Category: St. Clair History

Locks of the Coosa

Steamboat A-Comin’
Captain Lay raises the bar

Story by Jerry C. Smith
Photos by Jerry C. Smith
Submitted photos

In the two years surrounding the end of the Civil War, Capt. Cummins Lay set a Coosa River record that remains unbroken today; he’s the only river pilot to navigate a steamboat over the Coosa’s entire length, in BOTH directions.

Beginning at the confluence of three smaller streams near Rome, Ga., the Coosa was fairly easy to navigate in the 19th century, at least from Rome to a few miles south of Gadsden. Several rocky shoals and other obstacles had been deepened or cleared with explosives for steamboat traffic, and a thriving river commerce quickly developed between those cities.

But from Greensport to Wetumpka, the Coosa presented a raging maelstrom of rocks and rapids, its bed littered with wreckage and cargo from innumerable keelboats, flatboats, rafts and other crude shallow-river craft of that era. Many who dared to brave the Coosa’s rocks and whitewater shoals never reached their destination.

That section of the Coosa straddles a geological feature called the Fall Line, which separates Alabama’s mountainous northern regions from a much flatter coastal plain. The names of several shoals in that area describe their nature: the Narrows, Devil’s Race, Butting Ram Shoals, Hell’s Gap, and the infamous Devil’s Staircase, which is still a favorite canoeing spot at Wetumpka.

Manufactured goods, agricultural products, timber and passengers flowed freely from northwest Georgia into Etowah, DeKalb, St. Clair, Jefferson and Talladega counties. But the Coosa’s hazardous shallows below Gadsden required unloading all cargo at Greensport, then hauling it by wagon, and later by train, for more than 140 miles before reloading onto other boats at Wetumpka, a costly and tedious detour for shippers. It was in this setting that Captain Lay made his two heroic, record-setting steamboat runs on the Coosa.

In 1864, according to Harvey Jackson’s Rivers of History, Lay escaped from a Union-besieged Rome with two steamboats, the Alpharetta and the Laura Moore. He extinguished their boilers and let them drift silently down river in the night until out of cannon range, then fired them up again and piloted them to Greensport. Vital ship parts and her crew were shielded from small-arms fire by bales of cotton stacked on deck.

Jackson relates, “About the time (Lay) reached Greensport, a late spring storm had hit the valley, and the river was out of its banks. Fearing the Yankees would … follow the Coosa into Alabama, he decided to take advantage of the high water and pilot (his two steamers) farther south, where they would be safe. He moved downstream, ‘high, wide and handsome over inundated cotton and corn fields’ as if the shoals and rapids never existed.”

Lay moored the Alpharetta at Wilsonville, then prepared the Laura Moore for an epic voyage on to Wetumpka using the flooded river to navigate shoals usually floated by only the bravest of boatmen.

Jackson continues, “Stripping the Laura Moore to make her light as possible, Lay took her into the most dangerous stretch of rapids on the river. Following ‘boat shoots’ (shallow channels) when he could see them and using his river sense when he could not, Cummins Lay guided the Laura Moore around rocks, through channels, and finally over the Devil’s Staircase, whose roar must have drowned out every sound made on board by engines or men.”

After resting in the river pool at Wetumpka, Lay then took his steamer on to Mobile, via the relatively placid Alabama River, where it forms at the confluence of the Coosa and Tallapoosa Rivers, just south of Wetumpka.

Captain Lay had acted wisely. General Rousseau’s raiders seized Greensport less than a month later, destroying a ferry that had been in service since 1832 and wreaking other wartime ravages that would surely have included Lay’s steamboats. But Lay was not a man to rest upon laurels. In 1866, after the war’s end, he decided to make the same trip, in the same boat, except traveling up river instead of down.

Jackson’s narrative tells us, “… at the foot of Wetumpka Falls, (Lay) waited aboard the recently re-fitted Laura Moore, hoping for water high enough to carry his boat over the rapids to the flat water of the upper Coosa. In spring 1866, the rains came. The river rose and, when it crested, the Laura Moore steamed out into the channel.

“Fighting the current and dodging debris, Lay made it to Greensport and from there had an easy run on into Georgia. … Cummins Lay now held the distinction of being the only captain to make the return trip. Records are usually broken; this one still stands.”

Captain Lay had proven that, given enough water, the Coosa could be navigated by larger commercial craft, rather than the customary flatboats and shallow-draft keelboats. He made it incumbent upon business interests and government to cooperate in making Coosa River navigation a reality.

Lay’s challenge is met

In 1867, U.S. Army Maj. Thomas Pearsall was given the task of surveying the Coosa’s entire length for a navigational feasibility study. Operating on a generous (for that era) $3,000 budget, Pearsall quickly completed his work, although Jackson reports that the last 60 miles, which involved a total drop of more than 275 vertical feet, gave the major’s voyage an exciting white-water finale.

Pearsall recommended no less than 25 locks, using dams to deepen the waters around them. Also proposed was a 50-mile long Coosa-Tennessee River canal from Gadsden to Guntersville. By 1871, this plan had been modified to 31 locks, but the Tennessee canal, which would have added $9.5 million in cost, was dropped.

According to Jackson, “Someone estimated that all this lock and dam work could be accomplished for the sum of $2,340,746.75 – a figure impressive if for no other reason than the certainty of the cents.” If that seems small, consider that in modern money it would be more than $50 million, plus the fact that labor was cheap, plentiful and not subject to OSHA restrictions during those turbulent Reconstruction years.

The first three locks were essentially completed in the 1880s. Lock 1 was about a mile downstream from today’s Greensport Marina. Lock 2 lay some three miles farther south, sharing a channel with Lock 3, which was at the south end of Ten Island Shoals, now just below Neely Henry Dam. These three locks, along with various improvements upstream, opened an additional 25 miles of the Coosa to commercial shipping, but various interests lobbied to halt further development in favor of other priorities.

Jackson relates that in 1890, Captain Lay’s son, William Patrick Lay, formed a group of Gadsden businessmen into the Coosa-Alabama River Improvement Association, to champion continuation of the project to its intended goal of a fully-navigable waterway from Rome to the Alabama River, thence to literally any port in the world via Mobile.

Their efforts paid off, at least for a while, as work began on Lock 4 near present-day Lincoln and Riverside, Lock 5 just south of Pell City, and Lock 31 at the base of the rapids in Wetumpka.

Using separate funding, dredges kept the channel reasonably clear while these projects were under way. A 1974 Birmingham News story by Jenna Whitehead describes how Lock 4 took shape: “Mrs. Alice Hudson sold five acres, 4 miles northwest of Lincoln, for the lockhouse and lock. … Barracks were built for some of the workers, some lived on the two (work) boats during the week, some lived at home, some built houses in the area, and others boarded with families in the community.

“Mrs. ’Ma’ Hudson lived east of the dam site and kept a huge barn to board the mules in the wintertime and lean times when funding ran out on the construction. Each lock was equipped with a lockhouse for the keeper, whose job was to raise and lower boats, rafts of wood, launches and to check water levels and temperature.

“Lock 4 was chosen to be the site of the headquarters for the Army Corps of Engineers and was completed in 1890. The building was used for office space and dining area for the workers, but in 1931, when the lock was no longer in use, the property was leased by individuals. In 1964, the lock house became the property of Mr. and Mrs. J.J. Monaghan, who used the building as a home.” William Tuck, who had married Ma Hudson’s daughter, was listed as a lockkeeper.

Regarding construction, Whitehead’s story adds, “Rock for Lock 4 was quarried at Collins Springs, … hand-hewn by local laborers, and brought to the site on railroad cars. Log books at Lock 4 record that in 1892 Lock 4 was navigable but not completed until 1913. Lock 5 was completed and usable, but the dam broke in 1916 and work along the Coosa River ceased.

“Construction of Lock 4 created a community in the area; …stores sprang up, and roads were alive with local wagons hired to bring in brick, wood and stone.”

The Golden Age

With the completion of these dams and locks, the river was open for commerce and pleasure all the way from Rome to the shoals near present-day Logan Martin Dam. Steamboats plied the Coosa regularly, carrying everything from bales of cotton to affluent travelers. It was much like Twain’s Mississippi, except upon much narrower waters.

A newspaper item of that era proclaimed, “The Magnolia is 161 feet long, 26 feet wide and can carry 225 tons of freight. There are 20 splendid staterooms, with new and comfortable bedding. Each berth is carpeted. Her cabin accommodations are superior to those of any boat ever on the Coosa. The bill of fare is not excelled by any hotel in the cities. … The officers on the boat are all clever and affable gentlemen.”

From a treatise, Our Coosa: Its Challenge and Promise: “On the passenger deck sleeping and eating, games and promendar (sic promenade) took place, and the calliope and bands made music for dancing. Goodbyes and welcomes, moonlight rides and romance, the heartbeat of the time was measured in steamboat time.”

These boats’ names usually felt good to the ear; Clifford B. Seay, Magnolia, Alpharetta, Dixie, Cherokee, Hill City, City of Gadsden, Pennington, Coosa, Etowah, Endine, Sydney P. Smith, Dispatch, Clara Belle and Georgia. A steam work boat, originally the Annie M. but later renamed Leota, inspired the popular cartoon strip, “Popeye” (see side story for details).

According to family genealogical data, Greensport had been founded by descendants of pioneer Jacob Green, born in 1767, who came to northern St. Clair around 1820, just after Alabama became a state.

Several generations of Greens created a thriving settlement to take advantage of the necessity of off-loading of freight for land transport to Wetumpka. Eventually, the Evans family joined the Greens by marriage, and their Greensport Marina remains as a marker to a once vibrant village. It was a glamorous age that lasted some 50 years and involved more than 40 different steamboats, but change was again in the wind. It seems W.P. Lay had even bigger ideas for the Coosa.

Putting the Coosa to work

According to John Randolph Hornady’s book, Soldiers of Progress and Industry, John Hall Lipscomb Wood, the landowner at Lock 2, insisted on a permanent flume to provide water power for milling and other purposes. Legend has it that Mr. Lay was so impressed with the power of the water running through this chute that he conceived the idea of harnessing the whole river for hydroelectric power.

Quoting again from Our Coosa, “(Lay) sold his steam plant in Gadsden and built a small hydroelectric plant on Wills Creek, a Coosa tributary near Attalla. In 1906, with capital stock of $5,000, he organized a small corporation, named it Alabama Power Company, and became its first president.” And the rest, as they say, is a whole ’nother story.

Lay never saw his dream come to life. He died in 1940. Lay Dam, the first hydroelectric plant on the Coosa, is named for him.

In a Birmingham News story, Robert Snetzer, of the Army Corps of Engineers and president of W.P. Lay’s Coosa-Alabama Association, said, “… (The locks) were built with federal funding, and with the delays in funding, the riverboat traffic died out. Truck and railway transportation became more economical, thus the work halted between Greensport and the Alabama because it would not prove profitable.”

Nevertheless, the lock system was still in occasional use until the early 1930s, mostly for rafting logs downriver. The last boat to officially pass through the locks was an Army Corps dredge. Many of these structures were dynamited or taken out of service prior to closing spillways on the new hydroelectric dams that formed lakes Logan Martin and Neely Henry.

Among other rising water casualties was Dave Evans Sr.’s ferry at Greensport. Established in 1832 by Jacob Green and later captured by Rousseau’s raiders during the Civil War, Evans operated it until the waters began to rise, using a small skiff with 6 horsepower outboard motor to push the ferry across the river.

He’s quoted in a 1954 Anniston Star story: “Me and my brother have twelve hundred acres here. We figure the whole place will be flooded, so we just plan to move to higher land and go into the fishing business.”

Lock 1 and Lock 2 are now underwater. The sidewalls of Lock 3, just below Henry Dam, are still visible in a former lock channel beside Wood’s Island. Greensport Marina is a Neely Henry landmark. Evans’ son, Dave Evans Jr. is still among the living, strong and wise at age 85.

Of Lock 4, nothing remains except a single wall from the old lock structure and a few hand-hewn rocks from its dam. Lock 5’s ruined dam was never rebuilt, but its remnants lie under 3 to 5 feet of water, near Choccolocco Creek.

However, these abandoned stoneworks are not without their uses.

New life on the river

For many decades, fishermen have found those walls, both before and after impoundment, to be ideal for certain species, such as drum, northern pike and catfish. Pell City resident Fred Bunn tells of going with his father, Frelan “Shot” Bunn, to the old stoneworks at Lock 4, near Riverside.

“Shot” was the manager of a local auto parts store which always closed on Saturday afternoon. A pre-teen at the time, Fred treasures the memory of these father-son fishing trips to Lock 4 and occasionally other lakes, such as Guntersville.

Fred says, “You could catch bream this big (with both hands put together) along with some really huge bass and all the drum you wanted. When the water was down, you could walk across the dam, but we mainly fished off the St. Clair-side bank, where water ran over the dam.”

He adds that there was a bait shop with boat rentals beside the dam, but most folks just bank-fished in the turbulent waters among the rocks.

Riverside resident Jim Trott, now 78, echoes Fred’s recollections, adding that there was once a man who, for 50 cents, would take you in his boat to a big rock near the middle of the dam. Jim also recalls riding across the river on both Dave Evans’ ferry at Greensport and another ferry near the Lock 3 site.

Jim liked to use a long cane pole, baited with crawfish, river mussels, or hellgrammites (Dobson Fly larvae) they had caught in nearby ponds and shoals. He says, “You could literally fill the bed of a pickup truck with drum and catfish, and we did many a time. We hauled them to Gadsden to sell by the pound to people on the street.”

Jim, originally from New Merkle (now Cahaba Heights), often visited the river as a boy, accompanied by an older brother-in-law. About 25 years ago, shortly before retirement, Jim bought a home just downriver from Lock 4. It’s as idyllic as it gets, sitting on a fine, grassy knoll overlooking one of the most scenic coves on the Coosa.

He still frequents the waters around Lock 4, though nothing remains of that structure except a single long wall and a few prime fishing spots known only to Jim’s GPS. But he’s not sharing those with the general public.

Alabama Power Company’s chain of mighty hydroelectric dams and powerhouses helped change the economy and lifestyle of an entire region, but the final Coosa plans did not include navigational locks.

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Mulligan Stew

A distinctly Skeeter Park tradition

Story by Jerry C. Smith
Submitted photos from Hazelwood Family

What’s Mulligan Stew? Well, it’s a big potful of boiling water, loaded with whatever meats and vegetables one has on hand, and cooked until safely edible. However, for St. Clair’s Skeeter Park folks, it’s always been a fine excuse to get together for a grand party on a creek bank somewhere near Eden, pig out on Mulligan and enjoy a tradition that’s occurred non-stop since the 1930s.

You won’t find Skeeter Park on any GPS, nor talked about in society columns, but hundreds of St. Clair folks will agree it’s a culinary and fellowship delight for lucky invitees. While the cuisine has varied over the decades, the camaraderie has remained.

There were actually two distinctly separate groups who held similar events in the same general area: one, a private annual reunion begun in the 1930s that’s still celebrated today, and the other a more frequent but less structured community affair that got together in the 1960s and 70s.

The original group was organized by two local residents, Frank Patterson and John Willingham. They were soon joined by Frank’s brother, Willard “Shanghai” Patterson, and their close friend, W.T. “Dubb” Hazelwood.

These fellows had hunted and fished around Wolf Creek as boys, often camping there overnight to rest and cook their prey. As the youngsters grew into men, their outdoor meals became well-known and, before long, friends started drifting in to share their rustic fare.

Dubb’s son, Ben Hazelwood, soon joined the fun, later taking an active role in food preparation, with help from his own son, Benjamin, then called Little Ben but now 36 years old. The elder Ben recently passed away, but younger Ben continues the Mulligan tradition in memory of good times with his father, and because it’s so much fun.

The official Skeeter Park venue is an unimproved clearing in the woods near Wolf Creek, on land always owned by the Jones family. The park is only about 40 yards wide and 50 yards long, but has a good spring for cooking and drinking water. Dubb’s daughter, Marion (Hazelwood) Hultgren, currently of Tucker, Ga., says the area was a wondrous place to visit any time of the year, abounding with wildflowers. Mulligan Stews became generally popular during the Depression, when roving bands of hobos and others seeking work would gather into camps, often alongside railroad tracks. They had little, but usually shared it for the common good.

Various campers might contribute a couple of onions or a few ears of corn “borrowed” from a nearby farm, a chicken of similar origin, maybe some potatoes and carrots. Separately, not much of a meal, but when cooked together, they became a nourishing sustenance for all.

The Skeeter Park guys found Mulligan easy to make and serve, universally accepted, and impossible to criticize because there is no official recipe. Cooked in 5-gallon steel lard cans which were bought new every year for the purpose, these versatile stews could contain anything edible, including squirrels, rabbits, chickens, turtles, even beavers, but they never added pork until later years when it became plentiful. Nor was venison used, as deer were quite scarce in those days.

Young Ben recalls camping out at the site overnight so he could clean out the spring and be ready the next morning to build a fire big enough to heat two kettles full of water. He says his father expected that water to be boiling when he showed up a few hours later to start the stew.

Ben remembers that, even in latter years, they sometimes used freshly-killed whole squirrels, including heads but without entrails or skins. Side dishes included Southern-reunion staples like cornbread, biscuits, white loaf bread, green beans, sliced tomatoes, and occasionally a potato salad and other party fare.

Dubb’s children, Marion (Hazelwood) Hultgren, Kent Beavers and Freddy Hazelwood, were quite specific about the way their father ran the proceedings. Everyone who handled raw food had to wash their hands vigorously and keep them clean during its preparation.

He was very particular about who handled food and stirred the pots, usually doing most of it himself. The pot had to be stirred in perfect figure-eights, lest it burn. Further, Dubb insisted that stirring sticks had to be hickory saplings of a certain diameter, with just the right size fork at the end.

The stew was boiled and stirred for hours, until all meat had fallen off the bones which, coincidentally, helped disguise the species of whatever animal was in the pot.

Kent said, “If you didn’t know what you were doing, you just sat over there in the shade and drank beer with the others.” Marion added, “If you really messed up and burned the stew, you got thrown into Wolf Creek.”

Attendance was widely variable — as few as a half dozen to more than a hundred, including several regional dignitaries whose names would be easily recognized. Mulligans drew visitors from the ranks of many noted St. Clair families, among them Beavers, Castleberrys, Bowmans, Footes, Bynums, Ginns, Hazelwoods, Robertsons and Cornetts.

For the first three decades or so, participation was limited to men and boys, but in the “liberated” 1970s, they occasionally allowed family ladies to attend. Marion, who was 25 at the time, recalls being among the first girls on the scene. She helped memorialize those days with her photos, some of which appear with this story.

Naturally, these fun-loving folks didn’t confine their activities to eating. According to Freddy and Kent, the guys played poker, took bets on football scoreboards, pitched horseshoes and washers, even shot a few dice. Singing and guitar playing was usually part of the festivities, although they didn’t bring instruments on very cold days, as it could make the strings break.

Alcohol was usually present, but didn’t cause the kind of problems one might think, because Dubb and Ben kept strict order. Lawmen occasionally showed up, but only for food and fellowship. Whether certain attendees fell into Wolf Creek or were actually thrown in to help sober them up is still open for debate.

It’s rumored that Shanghai once asked some poker players for a share of the pot to help finance their meal. If more than $30 was spent on supplies in the old days, it was considered an especially lavish party.

In later years, another group began meeting nearby, at first along the north bank of Wolf Creek, then under a pole shed that still stands behind a convenience store in Eden. This gathering was started in the late 1960s by the store’s owner, Troy Bannister. Longtime Pell City resident Fred Bunn recalls going there in the 1970s, and seeing the late Tootie Hare and both Ben Hazelwoods among others who frequented both gatherings.

Fred says these events were held at random intervals, averaging about once a month, and usually ran all day long, averaging about 20 to 30 people at any one time, with others drifting in or out as opportunity allowed. Fred adds that they didn’t restrict themselves to Mulligan Stew, often substituting more basic country fare like chitterlings, barbecue or local game animals.

Under the leadership of young Ben, the Hazelwoods still follow the Mulligan tradition, usually every November at the old Skeeter Park site. They’ve been selling printed T-shirts and ball caps among their group since 1992 to help raise money for basic expenses, with the surplus going into a mutual aid fund to help members with unexpected hardship.

Ben mentions one fellow who got his hand chopped off in a work accident. The Mulligan fund helped this man’s family through some rough times.

The family says this year’s Skeeter Park Mulligan will be an especially poignant one, as they recently lost their beloved father and brother, Ben Hazelwood. Your writer has been invited, and I’m certainly looking forward to it.

No, I will NOT say when or where.

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Iola Roberts

A 60-Year Legacy

Story by Carol Pappas
Photos by Wallace Bromberg Jr.
Photos courtesy Pell City Library Archives

Iola Roberts Elementary seems more of a tradition than simply a school. And its namesake would probably applaud that notion.

After all, Miss Iola Roberts more than earned her name on the school that has since seen generations pass through its doors. She set the standard that is still valued six decades later.

Present-day Iola Roberts School celebrated the legacy she left with an anniversary reception in late April, remembering 60 years of the school’s history.

Iola Roberts will always be a part of the school beyond the name. Her portrait hangs in the school’s lobby, seeming to keep a watchful eye on the school she loved and the students she nurtured and encouraged as if they were her own.

But step out of line, and the whack of a ruler across the palm or a tiny chin caught in her signature thumb and forefinger pinch weren’t far away.

Strict disciplinarian and cultivator of cultural arts were her hallmarks. And many a graduate will tell you those two seemingly opposite characteristics are what shaped their later lives – for the better.

It has been 60 years since Iola Roberts School opened on Pell City’s main thoroughfare, US 231. It was formerly known as South St. Clair School. Before that, it was the Avondale School, serving the Mill Village. Miss Roberts actually came to Pell City at the request of mill executives who wanted her to run their school.

And run it she did.

“Miss Roberts made sure we had music and art and good manners,” said Julia Skelton, a former student, who attended the anniversary celebration along with more than 100 others.

In a video tribute to the anniversary, Gaston Williamson underscored the recollection. “Miss Roberts’ emphasis was on 1. Behaving, 2. Manners, and 3. Culture,” he said. The school had a choir, and plays were standard fare.

Andrew Wright, who was principal at the school and a former student, said during his tenure, he tried to continue what Iola Roberts began. His administration offered a well-rounded education that included the arts, and faculty taught students how to understand the world around them.

Dr. Michael Barber is an Iola Roberts alumni who has a unique vantage point when it comes to Iola Roberts. He served as principal at the school, and he is now superintendent of the school system.

The values he learned at Iola Roberts as a student are the principles that guide him to this day – “making a difference in the lives of children every day.”

While his approach as principal was a little more unconventional than Miss Roberts’, he got students’ attention just the same. He focused on reading at the school, and when students met their goals, he rewarded them with feats like jumping out of an airplane, getting arrested by the faculty, shaving his head and kissing a pig.

“Iola Roberts has always been a magical place that seems to transport former students back to their childhood,” Barber said. “I am always amazed how accurately students from the 1950s, 60s, and 70s can with great detail recollect fond memories of the school. When a grandmother or grandfather of a current student pauses by a classroom door, lunchroom or staircase, you know they are visiting a very special memory of their own childhood.

“I still do the same thing today. I cringe when I walk into Iola’s cafeteria because that is where students received their vaccinations from the county health nurse, Ms. Zachy. All students lined up against the wall and received their shots in front of each other. Many of us fell to the floor writhing in pain.”

Barber also remembers field day, a highlight of the school year. “I relive the greased pig chase each time I walk onto the playground. We actually chased greased piglets during field day. If you caught the critter, you won a big candy cane. My brother, Kinsman, caught a pig and we ate the candy cane for a week.”

For Barber, he has seen the school from different angles over the years, but the conclusion is always the same. “The employees of Iola have always carried on the wonderful atmosphere found at the school. From the time of Ms. Roberts to today, they welcome children daily. For me, it was Millie Ann Lawley in the first-grade and wonderful teachers each year after.”

The school has traditionally been a mainstay of the community. “The people who attended Iola as students feel an ownership and special connection to their school. I don’t fuss when my own grown children want to go by Iola when they are in town. I feel so blessed to have attended and worked at such a special school.”

Although the anniversary celebration was an opportunity to look back at the legacy. It also was a time for new traditions. Faculty unveiled specially designed Iola Roberts pins, and former faculty and present faculty were “pinned,” forever linked by a common bond.

And when children leave Iola Roberts and continue their school career all the way through Pell City High School, faculty pledged to be back at their graduation to let them know how special they are with a pin of their own. It signifies a kinship shared by all those who pass through Iola Roberts Elementary.

“It was wonderful to see former teachers and students share their common love for Iola Roberts Elementary School at the 60th anniversary celebration,” Barber said. “I saw and listened to people who qualify for senior citizen benefits become children again.”

And that’s a tradition that seems to continue year after year.

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96 and going strong

Farmer once served as bodyguard for Gen. Eisenhower

Story by Linda Long
Photos by Jim Smothers
Submitted Photos

The old wooden farmhouse is typical of many found in rural St. Clair County. Surrounded by winter swept fields, a Black and Tan hound sits on its front porch poised to sound a welcoming bay to approaching visitors. Across the way, a patch of dark green turnip greens awaits, ready for the picking.

Yes, the old house may look typical, but the farmer who lives here is anything but. At 96 years old, W.M. (Ike) Murphree still works his 105-acre farm, the place where he is the happiest. “I was born to be a farmer and a gospel singer,” he says, but, fate and Uncle Sam had other plans for this quiet, unassuming gentleman. Back in 1943, Ike Murphree found himself on the front lines of history, an ocean away from his beloved country home.

Dressed in his usual starched denim overhauls and a plaid shirt, Murphree chuckled, “I’ve been accused of having a computer in my head.” That becomes obvious as the farmer turned story teller recalls memories of a life well lived. Sitting in his small living room centered by a braided rug and a blazing space heater, Murphree is surrounded by faded black and white photographs, family pictures which line the walls. An upright piano holds a hymnal open to one of the farmer’s favorite songs. And over it all, the American flag hangs proudly.

Reaching back in time to tell his story, Murphree’s steel blue eyes take on a faraway look as he remembers the day his life changed forever. It was 1943. The then 26 year-old young farmer walked slowly back from the mailbox that crisp fall morning, letter in hand containing news which he knew he must share with his beloved wife Alice Lucille. The letter announced his induction into the United States Army.

“One day I was working my farm, the next thing I knew I was packed and ready to head overseas. I had one son, Billy. We went down to the bus one morning. My wife was crying. Billy was saying ‘Daddy, don’t go. Don’t go.’ That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t know if I would ever see them again.”

Eventually, he did see his family again, but not before fighting in one of the bloodiest battles of World War II, narrowly avoiding disaster on the sea in the North Atlantic, being named a master marksman, serving as a member of the escort guard responsible for the repatriation of American held German prisoners of war and serving as a personal body guard to Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower.

It was January 1944 when Murphree saw some of his toughest combat operations. He was one of the American troops to storm the beach head at Anzio, a signature battle of World War II. Those scenes are etched forever in his memory. “The first wave went in and about 1,700 soldiers and nurses lost their lives at that landing,” said Murphree.

Though he started the war as a member of the infantry, his commanding officers soon learned of the young country boy’s sharp shooting skills, skills honed back home on Chandler Mountain while hunting for rabbit and squirrel. “I shot 198 out of a possible 220,” said Murphree, “everything the army had…30 and 50 caliber machine guns, a grease gun, a pistol, a rifle, the M-1 rifle, a shotgun, and the tanks. I would hit it (my target) every time. I was the only one of 200 people that did that, and it went on my record as a master marksman.”

Murphree’s job was to escort German prisoners captured on the battlefield to concentration camps, a dangerous and often deadly assignment. The old man is still haunted by some of his memories.

“We were climbing a mountain, German prisoners in tow. German snipers were in the trees, all around. I heard a gun go off. The bullet hit my buddy in the ankle. It tore his foot off, but I couldn’t stop and do anything for him. The next day I heard he bled to death. He had a wife and two little girls back home. I try not to think about that,” said Murphree in a soft voice, “ but I can’t help it sometimes. General Patton, one of the greatest military men ever to put on a uniform, said it best, ‘war is hell.’ You can’t make nothing else out of it.”

For most American soldiers in the European Theater that “hell” came to an end when — as Murphree explained — “the bombers were back on the ground, a peace treaty was signed and the guns were silent. Soldiers were loaded on the ships coming home. I said, ‘I want to go home,’” a simple request, but one that was not to be honored for almost one more year. “My company commander said, ‘No, you are still on special assignment. General Eisenhower needs you.”

That began the young soldier’s post war assignment as a member of the escort guard, whose duty was to protect General Eisenhower. One of his most memorable assignments in that role was to accompany the war hero on his first return visit to his hometown, Abilene, Kansas. It was on that trip that Murphree faced perhaps the most harrowing ordeal of his military career..

“The General flew to New York,” said Murphree. “Me and the other guards went by ship, the USS Sea Robin, a 55,000 ton battleship. About halfway there in the North Atlantic, we hit one of the worst storms in history. They told us we might have to abandon ship. We lost all our life boats and life lines. We were literally between the devil and the deep blue sea. The ship would rock up on its side and just hang there, and I would think well, it’s going over this time, but it would come back down and hit the water. It sounded like it was going to bust into a thousand pieces. Even the captain who had been sailing for 40 years said this was the worst storm in history.

“ Finally,” continued Murphree, “the USS Sea Robin limped into New York Harbor. Boy, it had taken a beating. I don’t see how in the world it made it through that storm.”

Then, pausing in his narrative, Murphree added, “well, actually, I guess I do see how it made it. I went down in the bow of that ship and I got serious with the Lord. I said, ‘Lord, there’s nothing I can do about it except for You. I’ve got a beautiful woman and a little boy back home, and I would like to go back to them.’ About half an hour later, it was announced on the intercom, that the storm had weakened. The captain said we had blown off our course, but he believed we would make it.”

By this time, Murphree just wanted to go home. “Each time I asked, all I was told was, ‘No, you are still needed here.’ I said, I don’t care nothing about being a big shot. I had been gone almost three years away from my wife and baby. All I wanted to do was get out of there, get this thing over and get back home. I wanted to get back on the farm, pick some cotton, grow some corn, smell some sorghum syrup a-cooking. That’s all I wanted to do.”

Finally, in 1946 , Murphree was discharged from the army. Once back home, he bought the farm where he now lives and where he and his wife raised their son William, Junior and three daughters Elizabeth (Mealer), Linda (Vaughan) and Alice (Cater). And, it was here where Murphree resumed his passion for gospel singing.

According to his daughter Elizabeth Mealer, “Daddy was into gospel singing from the time he was a small child.” As the story goes, one of his uncles took him to a gospel singing, and he actually got up there and directed a song.

Gospel singing was also on his mind in a fox hole in France. According to Mealer, “Daddy said he prayed if the Lord would get him home he would like to have a trio of girls that would sing. He always wanted a singing family, and that’s exactly what he got.”

“We had a wonderful life,” said Murphree, “Me and the Murphree sisters. We traveled around in a Greyhound bus singing the gospel all over the southeast from Montgomery to Georgia. That blood harmony. There’s no way you can beat it.” And his son sang bass in several gospel groups.

Murphree says about the only time he sings these days is when he’s out on his tractor. Neighbors listening closely might hear him bellowing out old favorites like, “What a Meeting in the Air,” That Heavenly Home will Surely Be Mine,” or Power in the Blood.”

Despite his age, Murphree lives alone, still drives a car, and works his farm along with some help from grandsons Wayne Mealer and David Murphree and great grandson Cody Mealer. He says he’s often asked what keeps him going at his age, and his answer is simple. “Hard work. If hard work would kill somebody, I would have been dead 35 years ago.”

“Somebody once told me ‘you don’t have a bit of business out here doing this at your age. When are you going to quit?’ Well, laughed Murphree. “I said I imagine when my toes are up.” Does he ever think about retiring? “Oh, sure. I think about it every year, and every year I say well, this will be the last one. But, then the wild onions put up and you can smell them; and the fruit trees bloom out, and the bees go to swarming. It just gets in my blood, and I have to get out there and go.”

Now, with a new John Deere tractor complete with power steering in the shed, Murphree may have even more reason to postpone his retirement. “Yeah, I’m proud of that tractor. When you get my age, it gets harder to steer but now that power steering has taken care of all that.”

“I can say I’ve had a good life,” said Murphree. “I was talking to my cousin the other night. She said, ‘I guess you realize how the Lord has blessed you.’ I do. He’s given me a good life. He shepherded me through one of the bloodiest wars in history and one of the worst storms ever on the sea. I have had a very good life. I don’t go around bragging about my life, but I am proud of it.”

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Howard Hill

World’s Greatest Archer

Story by Jerry C. Smith
Photography by Wallace Bromberg Jr.
Submitted photos

Schoolboys often dream of marrying a favorite teacher, but Howard Hill of Shelby County actually pulled it off and, with her help and support, became a true legend in his own time, the World’s Greatest Archer.

Ashville’s Elizabeth Hodges had taught high school English in Wilsonville, Alabama, where Howard attended. Apparently their attraction was mutual, as he married her a few years later. They had a long, storybook life together, and now lie in final rest beside each other in Ashville’s New Cemetery.

Born in 1899 on a cotton plantation in Shelby County, Howard’s father made archery equipment for him and his four brothers and taught the boys how to use them. Howard grew up using weapons of all kinds, but his bow was always his favorite.

According to Craig Ekin in his book, Howard Hill, The Man And The Legend, Howard killed his first rabbit at age five and, in his excitement to show his folks the game he’d brought home for supper, left his bow in a cotton field. It took three days to find it.

Howard entered Auburn’s veterinary school at age 19, but did so well in sports that animal medicine was soon sidelined. A tall, powerful young man who excelled at anything athletic, he lettered in baseball, basketball and football, earning the nickname of Wild Cat.

Howard didn’t neglect his archery interests while at school, often slipping away on weekends for long target practice sessions which, according to Ekin, usually involved shooting some 700 to 800 arrows. Howard was so appreciative of his years at Auburn that he created a college archery program at the school after his retirement. Many of his artifacts are now displayed on campus.

In 1922, Howard moved into Southern League semi-pro baseball, often playing pro golf in off-season. It was about this time that he married Elizabeth, which Ekin describes as the best move Howard ever made. “Libba,” as he called her, realized from the start that archery was Howard’s destiny, and she encouraged him at every opportunity.

Niece Margaret Hodges McLain describes her Aunt Elizabeth as a perfect southern belle whose petite stature only made Uncle Howard seem that much larger. Mrs. McLain recalls the Hills visiting Ashville during breaks from movie work.

Howard often cooked meat entrees for family gatherings by the same method used on safari in Africa. He would dig a pit in the ground, build a big fire in it, then place meat wrapped in wet cheesecloth among the coals, cover it up, and let it cook all day, a process similar to Hawaii’s imu pits used at luaus.

While waiting for dinner, Howard would set up hay bales for targets, and demonstrated his many archery skills and trick shots. Margaret recalls seeing him shoot tossed dimes from the air, as well as helping the youngsters learn archery. Howard was well-respected in Elizabeth’s home town, where the local theater showed many of his films and short subjects.

Three years after their marriage, the Hills moved to Opa Locka, Florida, where Howard worked as a machinist at Hughes Tool Company, founded by the father of aviation pioneer Howard Hughes. While there, he read a book called The Witchery Of Archery, by Maurice Thompson, that inspired Howard to set forth on a path that would bring him worldwide fame and set new records, many of them unbroken to this day.

Howard made his first bow while working at Hughes. It wasn’t a very good one, but it signaled the start of a new career direction in archery. He continued making bows and arrows and working in the machine shop until 1932, when their California experience actually began.

Ekin relates that Howard was approached by famed newspaper editorial writer Arthur Brisbane, who wanted the Hills to move to his desert ranch near Barstow, California. Howard was to coach his sons in physical sports, while Elizabeth would tutor them in academics.

After Howard’s one-year contract ended on the Brisbane ranch, he went to Hollywood, intent on making a documentary film he had written, called The Last Wilderness. It emphasized hunting America’s big game rather than spending fortunes on jungle safaris.

The film was a quick success, made entirely outdoors without using a single studio set. Howard’s amazing archery skills were featured as he brought down every kind of large game animal in the American wild country. For the next year or so, he tirelessly promoted this movie by making personal appearances at each showing, dazzling his audiences during intermissions with incredible demonstrations of pinpoint accuracy.

Among Howard’s amazing feats were shooting dozens of arrows, rapid fire, into the exact center of a target from 45 feet, not only from a standing stance, but also lying on his back, side, belly, and from between his legs. His arrows often got damaged in these stunts because they were grouped so tightly there was scarcely room for them all in the target’s tiny center spot.

Howard also appealed physically to his audiences. At more than 6 feet tall, his muscular build and dashing good looks would have easily qualified him for leading roles in movies. He was immensely strong, able to pull any bow with ease. In fact, some of his bows were so powerful they took two men to string them unless he did it himself.

One of Howard’s first major records was a long arrow flight of more than 391 yards, set in 1928 using a bow with a draw weight of 172 pounds that he built for the feat. He could keep seven arrows in the air at one time, and split a falling arrow with another.

Some favorite stunts were shooting at small objects in midair such as coins, rings, wasps, etc, shooting cigarettes out of some brave soul’s mouth, rolling a barrel down a hill and firing an arrow into its bunghole, splitting narrow sticks with arrows, shooting birds from high in the air, striking a match with one arrow, then extinguishing it with the next, shooting two arrows at once to burst two separate balloons, ricocheting arrows off wooden boards to hit a target, and breaking several balloons consecutively that had been blown up inside each other.

When asked how he hit moving targets so easily, Howard replied, “You have to train your eye to look at a single spot. If it’s a man, you look at a shirt button; if it’s a Coca Cola sign, you look at the center of an O. You have to look at infinite spots.”

Ekin remarks that when Howard was “looking at a spot,” his eye would appear as if it were literally going to pop right out of its socket. One thing that caught your writer’s notice in Hill documentaries was the way he laughed and joked with bystanders, but the minute his bow came into full draw, a dead-serious look would suddenly appear on his face. As soon as the arrow was loosed, however, he immediately became jovial again. It’s like he was two different people.

Howard’s hunting skills were legendary. He killed more than 2,000 large-game animals with his bow, including a rogue bull elephant. Taught to hunt by a Seminole Indian, he could track any kind of creature, often dispatching it with one arrow from a distance that would have challenged a gun hunter. Elizabeth often accompanied him on safaris and other big game hunts.

But despite his predatory skills, the man was not without a sense of humor. According to Ekin, on one western hunting trip he fooled his comrades into thinking they were eating veal brought from home when it was actually a wild burro he had shot the previous day and cooked in his signature fire pit.

Another time, Howard slipped a fox into a huge kettle of rabbit stew. On yet another trip, Howard and his companions were perturbed by a fellow hunter’s thunderous snoring, which continued despite all attempts to gently waken him. Finally, Howard simply rolled him, sleeping bag and all, into an icy creek.

His skills and uncanny accuracy soon caught the eye of Hollywood producers in 1937, when Warner Brothers was shooting The Adventures of Robin Hood. This high-dollar movie starred Basil Rathbone and Errol Flynn (for our younger readers, Flynn was sort of like today’s Kevin Costner, but far more macho). Facing a select group of some 50 accomplished archers who tested for the movie’s arrow shots, Howard easily topped them all in accuracy.

According to Ekin, director William Keighley told Howard, “You’re hired. Tell the head property man what equipment you want and report Monday to teach 22 actors and six principals how to shoot.”

Howard made many shots with the camera looking over his shoulder from behind, substituting himself for an actor who had just been filmed from the front while pulling the same bow. He performed many dangerous precision shots, such as knocking a war club from Basil Rathbone’s hand and shooting at running spear throwers.

By his own estimate, Howard “killed” 11 men while shooting Robin Hood. Some were shot while on galloping horses, falling to the ground with an arrow sticking out of their backs or chests. In reality, his blunted arrows had imbedded themselves into a thick block of balsa wood backed up by a steel plate, worn under their tunics. Had Howard’s aim been off by just a few inches, it could have been fatal.

Actors complained that a powerful bow he used to insure accuracy packed such an impact force that they didn’t have to fake falling from their horses; he literally knocked them off. He did all the bow shots for Errol Flynn, as well as numerous Indian battle scenes for movies like They Died With Their Boots On, Buffalo Bill, and several other films involving archery.

In a foreword to Howard’s book, Wild Adventure, Errol Flynn said, “When you meet Howard Hill you know darn well you’ve met him before, but you can’t remember where or when.“ The two became friends while on the Robin Hood set and spent many pleasant days afterward hunting, partying and fishing from Flynn’s yacht, the Sirocco, where he made one of the most incredible shots of his career.

He dropped a wooden barrel over the side, then threw the barrel’s cork after it. Quoting Ekin’s 1982 book: “While the boat and barrel were bobbing up and down on the waves, Howard proceeded to shoot the cork with an arrow that had a line attached to it. After retrieving the cork, he then shot the arrow again (with the cork still on the end of it), perfectly plugging the hole with the cork! This was made into a movie short, and can still be seen today.”

In 1940, Howard set up an archery shop in Hollywood, where he turned out some of the world’s finest bows and arrows. He made them for superstars like Gary Cooper, Roy Rogers, Iron Eyes Cody, Errol Flynn and Shirley Temple — complete with archery lessons.

By 1945, Howard had mostly given up on competitive shooting, since no one could beat him. In fact, he won 196 Field Archery tournaments in a row. His attention turned to hunting and exhibition work. He and Elizabeth built a fine, Southern-style colonial home in the middle of 10 acres in Pacoima, California, using marble imported from Sylacauga.

By the 1950s, Howard was making his own hunting movies, such as Tembo, released by RKO in 1952, which is still a film classic. In all, he produced 23 short subject films for Warner Brothers. He wrote several authoritative books on archery and big-game hunting, like Wild Adventure and Hunting The Hard Way, and has been featured in several other archery books.

In 1971, Howard was inducted into the Alabama Sports Hall of Fame. Birmingham sports editor Zipp Newman wrote, “Never has one man so completely dominated his sport as Howard Hill.”

His signature bows and arrows are still being manufactured and sold at Howard Hill Archery in Hamilton, Montana, operated by longtime friends Craig & Evie Ekin. For those interested in watching Howard’s demo films, Youtube offers more than a dozen, mostly filmed in the quaint, gender-patronizing style of the 1940-50s.

After an unparalleled lifetime of making bows, movies, and unbroken records, Howard and Elizabeth retired to a large, colonial style home they built in Vincent, which still stands today. Howard passed away in 1975 after a bout with cancer, and Elizabeth, always at his side, joined him in eternal peace less than a year later.

They now lie in repose in the Hodges’ family plot at the New Ashville Cemetery, just inside the fork of its service road. Their headstone is framed with two drawn bows, but nothing else at the site commemorates his world fame. Always the dedicated wife, Elizabeth’s marker does not show her birth date, only a final one, so as to not draw attention to the difference in their ages.

Margaret McLain describes Howard and Elizabeth’s life together as “a very long love story. She was his greatest fan.”

For a story on how Howard Hill touched the author’s life, read the print or digital version of Discover The Essence of St. Clair October & November 2014 edition.

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Blair Farm

An Odenville Landmark

Story by Carol Pappas
Photography by Wallace Bromberg Jr.

A weathered, vintage sign points the way from US 411 in Odenville. Tarnished by age, it’s hard to tell where its burgundy background ends and the rust begins. As you get a little closer, the white letters and arrow come into view, whimsically giving more specific directions: “Over Yonder.”

Follow the arrow’s path, and it leads you down Blair Farm Road to where else? Blair Farm.

In its 1950s heyday, its 240 acres hosted cattle, horses, ponies, a Clydesdale named Blue Boy Snow and a family by the name of Blair. Dwight Blair Jr., known as “Jobby,” bought the farm in 1952 and moved there with his wife, Margaret Drennen Blair, and their 2-year-old son, Dwight Blair III. Little sisters Dana and Carol would follow in the years to come.

It was the beginning of a new story for a World War II hero turned stock broker turned horse trader — or better yet, trader of all sorts — said his son Dwight III, now a prominent Pell City attorney. “He was a real wheeler dealer.”

His father would advertise horses and ponies for sale in the Birmingham News, and families would usually arrive on a Sunday to look them over. “Kids would become enamored with the ponies,” Dwight said. “They would say, ‘Dad, please let us have this pony!,’ and the father would say they would come back.” The thinly veiled excuse was they didn’t have a truck with them.

But Dwight says his father was not to be deterred from the sale. “He was a master at removing the back seat of a four-door car” to show kids and father alike just how those children’s dream actually could come true.

“Many a pony went from here with their head stuck out of the back window,” he said. Before they drove away, the wheeler dealer always added: “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll give you half of what you paid.”

The stories of his father aren’t always as lighthearted. In 1943, he was a bombardier in the Army Air Corps and was shot down in North Africa. He was in his turret, firing at a German plane and killed the fighter pilot.

The German plane started a nosedive and then quickly reversed direction, clipping the nose of the American plane. It spiraled to the ground, killing seven of his father’s crewmates. Only he and one other survived but were captured. He was wounded in his left leg, and 15 pieces of shrapnel remained. Reported missing in action, he spent more than two years in a German prison camp, escaping one time by jumping off a train. But he discovered he could not get far because of his leg injury, and he was recaptured.

In 1945, although presumed dead since his capture, he was released in a wounded prisoner exchange and headed back home to a hero’s welcome reported on the front page of the Age Herald, which later became Birmingham Post-Herald.

He went back to school at The University of Alabama and after graduation, he did post-graduate work at Wharton School of Business in Philadelphia and became a stock broker in Birmingham.

In 1946, he married Margaret Drennen, who was from a prominent Birmingham family. “Her father asked her, ‘Are you sure you want to live out in Odenville, where you will have nothing but chickens and horse manure?’ And she said, yes,” her son recounted the story his mother told him.

In 1952, they bought a small farm where Moody High School is today, but sold it and quickly bought the 240 acres on both sides of what is now Blair Farm Road.

He remained a stockbroker until 1958 when he decided to leave the big city working life behind for good and sell horses, ponies and cattle full time along with running a tractor and car lot in Leeds called Traders Inc.

He had about 50 head of cattle and 20 to 30 horses and ponies along with the farm’s familiar fixture — Blue Boy Snow — on the sprawling open pastures. “They were everywhere,” Dwight recalled as he motioned around the property. A monument to the Clydesdale, a Blair Farm resident from 1959 to 1991 who weighed more than 2,000 pounds, still stands in the shade of a towering oak tree in one of those pastures.

Today’s Blair Farm looks a bit different than those early days of wide-open pastures and a homeplace probably built in the 1890s. It was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. It was replaced in 1953 with the house passersby see now. A barn, believed to be built in that same turn-of-the-century time, still remains. Its square nails rather than round ones hint at its age. “It’s amazing it has weathered time like it has,” he said, noting that its only change has been adding a metal roof.

Other weathered barns and sheds are scattered around the property.

Austin Dwight Blair, the fourth Dwight in the lineage, now helps his own father with upkeep of the land. It helps to have Sheriff Terry Surles and Probate Judge Mike Bowling cut hay from it for their cattle. And friends and family come there to relax, skeet shoot or hunt. “It’s a place where everybody comes and feels comfortable,” Austin said.

Now a broker in commercial real estate for LAH in Birmingham, Austin likes returning to the place he rode horses as a child and had his very own pony, Freddy Boy.

For Dwight, it’s full circle. Up to about age 13, he thought it was a wondrous place. But teenagers tend to gravitate toward more action, and he took advantage of every opportunity to spend time away from the farm with friends in Leeds and Birmingham.

Then it was off to college, a scholarship to play running back at Vanderbilt University and later, law school at Cumberland School of Law.

In the midst of a successful and understandably busy career, Dwight likes coming back to the quiet of what has become a “weekend place” now. He raises pheasant and quail, and a couple of German Short Haired Pointers named Hansel and Gretel seem as content to call it home as his father did.

It is a story not unlike countless family farms in and around St. Clair County. They, too, have weathered time with their own tales to tell.

Blair Farm

81 photos

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