the night, and a whole lot of that time, he was pounding on his old, beat up typewriter. I saw him doing that a lot, but never knew what he was doing in those days. It was not until recently, when I began to see some of his work, that I realized he was a world-class poet. But his work seems to be pretty much lost to the world. The copies of his poems that I have been able to get my hands on are pretty dim, probably copies of copies of copies from an old typewriter not much good to begin with. But I'm going to do the best I can to figure out some of them, and share them with you. Hope you like them too.

Three Shots Rang Out    (President John Kennedy)

                                        

A man was riding on parade                                                                                                        

A great good man who fervently prayed

For peace and freedom the wide world O'er

When three shots rang out and he's no more.

A man so young and sincere too

Ambition spurred to drive him through

A fearless man with wisdom's store

But three shots rang out and he's no more.

A speechless world rose quick and fast

To honor him whose soul had passed

From life through death to live once more

For in hearts those shots closed not the door.

A mortal form lies lifeless now

No wicked worry to fret his brow

Yet he's greater now than e'er before

Since three shots rang out and he's no more.

                 **

No Sparkles Show

Sometimes the dew on blades of grass

That crowd in over the padded path

And hide the footprints in the dirt

Goes by unnoticed as I work.

No sparkling diamond hue I see

Because my eyes are so busy

Searching for another sight

A little spot of red and white.

It's hidden somewhere in the grass

I must not miss it as I pass

Of course it probably would be

As well that I did not see.

Yet something inside me tells me “no”

And thats the reason no sparkles show

On blades of grass when wet with dew

At early day when morn is new.

Dew sparkling grass is just as wet

And sparkles just as bright, still yet

It bothers me not as much by half

When looking for a newborn calf.

                       **

Oh 'my gosh what was that

That weird sound out yonder?

Sounds just like a squalling cat

followed then by rolling thunder.

Curiosity got the best of me

Out the window I looked to see.

Then quick as lightening's flash

I rushed over to the window

Pulling up the bottom sash

I saw kids on the biggest bender

No, not drunk, I didn't say

Just a frolicking group at prankster's play.

On they came so thick and fast

Noisy costumed witches leading

Followed behind by lad and lass

Street decorum knew no heeding.

Turned the corner down my street

And at the door yelled “trick or treat!”

Treat. The choice was made post haste.

What was left for me to do?

I knew I had no time to waste

When I viewed closely this weird crew

Dressed so spooky from head to feet

Playing innocently “trick or treat.”

                    **

     Uncle Franz drove his Farmall Cub tractor by our house just about every morning. I knew he was going to check his cows. But I also knew that before lunch, he would be down at the lake or the river, fishing. If I was able to get loose, I grabbed my pole and headed down that way. Sitting on the river bank with Uncle Franz, catching one bream after another, was always time very well spent. I always rode out on the back of his tractor.

     In his later days, A doctor discovered he had an anurism in his stomach. He was told that if it burst, he would die before he could get to a hospital. Uncle Franz said, “That sounds like a good way to go.” He had no operation. A while later, he did go. Just that way.

`Teresa's Quest

     I have always called her "The Eternal Cheerleader." When she married Ky, she was fresh from being an Ouachita Baptist University cheerleader. They began having babies, and more babies. But it didn't affect Teresa as one would expect. She still kept the slim figure, still looks like a cheerleader. But that is not the main gist of my story here.

     As with many women, Teresa had always wanted a girl. Badly. The first was a fine boy. Soon four great, handsome young boys blessed them at their dinner table.

     Teresa's biological clock was running out.

     Corey and Christi, Teresa's age, decided to have one more child late in life. Their children were growing up, and Christi just loves having a baby in the house. And, Corey has always spent his spare time playing with his kids. Needless to say, they are great parents. Christi's home had  become babyless, and Corey was losing his playmates.

     Teresa and Ky made a decision. If Corey and Christi could have a child late in life, so could they.

     Teresa was soon pregnant. During her early pregnancy, Teresa was walking along the beach in Florida. Something pink lay in the path ahead. When she reached it, she recognized a pink baby shoe! She ran to it, picked it up. She burst out crying. This was it! This was the sign! She took this shoe home.

     The day of the tell-tale ultrasound arrived. Christi couldn't bear it. She waited in the car. Teresa emerged from the clinic. Her head was down. Christi's heart sank.

     Suddenly, Teresa raised her flushed, smiling face and making what could possibly be her greatest cheerleader move ever, threw her arms to the sky and shouted, "Its a Girl!!"

   

     The pink shoe was framed in a shadow box, and the new baby's room was built around it.

 

     Rachel, Teresa and Ky's new daughter, and Carson, Christi's new baby and Corey's new playmate, are a wild pair when they get together. They are now five years old. Barbara and I were at daughter Kinley's house awhile back. Teresa's mom, a wonderful woman, was very ill. She was in hospice, and the end was near.  Barbara and I offered to watch after Rachel and Carson during a very hard day for Teresa. We soon realized we had our hand's full, with these two. Barbara followed them around when they were in the house, I took over when they went outside. Rachel ran to the swing, jumped up and grabbed the ropes as high as she could, and was soon upside down. I was in panic mode. Teresa was a gymnast, and hoped Rachel would be also. I learned really quickly, she had gotten her wish.

     You may have seen it on the internet. Rachel recited the 23^rd Psalm, from memory. Rachel is not just a gymnast. Not just a pretty face, which she is also. Five years old.

     Barbara and Rachel were talking. "Guess what?" Rachel was saying. "My Grams may get to go to see Jesus today!" Reading the sadness in Barbara's eyes, she said, "It's not a bad thing! She's going to get to live in a castle made of gold!"      From the mouths of Babes.....

     Teresa happened to look up the meaning of the name "Rachel" later. Oh, sorry, I almost for got to tell you what she found. "Rachel: A Gift From God."

Diamonds and Flashing Trophies-- Part three

     Corey's lifelong friend Ky is a bright young man. He was also a student of mine at one time.

     He designed a new trophy. Not just any trophy, but one with 7 different, flashing and rolling lighting patterns in the column. Like none other. He needed a partner. A person with a strong sales and business background, someone he could trust. My son Corey fit the ticket.

     The next job was to find someone who could actually build such a thing, inexpensively. After much looking, He finally located a company in China who said they could do it. They did. They shipped Ky a small load to approve.

     Corey and Ky gave me some of them to go over, look for problem areas. They worked well, but I did discover a problem. A few of them seemed to have a weak switch. When pressed, the switch just sometimes broke loose inside. Taking it apart, I saw the switch was glued into place. Sometimes, those with less glue just gave way.

     I called Ky, explained the problem. That switch just needed to be reworked. The switch issue was resolved, we thought. Corey and Ky, just sure they were onto the next "big thing," ordered a shipping container load. They are both very big thinkers. Financing became a problem, and they offered Barbara and me 20% interest in the company if we backed their loan. Not a thing characteristic of us, we did. After Dad's Great Depression days, he made a family rule, one I had always followed to that point. A Gillum never signs anyone else's note. But, this seemed like a sure hit.

     When the container load arrived, and boxes were stacked in a warehouse, we went to inspect. The stacks and rows of boxed trophies seemed to stretch on forever.

     We opened a box, and started testing.  The earlier batch had been shipped in the summertime. Only a few failed. This container load had been shipped in the winter. The glue must have gotten very cold on that long voyage.

     One switch failed. And the next. And another. Somehow, in the communication between Me, Ky, and China, the seriousness of the problem was not fully understood. They had not remolded the plastic column, providing a solid backing, but had added more glue, and tested a great deal. But they obviously had not taken into account the effect of the cold. Apparently, warm glue holds better that cold. We were looking at 22,500 non-functional trophies.

     The International Trophy Show, in Las Vegas, was in March. It was late December. We had  two months to straighten this mess out.

     Ky negotiated with the Chinese for days, but from a position of weakness. They had our money.

Shipping them back was not an option for them. That was the major expense. Them sending a team of workers over was discussed.

     Then we got to thinking. If they could repair them, we could too. We had a second generation trophy, still on the drawing boards. We could not afford it at this time, for this year's Trophy Show.

     If they could redesign the switch correctly, build the larger trophies, and ship them all for free to us in exchange for their switch messup, We could come out ahead. If we repaired the stock in hand. A very big IF.

     China went for it, very anxious to please us, and keep theirselves in position for much profit when the really big orders came in. The deal was sealed.

     Figuring out just how to repair this mountain of trophies fell upon me.

     For days I tried one idea after another. Reheating worked, but after a night in the freezer we were back in the same boat. Finally, I discovered that if I took the trophy out of its box, took the batteries out and put a very short screw into the bottom of the battery case at exactly the right place, it could be tightened up against the back of the switch, and hold it firmly in place. It worked!

     But it was slow. It would take a virtual army of men to repair all these by March. Then it hit me. Or, perhaps, a single family of working machines. I called Henry Emison.

     He was not really busy now, and they could use some Christmas money. We agreed upon 25 cents each, we haul and pick up. Finished by March.

     Corey and I went shopping. 22,500 screws, just the right length. A handful of Dremmel tools, drill bits and screw drivers. The next problem was to get that mass of boxes to Gurdon. My friend, Bud Reeder, loaned his truck and large trailer.

     Hooking that very heavy trailer up one morning, I strained a little too hard. On the way to Little Rock, my vision in one eye started going crazy. I was seeing little sperm shaped black things, swimming all around in my vision in that eye. It continued. Unloading the trophies later that day, I called my friend Frank Teed, a well known eye doctor. His team was out of town that day, but he said meet him at his office when he returned. And, don't lift another box. My frient Tyrone was helping me unload. I was glad, but he was sad, when I told him he had to do the rest of the unloading alone.

     Frank's team were all there waiting for me when I arrived after hours. Nice to have good friends in important places. The verdict was my retina was tearing loose. After a specialist welded it back with a laser the next morning we continued hauling trophies. 

     A warehouse in Arkadelphia was rented. We shuttled the boxes to Henry, and we all shuttled them back to the warehouse when repaired.

     This is not a part of this story, but a neat thing, so bear with me. Hauling the empty trailer back from Gurdon one day, a large deer almost hit my trailer, which was at least 3 feet tall. When I looked into the rear view mirror, all I could see was the bottom of it's feet. It jumped clean over my trailer!

     As it turned out, Henry had young and grown children who were also hard workers. Lori has the same work ethic as Henry. Before March rolled around, they were all repaired and in our warehouse.

     Next came the big show. The Chinese had made good on their delivery of the larger trophies. They were perfect. Corey, Ky, and wives Christi and Teresa headed to Las Vegas, to the International Trophy Show, loaded for bear.

     We got the call late one night from Las Vegas. Our trophy had just been named "Best new trophy of the year!" We rejoyced. We were about to all be rich!

     Now the ball was in Corey's court. Two of the trophy industry's largest suppliers wanted to buy us out. We knew we had to sell, now, while it was hot. We did not have the money to market it ourselves, on this large scale. Offers flew back and fourth.

     Finally, a large company in South Dakota offered what we decided was our best deal. A nice royalty on future sales, and they would buy all our existing stock, our repaired trophies. They sent a big truck to Arkadelphia to pick them up. They wanted their own suppliers from China to build 100,000 more, but their suppliers could not figure out how to build it. They made a deal with our company in China.

     When the trophy appeared in the catalog that fall, they used the entire back cover promoting it. The company reported the dealers just loved it, and orders were flying off the shelves. After the dealers got stocked up, we held our breath to see how the public would react.

     It was not good. The trophy seemed to fall into a void between very cheap participation trophies and more expensive, larger trophies. The public was just not as excited as we, and the dealers, were. The royalty check reached a trickle, and has held there so far. It seems we are not going to be rich after all. But thank the dear lord our investment money is safe. It could have been a whole lot worse.

     Ky is still busy turning out new inventions regularly. But Barbara and I quietly bowed out of the futures portion of the company. We've had all of that form of drama we want, for a lifetime. And, I still remember the last time a Gillum signed someone else's note, in 1930. It extended The Great Depression for my family in the mountains of Wing, Arkansas, sixteen years.

     But wait. This story is not over yet. Do you remember me speaking of Teresa, Ky's wife?

Rough Diamonds - Part Two

     While washing out my gravel one day, one man, a northerner new to the field, hung around, telling me how easy finding diamonds was. "I just walked around, looking, yesterday. I found ten diamonds, right on top of the ground"."Did you get them certified? Lots of things look like diamonds out here,"  I  said. "No, but I'm sure. I "certified" them myself on the internet." I wanted  to tell him, if he would bring any two of them to the visitor's center the next day, get a certification card on them at the Visitor's center, I would kiss his butt in the middle of the field, at high noon, and give him 30 minutes to draw a crowd. But, I only thought about it. He was a big guy.  

    

     I returned home after that first trip, washed all my fine gravel out well, and lay them out in the greenhouse to dry. Son Corey happened to walk by that drying gravel that afternoon, and said, "What 's this piece of glass doing in here?" Before he could throw it out, I grabbed his hand. A beautiful, yellow, one carat diamond. I had reached my goal, the rest was just gravy.

     I spent many, many nights going through all that gravel, three buckets full. One spoon full at a time, under bright lights. I found one more diamond, a white 7 point. 100 points equals a carat.

     My obsession didn't hit me really hard again until 30 years later, when I was semi-retired, and I was only a short drive away.

     My new equipment was better, aluminum where I once used wood, and I made an aluminum sled to haul it on. Powered equipment and wheels were forbidden. Things were different too.  Many hundreds of diamonds had been removed from that field in 30 years, and it was very difficult to find virgin soil. I was once digging a very deep hole, way back under a large tree, and the word was getting around that I was probably in new dirt, a very rare thing. Some of the full timers came by to look. I was getting excited, then I started washing out old nails. Ten feet deep under a large tree.

     A new tool had been added. The Seruca. It was a tool straight from the South African diamond mines. Shaped somewhat like a gold pan, but with stainless steel wire. A load of gravel, worked around properly under water, concentrated the heavy minerals, including diamonds, in the middle, on the bottom. Flipped over, this left the heavy minerals on top, right in the middle. Let this dry, and look that area over carefully, and there was no need to take all the gravel home to inspect. Or, just take that small handful in the middle, which I always did.

     A young man from Iowa started at about the time I did. We both went many days without finding a diamond. But once he did, he was totally hooked. He went back to Iowa, sold most of his stuff, and moved back to the mine, living in a tent outside. He hunted full time, and the hard way. I never knew how many he found  But every day I was there he was hard at it. I heard he later found some nice ones along the way. I fully expect  he will be one of those who leaves that field at last, as a totally broken down old man.

     Some got around  the "Fill up your hole at the end of the day" rule by hauling in a piece of plywood, hiding the entrance, cover it with dirt, and come back to that same spot the next day. I was busy washing away one day when one of those guys came up and told me I was working on his doorway, dumping my mud on it. He had a system of caves dug underneath that area.

     I saw two or three men set in and dig a new hole five feet across and they took turns and dug all day. They were able to get 12 or 14 feet deep, pulled out a diamond from the bottom, and still got it filled back up that day.

     I dug 30 days that winter, yet my total find was one diamond and a small amount of gold. I always told the other guys, "I am the best equipped, most knowledgable, and the hardest working of all the Non-Producers."And I think that was true. The park officials would not believe I found that gold there, asserting, "There is no gold in this park." But God and I both know I did.

     Though I proved to not be a productive diamond hunter that winter, I did find two diamonds, of another type, who totally outshown any type of mineral that might be found there.

     Henry and Lori Emison were mining away when I first met them. They were becoming regulars,  and everyone soon began to realize, they just worked a lot harder that anybody else. Henry was a total machine when he has a shovel in his hand. He could outwork anyone, five to one.

     Some Texas diamond hunters were digging one day, and hit the glory hole. It was a thin strip of fine creek gravel, and they found it very deep. An old creek bed from eons past. They quickly began to find many diamonds, but by then they were totally exhausted. Time was getting short. They had to leave for Texas that day.

     Henry was working across the creek from them, and they, like everyone else, soon realized he was a digging machine. They went over and made a deal. "We are in a very rich diamond bed. Dig with us and we will split the diamonds found." Henry went for the deal, and by the end of the day, Henry had 5 very nice diamonds.

     Henry called me that night and told me exactly where that glory hole was. Quite naturally, I was there ready to dig the next morning. But a full timer had already taken over that spot, and he dug there for days. He told me after he had washed it all out, many days later, that he found no diamonds. If he was telling me straight, it seems the glory hole was exhausted. Later, I was there on a day after a large rain, and the glory hole area was under four feet of water. I told some college guys of the twenty some odd diamonds found in that hole in one day. When I came back by later that day, they were sitting in that hole, reaching down under water, and gathering up that dirt, handful at a time. There are no lengths to which one bitten by the diamond bug will not go.

     My grandson Jordan came with me one day shortly after that. At the end of the day, he wisely informed me, "Papaw, anything that is fun can never be this hard." Great words of wisdom from a child. He was right. Every part of my body ached. My body was breaking down, and I was becoming one of those "broken down old men." After 30 days, I hung up my shovel and screens, and have never been back. But some day I will, and I have already planned out my approach when I do. I have a spoon attached to a long handle. I will wait until right after a very large rain. Then I will walk arould all over that field, look for tiny reflections from the sun, pick them all up and put them in a bucket. Then wash out only that. Many lucky people have found beautiful diamonds there, right on top of the ground. Maybe mother luck will shine upon me some day. Lord knows, I deserve it!

     Henry continued his obsession. He was still working full time, landscaping and construction, but he is a man among men, one who could come over after work and still do a day's work at the mines. Just naturally, he found many more diamonds. They rented a house from me in Gurdon, 16 miles from Arkadelphia. Partially because they loved that very old, six bedroom brick house, the oldest brick house in Gurdon. But, mostly, it was close to the diamond mines.

     Henry and Lori didn't just stand out in their ability to work. Henry preached, for free, at Nursing Homes. A young girl was desperate for a home. They adopted her, even though it greatly strained their budget. That kind of people.

     When they moved into my old house, I saw Lori just loved to fix it up, and they hoped to buy it some day. I made them a rock bottom price, but they didn't feel ready to take that on yet. I went down to the Hardware store in Gurdon, opened an account, and told Lori to charge anything she needed to improve that old house. She did, and she never abused my trust. It was quickly a far better house that it had been in many, many years.

     This is not the end of my Henry and Lori story. They will come back in later, in a very big way. Little did I know, they were destined to become my salvation, when an almost impossible task faced me. A job requiring absolute,  human working machines.
CONTINUED IN ONE WEEK.  Thanks for Reading

Rough Diamonds and Flashing Trophies

Rough Diamonds, Flashing Trophies, and a Baby

     All us Gillums took a trip one day. We went to the Crater of Diamonds State Park at Murfreesboro, Arkansas. The kids were still young, and were excited about digging around in that dirt ---for about ten minutes. We didn't find a diamond, but it did have a profound effect on me. I was hooked.

     That park is one of a kind. It's the only place in the world where you can go in, pay a modest fee, look for diamonds with a reasonable chance of finding one, and keep what you find.

     I knew, after that trip, that I could never rest until I found a rough diamond. Everyone has a cut diamond or two lying around, but who do you know that has a rough diamond, straight from the earth?

     I watched what appeared to me to be the most serious hunters. What they did, the tools they used. I filed it all away in my head.

     It was not long until I had my tools constructed, and had gathered up whatever else I would need. I headed out for a three day trip.

     Arriving at the diamond field, I studied rough diamonds that were on display, so I could recognize one. I then hauled all of my equipment to the far side of the field, where a hand pump and a water trough awaited.

     I found a likely spot, where the ground appeared to have been disturbed very little. Those places were scarce, even then, in the 70's. The place I chose was back in under a tree, and the chisel on a rod worked really well. I loaded up ten five gallon buckets with mud, carried them to the trough, and washed it all through a series of screens, the finest on the bottom. The larger gravel I laid out to dry, then examined it on the field. The smallest I carried home to go through more carefully.

      I was geared up like a pro now, and I played the part. If tourists tried to look over my drying gravel, I ran them off. "Can't feed a family here, with everybody looking through my gravel." They asked me if I made a good living at it. "Well, I don't get very rich." "Do you have a real diamond with you, so we can see what one looks like?"  "Nah. Can't be carrying all that weight around." 

     James Archer was an old man who hunted more than anybody in the old days. And he found more. He was a legend, and I was fortunate enough to get to work beside him and get to know him. I watched his methods, and tried to be just like James Archer. I failed.

     He told me that one day he had found a really nice diamond, just as a couple of rough men walked up. Afraid they might try to get it from him, he just dropped it in his sand bucket. He was never able to find it again. Made me wonder how many diamonds I might miss, going through my sand, if that could happen to a legend.

     Diamond fever is much like gold fever. It becomes a consuming obsession for some men. Over the years, I have seen far more broken down old men, their arms and legs shot, still chasing their dreams in that field, than I have seen diamonds.

In those days, men just went deeper and deeper, often for days. I have seen some holes that were 20 feet deep. But rules eventually were established. Dig a hole, fill it back up that same day.

     Fortunately for me, I still lived far away, and I was still very busy at home, so my trips there were scarce. One more three day trip, later, and scattered one day trips. After we lived at Arkadelphia, only a short drive away, I worked hard at it only one winter. So I finished up pretty well physically intact. But I did know a lot of men who finally left that field a broken down old man. None of these, to my knowledge, got rich at it. Digging diamonds, full time, the way the big boys do it, is a man killer.

     Diamonds can be had the easy way on that field. Approach many of the "professional" looking diggers, when you are alone, and ask if he has any diamonds for sale. He may glance around, confirm nobody is looking, and motion you to his backpack. He may pull out a brilliant display of rough diamonds, each with a certification card. If you have the bucks, you can get a rough diamond easily.

     It's not always easy to identify some diamonds. Some may be attached to other minerals, and if one does not look at all sides of the sample closely, the visible portion of the diamond may not show up well. The key discription is, look for a metallic lustre.  And, there are lots of shiny minerals on that field. I have a little display showing one diamond, and ten little gems that, to a novice, may look like a diamond. I have asked lots of tourists to identify the diamond, and few can do it the first time. Though I firmly believe I am by no means an identification expert. I think that may have been one of my problems. After being turned down, time after time, when I took a specimen up to the visitor's center for certification, I got a little hesitant to try. Since I stopped digging, I have seen many certified diamonds that I would have had doubts about, and probably have passed on.

     One of the legendary hunters was telling me a little story. Said he and a tourist were walking onto the field one morning. The tourist, obviously a rich man, asked him if he had a large diamond for sale, at least six carats. He had to tell him no, he didn't have one that size. After they went their seperate ways a few steps, he noticed something on the ground, picked it up. After looking it over good, he turned to the tourist, and hollered, "By the way, I do have one about eight carats. Are you interested?" He was. Now, take stories with a grain of salt. Diamond hunters are a lot like fishermen when it comes to stories. One big man, who got really famous on the field for finding so many diamonds one summer, and whose picture is still up in the visitor's center because  of it, told me he became so famous with the tourists, that three different women approached him on the field, and begged him into going into the woods with her.  It seems to me that's just too easy no matter how famous one is.  

CONTINUED IN ONE WEEK       Thanks for reading!

Nat Turner

I went through dozens upon dozens of books and documents in researching my book, Forever Cry.
On occasion, I ran across a story I thought you might enjoy. Warning: very violent.

     Nat was a precocious child. He so impressed those around him by his knowledge of things that happened before he was born, that many predicted he would be a prophet. Nat was taught to read by his parents. He was greatly influenced by his grandmother, who was very religious. He was taught that he was very unique, and that he had a great destiny. “My father and mother strengthened me……..saying, in my presence, I was intended for some great purpose.” Restless, inquisitive, and observant, Nat learned to read quickly, and was admitted to religious services in his master’s household. As a child, his ability to read impressed the slaves around him, so that if they planned any roguery, it was left for young Nat to plan it out. He was their leader, greatly looked up to.

     Nat strengthened his leadership over the slaves, as he grew into manhood, “by the austerity of my life and manners, which became the subject of remark by white and black-----Having soon discovered to be great, I must appear so, and therefore studiously avoided mixing in society, and wrapped myself in mystery, devoting my time to fasting and prayer.” Nat became convinced, through these activities, “That I was ordained for some great purpose in the hands of the Almighty.” Several things confirmed this. Upon reaching manhood, he recalled vividly that both Whites and Blacks during childhood had often said, “that I had too much sense to be raised, and if I was, I would never be of any use to anybody as a slave.” Apparently Nat’s discontent with slavery was inspired by his father, who had managed to escape.

     When Nat was placed under a new overseer, he too ran away, and remained in the woods for thirty days. The slaves around him were dismayed at his voluntary return, saying that  “if I had his sense I would not serve any master in the world.” Shortly afterward, Nat had a vision where he saw “white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun was darkened----thunder rolled across the heavens, and blood flowed in streams----and I heard a voice saying,  ‘Such is your luck, such you are called to see. And let it come rough or smooth, you must surely bear it.’” Meditating on this and other revelations, seeking religious perfection,  Nat had decided in 1828 that he was destined to wreak the vengeance of the Lord on the planters. Choosing four trusted lieutenants, Nat communicated his desire for rebellion to them. It was finally decided to strike on July 4, 1831. But Nat had an anxiety attack, and the date was postponed.

     On August 20^th, along with two new conspirators, Will and Jack, they barbecued a pig and drank a bottle of brandy. Nat queried Will, who told him, “my life is worth no more than others, and my liberty as dear to me.” “Will you attain that liberty?” “I will, or lose my life.”

     Now confident of his men, Nat decided to strike first at the home of his master, Joseph Travis, who “was to me a kind master, and placed the utmost confidence in me. In fact, I have no cause to complain of his treatment of me.”

     Nat entered the house of his sleeping master, then opened the door for the other rebels. Armed with a dull light sword, Nat failed in his first attempt to kill his master, who was then dispatched by Will. Hoping to gather a huge black army from the surrounding plantations before the alarm could be raised, it was decided by the conspirators that until they had taken sufficient arms from the whites, “neither age nor sex was to be spared.” This was adhered to.

     Moving silently through the night, Nat led his army, leaving a trail of ransacked plantations, decapitated bodies, and battered heads across Southampton. At the Whitehead plantation, Nat caught Margaret Whitehead, and “after repeated blows with a sword, I killed her with a blow on the head with a fence rail.” By midmorning the little band had grown to forty men, some of them mounted.  Determined to “carry terror and devastation” throughout the county, Nat led his army against plantations and prevented the escape of the whites.  Many white families had now been massacred and the rebels had increased to sixty men. Nat turned his army toward the little town of Jerusalem. By this time, however, the alarm had been spread, and the rebels were confronted by eighteen armed white men.

     Nat and his men immediately charged the small band of white men and chased them over a hill, where they were joined by a very large number of whites. Nat’s men panicked and ran. But Nat did not give up the struggle. Determined to raise additional forces, he was prevented  in doing this by the militia. Nat was sure his men would make it back to their old neighborhood, and raise more men. This did not happen. After hiding for two weeks, he was captured by a white man. Nat was lodged in jail and executed. More than forty blacks were killed in the aftermath. Feeling no remorse for the fifty five whites killed, Nat calmly contemplated his execution. A white lawyer gave the best characterization of Nat when he wrote:

He is a complete fanatic, or plays his part most admirably.

……….The calm, deliberate composure with which he spoke of his late deeds and intentions, the expression of his fiend like face…..when excited by enthusiasm, still bearing the stain of blood of helpless innocence about him; clothed in rags and covered with chains; yet daring to raise his manacled hands to Heaven, with a spirit soaring above the attributes of man; I looked on him, and my blood curdled in my veins.

     The black rebels “curdled” the blood of many Southern whites. Nat became the “bogey man” for young whites, “worry some property” for many a master, and a hero in the quarters. Many a white master now slept behind tightly locked doors, gun under the pillow. Does his slave quarters hold another Nat Turner?                          

Much Material for this post came from – Plantation Life in the Antebellum South-- by John W. Blassingame      New york  Oxford  University Press   1972