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Tiny Prancers

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Bigger is never better for
several St. Clair farms

Story by Elaine Hobson Miller
Photos by Jerry Martin

Did you hear the one about the horse wearing tennis shoes?

No, that’s not the first line of a joke. It’s a reality for folks who have seen Jelly Bean, a miniature horse owned by Odenville’s Dana Dowdle. Once a greeter at Pell City’s Home Depot, Jelly Bean visits schools, nursing homes and hospitals, wearing the tennis shoes to keep him from slipping on slick floors.

One might think that Jelly Bean is a novelty, but this tiny prancer isn’t the only miniature animal around these parts. Ken and Donna Hale of Ashville raise miniature brahmas, or zebus, while Susan and Al Maddox of Springville have miniature goats.

With the exception of miniature horses, which can’t carry riders weighing more than 70 pounds, you can do just about anything with the little fellows that you can with their full-size counterparts. You can show them, train them to pull carts and do tricks, or simply sit and watch them romp around your yard. They take up less space than the standard versions and eat less, too. Their primary appeal, however, seems to be the cuteness factor.

Standing just 26 inches tall from bare hoof to the top of his withers, Jelly Bean is a micro-miniature horse who weighs about 100 pounds and thinks he’s a dog. “He lives in our barn, but romps through the yard like a dog,” says owner Dana Dowdle. “If he could, he would bark.”

He prefers dog biscuits and French fries to apples and carrots and rides in the back seat of Dowdle’s pick-up truck, sticking his head out the window when they go through fast-food drive-through lanes. He was the first miniature horse in Alabama to be certified as a service animal by Hand in Paw, a non-profit organization that provides animal-assisted therapy to children and adults with mental, physical, emotional and educational needs.

Dowdle’s brother, who died in 2011, raised miniature horses with the idea of training them as service animals. He gave her Jelly Bean in 2002, right after the horse was born. Dowdle took him into her house, cuddled him and rocked him like a baby, which helped to gentle him. She put diapers on him and made him underwear, because she was “too lazy to go through the house training process.” She has worked with several service minis over the past 10 years, but Jelly Bean is the only one that is certified.

“My brother made a ramp for him to climb up into my truck, and I made him outfits for different occasions,” Dana says. “He has a Bob the Builder outfit, a Scooby-Doo outfit, baseball and police uniforms and holiday outfits as well.”

Jelly Bean participates in Christmas parades and serves as a mascot for the St. Clair County Humane Society, the Moody Miracle League and the Margaret Police Department, where he is an honorary sergeant.

During the six years that Dana worked as a greeter at Home Depot, he often accompanied her to work. He’s so tiny, people sometimes mistake him for a goat. “Even though he’s a stallion, he’s very sweet and gentle,” says Dowdle, who is known as Jelly Bean’s mom.

Her helper at these events is 17-year-old Krissy McCarty, who gets credit from the Key Club at Springville High School for assisting Dowdle. “She helps by standing close to Jelly Bean, in case kids run up to him and spook him,” Dowdle says. “So far, he has never had a problem, but it’s nice to be prepared.”

Dowdle has trained Jelly Bean to bow, rear up and to lie down so children can pet him. She figures he has another 10-15 years of service left. “I’m doing this in memory of my daughter, Mandy, who died at the age of 4 from cystic fibrosis, and for all the mothers who are going through what I went through with her,” she says. “But I’m also happy that we could carry out my brother’s dream.”

MINIS HAVE LONG HISTORY

The result of 400 years of selective breeding, miniature horses draw on the blood of English and Dutch mine horses brought to the U.S. in the 19th century and used in Appalachian coal mines as late as 1950. They also draw upon the blood of the Shetland pony. It’s almost impossible to know how many minis are in this country, though, because many are unregistered pets in people’s backyards.

“All minis are not registered through us or other registry organizations,” says Stephanie Haselwander, events and promotions director for the American Miniature Horse Association (AMHA) in Alvarado, Texas. “We register minis that are 34 inches and smaller, measured at the last hairs of the mane. Right now, we have over 213,000 in our database. And that number doesn’t tell us much, since some of those horses could have been registered with us and died.”

TINY BRAHMAS TURN HEADS

Apparently, it isn’t quite as difficult to determine the number of miniature Brahma cows in this country. According to the website www.drdoolittle.net, there are just 2,000 registered zebus in the whole U.S.

In a normal week, eight to 10 strangers will stop by Ken and Donna Hale’s farm on U.S. 231 to look at their zebus, and four will come back and buy one. Most people just want them as pets, but the Hale zebus are registered and can be used as show animals. They can also supply beef.

“Some people look at me like I’m a cannibal when I talk about eating them, but a 400-pound bull will yield about 200 pounds of meat, enough to last most families all year,” says Ken Hale. “Zebu meat has less cholesterol than the meat of bigger cows, and their milk has a higher butterfat content — 8 percent — than the milk of larger Brahmas.”

Zebus top out at 42 inches, measured at the withers, and weigh 300-600 pounds when fully grown. Hale has always loved Brahmas, but claims he is too chicken to deal with the standard variety, which can reach 6 feet in height and weigh around 2,000 pounds. He found the first stock for his herd in Athens, Georgia, via an Internet search. He purchased four — two brood cows and two young heifers named Miss Peaches, Bonnie, Millie and Sara, respectively — in April 2011.

“They are one-person animals,” Hale says. “They will eat out of my hand, but crowd around my wife, Donna, who is the brains of our operation. Sara will nuzzle her and put her head on Donna’s shoulders. Three of the smaller calves will lie down with their heads in my wife’s lap. Yet they run from strangers.”

Despite their gentleness, they are animals that have horns when they are grown and know how to use them. “A momma gored my brother when he tried to pick up her calf,” Hale says.

They are easy to raise, requiring only half an acre per animal and about one to one-and-a-half pounds of feed daily. A standard-size cow needs 15-20 pounds of feed per day. Unlike large cows, their hooves must be trimmed regularly. They breed late, starting at the age of 3, and weigh about 15-16 pounds at birth.

“They look like fawns when they are born, and their mommas hide them,” Hale says. “Like fawns, if they’re under a clump of fescue, the calves won’t move. So unless you step on them, it’s hard to find them. I have to go hunting them down.”

But they grow fast, doubling in size in their first three months. They get more docile as they get older and are sometimes used in youth rodeos. “They can live up to 25 years, and most people keep them until they die, unless they’re raising them for food,” Hale says. “They’re nothing but muscle.” They are primarily gray in color, but also come in black, red, spotted or almost pure white.

Raising zebus is a business for the Hales, but the business brings them lots of pleasure. “I’m handicapped, I have emphysema, and I’m on a breathing machine,” Hale points out. “It’s so rewarding to go out to the pasture in my wheelchair and feed ‘em and watch ‘em eat and play. The calves are so much fun. It’s almost like watching a Norman Rockwell movie.”

GOT HER (DWARF) GOAT

That’s the way Susan Maddox feels about the Nigerian dwarf goats she and husband, Al, raise at their Old Farts Farm on US 11 in Springville. When Susan gets tired of feeding her chickens, peacocks, ducks, rabbits, pigeons, quail, alpacas and miniature horses, she goes and sits in the goat pen, and all is right with the world.

And despite the fact that Al didn’t want Susan to buy any dwarf goats in the first place, he often gets down on his hands and knees in their pen and lets them crawl on his back. “I’m their play-pretty,” he says.

Nigerian dwarf males get up to 28 inches in height, females 26 inches, according to Tara Maynard, who helps the Maddoxes with their farm chores. “Larger than that, they’re considered pygmies, not dwarfs,” she says. “Even though they’re little, dwarfs can supply enough milk for a small family daily.”

The Maddoxes have to buy food made especially for dwarfs, because the feed made for larger goats contains too much copper for their tiny systems. The dwarf nannies give birth once a year, and have one kid the first time and twins or triplets after that. So the Maddoxes usually have 12-15 dwarf goat babies every year. They weigh from one to two pounds at birth, and although they raise them to sell, sometimes Susan finds it hard to part with one. “Sometimes I cry, and the buyer feels guilty,” she admits.

Most people buy them for pets, but occasionally someone wants them for meat. Susan can tell the difference, and usually discourages meat-buyers by jacking up the price. “I normally get $75-$100 for a dwarf, but if I suspect they want to eat it, I’ll ask $500.”

As with all their animals, the Maddoxes put a lot of time into raising the dwarf babies. “We handle them and gentle them from the time they’re born,” she says. “I spoil ‘em. They’re no trouble to care for. If you ever get any, you’ll find yourself sitting out in the pen, just watching them play.”

For an additional story on Llamas in St. Clair, check out this month’s edition of Discover The Essence of St. Clair

Features

Tricky Fishing

Kayak fishing making a splash
at Neely Henry & Logan Martin lakes

Story by Loyd McIntosh
Photos by Jerry Martin

Spring time in St. Clair County: fresh air, blue skies, green grass and, of course, fishing — lots and lots of fishing. By the time the ol’ groundhog’s predictions have taken root, there will be – excuse the pun – a boatload of fishing tournaments on and around Neely Henry and Logan Martin lakes.

That also means hundreds of noisy bass boats, speed boats and other motorized watercraft making waves all in an attempt to sneak up on the legions of fish that call the Coosa River and its lakes home. Fishing is as ingrained in who we are in these parts as barbecue and football are.

But a new way of angling is making its way from salt water to fresh water. It began off the California coast around 15 years ago, and now kayak fishing is heading to fresh water fishing hotspots around St. Clair County.

Kayak fishing is on the rise with a growing community of anglers spreading the gospel of the sport as an alternative to traditional fishing. Interested to see it or to try kayak fishing out for yourself? Then clear your schedule and plan to compete in the Coosa Canoe and Kayak Fishing Tournament, organized by the non-profit group, Coosa Riverkeeper.

Frank Chitwood, Riverkeeper and chief watchdog for Coosa Riverkeeper, hopes his organization’s efforts will ensure a healthier Coosa River and surrounding waterways for future generations. “Coosa Riverkeeper is a citizen group advocating on behalf of the Coosa River for clean water,” explains Chitwood. “We stand up to polluters and the government when their actions are not in the best interest of clean water and a healthy river.”

The Coosa Canoe and Kayak Fishing Tournament is a charitable event to raise money and awareness of issues facing the Coosa River through an innovative three-stage tournament. Proceeds from the tournament will go toward helping the Coosa Riverkeeper fulfill its vision of a fishable, swimmable, drinkable Coosa River.

The first stage, Lake Neely Henry Open, is scheduled to begin at first safe light on Saturday, March 30, and for many in observance, this will be the first time to see some of the tournament’s interesting rules. For instance, competitors are allowed to drive to any spot they wish within the tournament boundaries to put their kayaks in the water. There are also no live wells and no weigh-ins, keeping the negative impact on the fish to a minimum.

“You don’t actually keep the fish,” Chitwood explains. “You put them right back after you catch them, so we call it a virtual stringer because it only exists on your camera.” Tournament scoring is based on length, which Chitwood says is just as fair a competitive measure as other tournaments that are weight-based.

At the beginning of each tournament, every competitor is given a special fish ruler, and once an angler reels in a catch, he or she places the fish in the trough-like ruler and then takes a photo of the fish on a digital camera or cell phone camera. At the end of the day, anglers arrive with a “digital stringer” instead of live fish they may have kept in a live well for several hours. “So, generally it takes a minute or two to do all that once you reel it in, take a picture or two of it and put it back in the water where it came from as opposed to a bass tournament, where they might give you a poorly ventilated live well where the fish stay for several hours,” he says.

Chitwood says this method is less stressful on the black bass varieties – primarily large mouth and spotted bass – that are allowed during a Coosa Riverkeeper tournament. The goal, Chitwood says, is to create an alternative to traditional fishing tournaments by keeping mortality rates low and, thus, a healthier Coosa River ecosystem. At a poorly run tournament, in the middle of a hot summer’s day with poor live well conditions, fish mortality can be high, Chitwood says. “At kayak fishing tournaments, we keep fish mortality rates really low. Almost all of them will survive and become larger bass.”

The first two stages of the three-stage tournament – the Lake Neely Henry Open in March and the Logan Martin Open in June – are each one-day, three-fish-limit tournaments where only the three biggest fish are counted. “That way it gives people who catch a larger quantity of fish an advantage, but not so much that you can just go out and catch a bunch of little ones. Good combination of quantity versus quality.”

The final tournament of the year is the Coosa Classic, a two-day event Oct. 26-27 at the Coosa Outdoor Center in Wetumpka and is a four-fish stringer, with only the two biggest fish from each day counted for the final score. The Coosa Classic is the final event, where the Blackjack Lands Angler of the Year will be crowned at the end of the tournament. The grand prize is a Primo ceramic grill, donated by Blackjack Lands.

To learn more about kayak fishing, Coosa Riverkeepers or to register for the Coosa Canoe and Kayak Fishing Tournament, go online at www.coosakayakfishing.com.

Features

Pink Passion

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Friends celebrate defying odds

Survivor (ser-vahy-ver) noun:
1. Somebody who survives: somebody who remains alive despite being exposed to life-threatening danger.
2. Somebody with great powers of endurance: somebody who shows a great will to live or a great determination to overcome difficulties and carry on.

Story by Carol Pappas
Photos by Jerry Martin

At first glance, you’d think it was simply a patio party in early fall, female friends gathering for wine and cheese and a little ‘girl talk.’

But on closer look, a touch of pink here, a dab of pink there and a plethora of pink just about everywhere, and you realize this is more than just a get-together for friends. It’s a coming together for a noble cause — a celebration of survival.

A half dozen or so of the women being celebrated fought the odds and won. They are survivors of breast cancer, and they — along with their friends — now celebrate each October with a Pink Fundraiser. It’s a chance to help others follow in their battle-worn footsteps and beat cancer.

It all began three years ago when Rebekah Hazelwood Riddle at Trendsetters Salon raised $1,000 in memory of her mother, Bella, who died of breast cancer when Rebekah was just 3 years old. Deanna Lawley invited friends and family of Kate DeGaris, who had just begun her battle with breast cancer, to have pink extensions applied to their hair in symbolic support of the project.

The next year, the group more than doubled the fundraising effort when Vicki Smith and Charlotte George expanded it to a wine and cheese reception at the home of Nelda Coupland. DeGaris’ longtime friends and her family worked to raise money for the American Cancer Society.

In 2012, a larger group returned to Coupland’s home for an even bigger event to recognize and honor a sisterhood of survivors, Cindy Goodgame, Virginia West, Sylvia Cornett, Kate DeGaris, Yvonne Bell and Annette Galloway Thomas.

Their stories share a common theme. It’s the tragic moment of a devastating diagnosis and an undying will to live.

Four years have passed since doctors told Kate DeGaris she had three to six months to live. She was in fourth-stage breast cancer that had spread to her arms, legs and spine. “It was a rough time, but I made up my mind I’m going to survive. I’m going to beat this,” she said. “I have good doctors. I have kids who are very supportive and friends who keep me pushing on.”

DeGaris credits her mother with setting the example she follows. She too, had breast cancer. She remembers telling her mother one day that she knew she had to be in a lot of pain. “She pointed her finger at me and said, ‘Nobody likes a complainer.’ ” Lesson learned. Lesson followed.

Just like her mother, she tries to keep a positive attitude. “I just keep going. I make myself,” she said.

It has been 14 years since Yvonne Bell heard the dreaded diagnosis: Breast cancer. Now, she is celebrating more than a decade as a survivor. The gathering of friends at the fundraiser “lets you know you are not alone in this. At some point in your lifetime, you will know someone with cancer.”

It was much the same in her own family. Her mother was a survivor. Her husband Jimmy beat the odds, too. At the Pink Fundraiser, she is surrounded by friends who know firsthand what rising above the challenge means. “It’s a little sisterhood — someone to talk to who knows exactly what you’re going through.”

Blair Goodgame hasn’t had breast cancer, but she was a central figure in the fundraiser to honor the ‘sisterhood’ that includes her mother, Cindy. She had a mastectomy when Blair was just an elementary school student.

Now a young woman who owns Lakeside Package in Pell City, she was a driving force behind the wine and cheese reception this year, working tirelessly to ensure that the celebration was just right, say party planners. Through her company, she furnished wine and attended to details of the event.

Of her mother’s own story of survival, Blair described her as a woman who is “as strong as they come” and inspires her involvement in the cause.

Lydia Pursell, DeGaris’ daughter, provided flowers, and she has been a source of great support for her mother.

There were others who added to the event to make it special, like Lakeside Coffee House and Princess Cupcakes; DeGaris’ brother, Earl Hodges; Renee Lilly of Lilly Designs; Winn-Dixie; Publix; and Julie Luker and Cindy Grimes, who added their own touch of pink to the occasion with pink hair streaks for all attendees.

And the extended sisterhood, the core group that made it all happen were Judy Ellison, Sylvia Cornett, Judi Denard, Beth Jones, Vicki Smith, Sally Vinson, Ginny West, Sylvia Martin, Charlotte George and Deanna Lawley.

It is through all of their efforts that this pink party is now a sanctioned event of the American Cancer Society, raising more money for breast cancer research and increasing the level of awareness with each passing year, according to the Cancer Society’s Malinda Williams, whose own mother is a two-time breast cancer survivor. Motioning toward the survivors at the reception, Williams said, “Y’all are the reason we’re standing here today.”

DeGaris acknowledged the sentiment. “It is good to have a family that’s real supportive, good friends and the man upstairs,” she said. “Every day I wake up, I’m thankful.”

Honey Boo Boo

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Crowds fill Pell City Civic Center
as show cast comes to promote
Global Championship Wrestling

Story by Loyd McIntosh
Photos by Jerry Martin

Every generation has one of those cultural touchstones where they remember exactly where they were when they heard the news and were forced to take stock of the world around them.

The dates are etched, to borrow a phrase, in infamy: Dec.7, 1941, the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii; Nov. 22, 1963, the day Lee Harvey Oswald changed the course of history from the third floor of a Dallas office building; Oct. 18, 1987, the great stock market crash otherwise known as Black Monday, when the New York Stock Exchange lost over one-third of its value wiping out billions of dollars in wealth and assets.

But those were tragic events upon which all can agree. In Pell City, depending upon your vantage point, the date to remember was Saturday, Sept. 29, 2012 – the day Honey Boo Boo came to town.

The Fallout
The “stars” of the The Learning Channel reality series, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, made an appearance at the Pell City Civic Center that evening as part of a cross-promotion with Global Championship Wrestling. It was one of the weirdest events to be held in Pell City in many years — and it was one of the most polarizing. Since the moment the announcement was made almost two weeks prior to the event, opinion on the event ran the gamut from frantic anticipation to outright revulsion. All one had to do was check out Facebook on the day of the announcement to take in the citywide freak-out. “Honey Boo Boo and professional wrestling – let the madness begin,” read one Facebook post along with a photo of the Civic Center’s marquee sign. “Surely this is a sign of the apocalypse,” said another post. “Honey Boo Boo and wrestling? Heck yeah, I’m going,” read another.

For the uninitiated, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo focuses primarily on the life of Alana “Honey Boo Boo” Thompson, a grade-schooler and beauty-pageant participant, her coupon-clipping, relatively uneducated mother June Shannon, and their life in the poor, rural town of McIntyre, Georgia. Honey Boo Boo gained a following on another controversial TLC program, Toddlers and Tiaras, before getting her own show which debuted in August. It was an immediate hit. For instance, the show’s fourth episode drew more eyeballs than Fox News’ coverage of the Republican National Convention among viewers ages 18-49.

Critics of the show have been loud and harsh, largely due to its portrayal of poor, rural Southerners. A review of the show in Forbes Magazine slammed Here Comes Honey Boo Boo for attempting to portray the family “as a horde of lice-picking, lard-eating, nose-thumbing hooligans south of the Mason–Dixon line.” Even fans of the show admit it can be crude, stereotypical and not the most appropriate show in the world for small children. Combined with GCW — a small, independent wrestling circuit operating throughout Alabama and other parts of the Southeast – this event, believe it or not, had the potential to ruin friendships. “I actually had one person unfriend me on Facebook, and I had another person make some ugly comments about it,” says Jennifer Hannah, a lifelong Pell City resident, elementary school teacher and mother of three.

Hannah says she learned about Honey Boo Boo through her oldest child, Hallie Kate, 12, and, despite its questionable taste, can see how it can be addictive. “You watch it once, and you really can’t quit. It’s like a train wreck.” Hannah also has a pretty wicked sense of humor – not a secret to those who know her well – but is also smart enough to know that the show is likely to be yet another cultural flash-in-the-pan that gets under the skin of the decency police. “I think in a lot of ways, we’re over analyzing the importance of Honey Boo Boo,” says Hannah. “She’s like everything else. She’s here, she’ll come, and she’ll go, and it’ll be over with.”

The Event
Hannah took her daughter and her two elementary-school-age boys, Ty and Cason, to the Civic Center to see Honey Boo Boo and her family and to get an autograph or two, even though she doesn’t allow her sons to watch the show – not that they care about it to begin with. She joined several hundred people from all over the Birmingham area who crammed into the Civic Center for a momentary interaction with the latest reality TV star. “It was fun, and that’s all it was. It’s over and that’s that. I just can’t believe so many people have gotten bent out of shape about Honey Boo Boo coming to town,” Hannah says. “They were very kind and they said Ty was cute.”

At first glance, the combination of professional wrestling and Honey Boo Boo makes a whole lot of sense. Even though there is a lot of low-brow fun inherent in both entertainment choices, the reality is they are very different. First, professional wrestling has a very old-fashioned male audience, albeit, not exclusively. The wrestling fans in the audience enjoy the old-school, flamboyant action, and colorful personalities of the GCW wrestlers. Many of them are senior citizens, and they take their wrestling seriously. Throughout the night, the wrestlers were heckled continuously by an older man in a plaid shirt and camouflage hat screaming at them as though the eventual winner was anything but predetermined.

The fans of Honey Boo Boo, on the other hand, are mostly girls not at all shy about sporting their beauty pageant tiaras as they walk around the gymnasium, signed posters in hand, all but oblivious to the mayhem of a wrestling match going on inside the ropes. For the most part, the two fan bases don’t mix and basically tolerated each other throughout the night. “We love Honey Boo Boo,” says Jodie Phillips of Pell City. She and her preschool-age daughter watch the show together every week. “My daughter loves her, she’s 4, so we can relate. My daughter’s kind of sassy and acts a lot like her, so we had to come see her.”

Phillips says she understands the criticism of the show, but she believes much of it is unfounded and doesn’t believe the show’s young star is being exploited, as many critics have suggested. “I think June does the right thing. They don’t push her, they let her be who she is,” says Phillips. “They don’t try to make her into anybody else.”

Vestavia Hills resident Anita Gray made her first trip to Pell City along with her daughter, Rebekah, and her teenage friend, Emily Capra. Fans of Honey Boo Boo, the trio made the trek up Interstate 20 just to check out the scene and to see the pint-sized TV star. “It’s just funny. She’s hilarious, and we think she’s really smart,” Anita says. “Their family is just kind of a caricature of the South. We’re not from the South originally, so just seeing the caricature is funny to us, because we live in Birmingham, and it’s really not quite like that. I don’t really think there’s anything to criticize, it’s just entertaining.”

Dustin Whittey, a 16-year-old from Gardendale, stands on the far side of the gymnasium away from the door leading into the room where Honey Boo Boo sits with her family, signing autographs. Taking it all in he says, “I would rather watch wrestling than to see Honey Boo Boo any day.” A fan of GCW for about a year, Whittey looks around at the crowd, adding the reality star made amazing business sense. “There are not this many people here, ever. Even though this is probably the biggest arena they have, it’s never this busy. Tonight’s the night. They’re going to make a killing.”

Even though Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is one of TLC’s highest rated programs, there are a few people in the audience who have no clue who Honey Boo Boo is exactly. Take for instance Devan Edward Lee Hunt, a fun-loving, outgoing 23-year-old wrestling fan from Center Point. Being the ever-so-good big brother, he drove his little sister and her friend to Pell City from Springville to see Honey Boo Boo. He believes he was convinced to come to Pell City under false pretenses. “I thought Honey Boo Boo was a wrestler. No joke. I had no idea. I don’t watch TLC,” he says with a huge laugh.

“I was sorely disappointed. So disappointed,” he adds with a big dose of humorous sarcasm. “I was so sure that she was a wrestler. My dad convinced me she was a 7-year-old girl wrestler.”

The Final Verdict
A couple of weeks after the event, Hannah still can’t help but laugh at what she saw the night of Sept. 29. She recalls that GCW wrestling has been coming to her hometown since she was in elementary school, but this was something else entirely. And to those people in her social network who didn’t approve of her taking her own children to see Honey Boo Boo, Hannah says “relax.” As long as your children are grounded, and you’re doing your best to raise your family, you can survive the latest pop culture brouhaha. “For a long time, it was Miley Cyrus. What a stellar role model that turned out to be. Then it was John and Kate, and what a great example of how you want your marriage and family to be.

“The bottom line is this. They’re not like me; they’re not like anyone I know, but whether we’re raising our children the way I think is best, the way you think is best, or the way Mama June thinks is best, we’re still all God’s children. So for us to sit there and judge them really isn’t our place,” Hannah adds. “You can go or not go, or you can watch or not watch. The town survived, and it was an evening of fun that my kids talked about for a good week.”

Historic Pell City

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When St. Clair’s largest city was just getting started

Story by Jerry Smith
Submitted photos

What magic molded a sleepy little whistle stop of 40 souls into St. Clair County’s largest city? Actually, the town owes its success to a missed train and a fortuitous marriage. Pell City was blessed with both a father and a mother — Sumter Cogswell, who nurtured it from infancy, and Lydia DeGaris Cogswell, who helped rescue it from a premature demise.

A town charter was granted in 1887 at the request of six local businessmen: John B. Knox, T.S. Plowman, D.M. Rogers, J.A. Savery of Talladega, John Postell of Coal City and Judge John W. Inzer of Ashville. Postell was general manager of the East & West Railroad, and Inzer was the company’s attorney. The line was owned by the prominent Pell family of New York City, Pell City’s namesake. (See Discover August/September and October/November 2012 for more on that railroad.)

An official incorporation map shows that Pell City was only about eight blocks square, some 400 acres. At the time, there were few houses and even fewer buildings, the largest of them the two-story Maxwell Building, which still stands on Cogswell Avenue next to Gilreath Printing.

The East & West was a short line that connected Seaboard Air Line Railroad with Pell City’s Talladega & Coosa Valley line and Georgia Pacific Railroad (later Southern), giving the town an important rail junction. A shared depot was built, but Pell City remained largely dormant until an insurance agent from Chattanooga missed his train and had to lay over for the night.

A 1936 St. Clair Times story recounts: “On a blustery March day in 1890, a young man about 29 years of age chanced to be en route to Talladega and was to change trains at a place known as Pell City. … The young man was a guest at the Cornett House. … Looking out his window the next morning, the young man was so impressed with the natural beauty of the countryside, and it reminded him so much of the “Blue Grass” country of Kentucky, that he was interested. The young man … was Sumter Cogswell.”

According to records furnished by Pell City’s Kate DeGaris, Cogswell worked as an agent with North American Insurance Company, a Kentucky-based Rockefeller subsidiary. He was traveling to Talladega to meet with the Mr. Savery to discuss establishing a new NAIC agency there.

While in Talladega, he also met with Mr. Plowman, president of Pell City Land Company, which owned the town. Cogswell felt that Pell City’s three railroads, natural beauty and proximity to the Coosa River made it a natural spot for future development. Even better, the town was already up for sale.

Cogswell negotiated a two-week option to secure the property, and quickly sold it to Pell City Iron and Land Company for $50,000. They resurveyed the town, and added more housing. Hercules Pipe Company, owned by Boston capitalists, came to Pell City in 1891 to begin the town’s industrial base. Cogswell soon left town, secure in the notion that the seed he’d planted would grow and blossom naturally.

In Heritage of St. Clair County, a latter-day Lydia DeGaris writes that Sumter returned home to Chattanooga only to find that his wife had left him for his best friend. Distraught, Sumter left Chattanooga and moved to Memphis, Tenn. It was there that he would meet his future bride and Pell City’s maternal benefactor, Lydia McBain DeGaris.

Lydia was a recent widow of Charles Francis DeGaris, who was 34 years old when he and 18-year-old Lydia married. In fact, his proposal to Lydia had come as a shock to her mother, who until then had assumed Charles had been coming there to see her.

DeGaris was a well-educated, accomplished civil engineer. Their marriage lasted from 1885 until his death in 1898. They produced three sons, one of whom would actively participate in Pell City’s future. The DeGarises had designed their dream home just prior to Charles’ death. Lydia saved the plans, hoping to build it herself when things got better.

She met Sumter at one of her Uncle George Arnold’s lavish parties. Sumter was from a prominent family in Charleston, South Carolina, and had recently established a new agency in Memphis with five states under his jurisdiction. He was born on the first day of the Civil War in 1861, when Charleston’s Fort Sumter was fired upon, hence his name.

Lydia quickly abandoned her current fiancé, and married Sumter in 1900. They moved to Atlanta, where Sumter took over the management of her late husband’s sizable estate.

In 1901, Sumter revisited Pell City after a 10-year absence and found that it had almost died. In her History of St. Clair County, AL, Mattie Lou Teague Crow describes it thusly: “Upon looking from the train window, he was surprised to see a deserted village. The streets were grown up with weeds. The houses were empty, and the place had the appearance of a ghost town.” Other sources relate that goats inhabited the ground floor of the Maxwell Building.

The Panic of 1893-94 had forced both Pell City Iron & Land and Hercules Pipe Company, into receivership. According to Grace Hooter Gates, in Model City of the New South: “The firm was a failure because skilled labor would not work in Pell City, according to local stories. The iron molders would get off the train, look around and, seeing nothing but one or two stores, would climb back aboard and then ride on in search of more excitement.”

Gates continues: “Louis D. Brandeis, trustee for the company, engaged J.J. Willett of Anniston to foreclose the deed of trust for Hercules in 1893. Though the scarcity of skilled workmen in Pell City was the popular notion as to why the plant moved to Anniston, the more likely cause was the substantial savings of over 10k yearly in freights.” Brandeis won fame as a tireless advocate for consumers’ and workers’ rights, and eventually became a noted U.S. Supreme Court justice.

Lydia purchased the ruins of Pell City from Brandeis for the paltry sum of $3,000, property that had been valued at more than $50,000 less than 10 years previous. She and Sumter began nursing the failing town back to health.

According to a newspaper story, Lydia put her dream home on hold, and instead invested her wealth in Pell City. From her new holdings, she gave land for a town square to host a new courthouse after Pell City had been selected as a second county seat, 150 acres of property and an abundant spring for the building of Pell City Manufacturing Company (which later became Avondale Mills), and other acreage for a city park, schools, churches, two fraternal lodges and First Baptist Church.

According to great-grandson Sumter DeGaris, they added three rooms to accommodate five children, plus a pantry, four porches, a servant’s house, carriage house and a large barn. Their arrival boosted Pell City’s population to 40. It is reported that they brought with them more groceries than were in the local grocery store’s entire inventory. The home they remodeled still stands today, at the corner of 18th Street and 2nd Avenue North in Pell City. It is currently occupied by Sumter DeGaris and has hosted some five generations of Cogswell/DeGaris kin.

Backed by his wife’s inheritance, Sumter quickly got down to business. He hired George W. Pratt to supervise the construction of the cotton mill. Once built, Thomas Henry Rennie of New England was hired to manage the business, whose stock soon went from less than $50 to more than $400 per share.

Next, the Cogswells founded the Bank of St. Clair County, presently known as Union State Bank, with Sumter as president and a dean’s list of local businessmen as directors, including McLane Tilton, E.J. Mintz, Arthur Draper, J. Fall Roberson of Cropwell, J.H. Moore of Coal City, Frank Lothrop of Riverside, and Lafayette Cooke of Cook Springs fame.

In 1902, Pell City faced two serious occurrences which would test its civic mettle. First, a warehouse full of dynamite and gunpowder exploded, killing several, destroying the depot, and heavily damaging several other properties. The explosives were stored in that location for use in excavating the Cook Springs railroad tunnel.

As if that weren’t enough, some citizens from “the other end of the county” approached the state Legislature, alleging that it was unconstitutional to have two official courthouses in the same county. It took years to settle this highly disruptive dispute, ending with a constitutional amendment in 1907.

Cogswell became mayor in 1903, serving for some 14 years. Sumter DeGaris tells that the town had a single saloon that provided enough tax revenue to pay for a grammar school, City Hall and numerous roads. Cogswell also served for many years on the City Council and St. Clair County Court of Commissioners.

As president of Pell City Realty Company, in 1909, Cogswell published a promotional booklet called, Keep Your (picture of eye) On Pell City, which touted everything from railroads to salubrious weather to Southern work ethic, often stretching facts to the breaking point. Quoting from that book: “The climate is simply faultless. The temperature in midwinter seldom falls as low as 30 degrees, and in the summer time rarely goes above 92 degrees. Cases of prostration from heat are unknown”.

Kate DeGaris tells that the Cogswells loved to quarter and entertain important visitors and investors in their home. A huge four-poster canopy bed was reserved for two uses only — overnight guests and having babies.

She also relates a story of how Sumter Cogswell, upon watching a poor man trudge past his home every day in bitter cold while wearing only a thin topcoat, gave him a brand new, expensive overcoat he’d received as a gift, and he kept wearing his old, tattered one.

The city flourished through World War II and beyond, with Avondale Mills supplying most of the cash flow. Lifetime resident Carolyn Hall relates that Pell City was a warm, safe place to live. While the “cotton mill” involved long hours and strenuous work, it was a welcome escape from even harder times for farmers and other locals who toiled all day for as little as a bucket of syrup.

Dr. Robert Alonzo Martin was brought to town to supervise a new hospital in the mill village, which was outside the town limits in those days. Dr. Martin became a leader in all things medical, made a lifelong career of providing quality care, and delivered some 10,000 babies to local residents. Martin Street, US 231 in Pell City, is named after him.

Pell City’s hard-working, industrious populace enjoyed many benefits from the “cotton mill,” including a fine lake, seasonal parties and every amenity a progressive company town could offer. The DeGaris descendants hosted lavish yuletide affairs, which were attended by people who had come from all over the county and beyond, mainly to sample Grandfather DeGaris’ potent eggnog (See accompanying story).

John (Jack) Annesley DeGaris, who hosted these Christmas galas in Pell City, was Lydia DeGaris’ son by previous marriage. Jack graduated Pharmacy School in Birmingham, served as pharmacist’s mate aboard a troop ship in World War I, and nearly froze in the North Sea when the ship was torpedoed.

He eventually returned home to Pell City, established Citizen Drug Company on Howard Avenue and, with the help of his wife Gertrude (Saylors), ran it successfully until his death in 1952. Jack was also a local campaign manager for Alabama Gov. Big Jim Folsom.

Jack’s son, Annesley H. DeGaris, writes in Heritage of St. Clair County: “… (Jack) was one of the best civic workers Pell City ever had. For many years, Jack gave a banquet for the football players, cheerleaders and coach as invited guests. Also, one day each year, Jack let the high school senior class operate the soda fountain in his drugstore, taking all the proceeds to help with their school trip. The Citizen Drug Store was always referred to as ‘the drug store in the middle of the block’ at 1907 Cogswell. …”

Lydia never got to build her dream home, but she and Sumter presided over a dream city of their own making. They’re an indelible part of St. Clair history. Pell City’s Howard Avenue was re-named in their honor after his death.

Longtime business associate McLane Tilton penned an appropriate epitaph for his dear friend Sumter:

His life all good,
No deed for show; no deed to hide,
He never caused a tear to flow
Save when he died.

To learn how they made enough eggnog for most of the town in a washing machine, check out the full edition of the December 2012-January 2013 edition of Discover The Essence of St. Clair.

Big Guns

Alabama Artillery recreates historic cannons

Story by Jerry Smith
Photos by Jerry Martin

Stewarts is a historic little community on Mineral Springs Road near Pell City. It’s scenic and pretty quiet, at least most of the time. But just up the road on Bowman Circle, a four-man group called Alabama Artillery occasionally punctuates Stewarts’ tranquility with sounds unheard since the Civil War.

About a year and a half ago, John P. Church approached two of his sons with an idea. “Boys, let’s build a cannon!” Inspired by a smaller project completed by John’s 16-year-old nephew, Jordan Church, they reasoned that between them they had enough technical expertise and manual skills to construct and safely operate a working reproduction of a Civil War field artillery piece.

John, Mike and Doug Church spent weeks assembling materials and information before the actual metal and woodwork began. From their previous involvement in the coal industry in Pike County, Kentucky, plus other interests, the trio sports a collective resume of gunpowder handling, hydraulics, millwork, carpentry, blueprint reading, blacksmithing, steel erection, metal fabricating and federal safety certifications, so this project was virtually assured of success from the start.

John’s mechanical ingenuity was first evidenced in childhood. As one of 11 children born to a coal miner’s family in Buchanan County, Virginia, he built many of their toys, like seesaws, wagons, merry-go-rounds and swings.

John was in the 17th Airborne Division during the Korean War. Like many other paratrooper volunteers, he jumped out of the first airplane he ever boarded. John went on to Officer Candidate School and at age 19, became the youngest drill sergeant in the Army. He’s also been an ordained Baptist minister for more than 50 years.

While work proceeded on Number One, as they named their first cannon, the Churches were joined by a neighbor, Joe Johnson, who became a sort of d’Artagnan to “The Three Cannoneers.” A veteran jet fighter pilot who served in Vietnam and other theaters, Johnson had later worked in airplane propeller repair, so precision machine work and fine wood finishing were well within his purview. Joe also is an active member of the Ashville chapter of Sons of Confederate Veterans. When he came aboard, the now-complete cannon team assumed the sobriquet of Alabama Artillery.

To look at these fellows, one would assume all four are in their late 50s like brothers Doug, 58, and Mike, 61. But Joe is 79, and John, who rides a Harley Davidson Road King when he’s not working on shop projects, is 81. Both men are admirably fit for their age — actually, for any age.

The Alabama Artillery performs cannon firings and static displays for a variety of patriotic and general-interest events. When asked about the team’s mission statement, John replied, “I can tell you in three words: We honor veterans”.

And they mean what they say. The group works entirely at its own expense. While their weaponry and self-chosen uniforms bear a proper resemblance to Confederate Army accoutrements, these men have equally strong feelings of patriotism and pride for American warriors of all battles, from the American Revolution through Afghanistan and Iraq.

Cannon Number One is a freestyle facsimile of a Tredegar Mountain Rifle. Its barrel is about a yard long, has a 2-inch bore and is mounted on a beautifully crafted, large-wheeled gun carriage with matching limber.

A limber is a separate, two-wheeled cart that carries an ammunition chest full of gunpowder, cannonballs, spare parts and other gun supplies and is rigged to tow the cannon for cross-country transport. A truly authentic limber also has provisions to hitch a team of horses, but the Alabama Artillery is more likely to move its piece on a flatbed truck or tow it with a trailer hitch behind a four-wheeler.

Together, the limber and gun make up a complete field artillery unit. Limbers were also used in combat to tow caissons, which are similar two-wheeled carts with additional ammunition chests and, often, a spare wheel or two. A limber/caisson combo becomes essentially a four-wheeled supply wagon, totally flexible in the middle for easy travel over rough terrain. Ammo chests often doubled as seats for gunners when on the move, but in hilly or muddy terrain, they all walked to spare the horses.

The men recently completed a second cannon, called Number Two. Its cast-iron barrel was molded especially for them by Dixie Gun Works of Union City, Tennessee. It’s a 3/4-scale replica of what’s called a six-pounder — that is, its cast iron cannon ball would weigh 6 pounds. This was a common field artillery piece used by both armies during the Civil War and in previous conflicts as well.

All metal and woodwork was crafted in Mike and John Church’s home workshop, using a real blacksmith anvil and a combo metal and wood lathe that dates back to the 1940s. Johnson did the final wood finishing on both carriages in his own shop.

They invented some new methods for building carriage wheels with impressive results. Indeed, there’s evidence of constructive improvisation throughout every phase of both projects. For instance, for “live firing,” they use a 1 7/8-inch-trailer hitch ball instead of a much more expensive cast iron cannonball, and barrel swabs are tipped with fuzzy paint rollers instead of costly inlaid fur.

Both guns are mounted on wheeled carriages fabricated from actual Civil War-era engineering drawings, except they’ve been exquisitely finished in stained wood color rather than Army Drab. They’re real show stoppers in every respect. And yes, there will be a (much larger) Number Three.

Firing a field artillery piece is not a casual operation. Each man on a cannon team has a specific job to be executed in an exact way and sequence. Should any man not perform as directed, the entire operation could suddenly become quite dangerous and most likely would fail completely.

The basic field manual on artillery fire dictates a bewildering syllabus of exact instructions and commands, all set in stone and precisely repeated for each shot. During actual combat, especially in “batteries” of several guns, crewmen used hand signals instead of spoken commands because of the deafening noise.

Every cannoneer knew his own job and several others, which helped to compensate for casualties. Remember, the enemy was shooting at them from places of relative safety while the gun crew was totally exposed and unable to shoot back except with their cannon.

The loading drill was choreographed so that the enemy was never sure who’s carrying a live round. In fact, the man who carried powder and ball to the cannon’s muzzle was expected to shield the load with his own body, lest a stray bullet make it explode and kill the entire crew.

Alabama Artillery uses a four-man firing team, but a real Civil War combat gun crew would have numbered from six men to more than a dozen, depending on the weapon’s size and purpose.

Watching a field artillery piece being fired is an unforgettable experience, even if you’ve seen it before. The gun crew performs a customary setup and loading sequence, in full view of its spell-bound audience

Then, with every man in his assigned position and constantly alert to safety issues, the firing officer jerks a long lanyard attached to a primer cap in the rear end of the cannon. A second or two later, the cannon responds with a powerful burst of man-made thunder that’s guaranteed to get anyone’s undivided attention, even if you’re a half mile down the road.

Its muzzle blast kicks up dirt, grass and leaves in front of the weapon, and creates a huge cloud of fiendishly fragrant blue smoke extending many yards downrange. Those who witness a firing at dusk may also see cone-shaped shafts of orange flame boring a hole right through the center of the smoke cloud, comparable to shock waves often seen in supersonic jet engine exhaust.

Everyone reacts differently to the blast. At a recent home school benefit firing, several children screamed with delight, one lady dropped her video camera, and a black Labrador Retriever ran until he was out of sight.

Observers usually have lots of questions, especially after the first shot, and Alabama Artillery welcomes them all. After all, education, heritage and homage to veterans are what they’re all about.

Some of these questions can be quite funny. For instance, “Where’s the trigger?” or “Can you shoot a deer with it?” It’s great stuff from seriously inquiring minds — and as much fun for the cannoneers as the crowd.

Alabama Artillery does not normally load a projectile when firing at public functions, so there’s practically no danger of mishap as long as the crew does its job as proscribed by basic artillery protocol.

In September, artillery members fired their weapon to open a charity dove shoot near Montevallo, an event sponsored by local Masons to benefit Wounded Warriors. They’ve also provided static displays and firings at various school and veterans’ events.

Alabama Artillery requests that anyone who wishes a demonstration for patriotic, civic or school functions should call Mike Church at 205.405.1007 or Doug Church at 205.338.3373 for further information. The group is especially eager to perform for school children. Doug Church, patriarch of an entire family of teachers, will gladly provide a history lesson during the event.

It’s a real bang-up way to begin any celebration.

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