The Bulletin
April 10, 2003
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TRAVELOGUE
By Beaver

A few miles north of Natchez, out in a very pretty area of pine woods, we found Springfield Plantation. Springfield bills itself as a working plantation, which is true if you count a few cattle grazing in the pasture as a “working plantation.”

We drove up the driveway, arrow straight and heading directly toward the four white columns of the mansion. Pulling off into a little parking area, we parked and climbed the steps to the door. There were three doorbells, and a note saying, “I'm here, ring all three doorbells and wait, it may take me a while.”

And so, after a wait of several minutes, the great front door swung open, and an elderly, white-haired master with sparkling blue eyes, wearing layers of bright blue sweaters with what looked like a coat of arms where a bow tie would usually go, invited us in. This was none other than Arthur E. La Salle, historian, restorer, and tour guide of Springfield Mansion.

Mr. La Salle told us we were his first visitors in three days, probably due to the near-freezing temperatures. He had only a few electric space heaters for comfort in that big, drafty place. He said he had lived all over the world, but Mississippi was the coldest place he had ever called home. He said he leased the mansion, working on restoration and living there, only leaving for a day every couple of weeks. History flowed from him like water from an artesian well.

Springfield Mansion was built in 1790, when the Natchez area was still a frontier. The window panes are 11 x 11" hand blown, crown glass, imported from England. The huge timbers for the floor and roof beams were all whipsawed on site, and the tongue-and-groove planks for flooring and ceiling were made on-site. Door and window frames are thought to have been made 24 miles away in Natchez, with wood transported there from Springfield, and finished work transported back.

The four huge, two-story columns on the front were built from pie shaped bricks made on-site, as were all the bricks that went into the construction of the mansion. The front steps, rising several feet, are carved from a single Cypress log. All metal parts such as door hinges were made in the blacksmith shop on the plantation. The interior, well why don't I just quote from the guidebook?

“…Magnificent Georgian-Adams-Federal cornices and mantels, hand carved in intricate punched, gouged, reeded, and fluted details.” This type of decoration had not been seen west of the Eastern Seaboard when Springfield was built, and the origin of these decorations is unknown.

Mr. La Salle told us about his efforts to buy Springfield when it had deteriorated to the point where the owners were using it for hay storage. Luckily, none of the irreplaceable crown glass windows were broken, and Mr. La Salle leased the mansion from its owners in 1977. He, with help from his sons, has labored ever since, restoring the mansion to its former glory.

In conversation, it became apparent that Mr. La Salle thought that everybody involved was probably better off in the plantation system of the south before the Civil War than they were ever after. He made reference to the “Damn Northern Conservatives” who in his opinion pretty well ruined the south forever. I thought about asking for my $6 tour fee back after such an insult, but decided he was probably referring to events long past rather than anything I should take personally.

After a time, it became apparent also that he really thought we would have been better off if we had stayed a colony of England, rather than going through all the trouble of fighting them in two wars. He also spoke repeatedly of the “Evil Garden Club” of Natchez, apparently referring to the garden club that owns several mansions there. I'm still not quite sure what caused his unhappiness with them.

Mr. La Salle's most interesting story was that of Andrew Jackson having married his wife, Rachel, at Springfield Plantation in 1790 or 1791. He has expended a great deal of time and effort researching this, and feels he has proved that Mrs. Jackson was actually still married to another man at the time of her marriage to Andrew Jackson.

If you remember your history, Andrew Jackson became a national hero by beating the British in New Orleans in 1815, and went on to be elected the 7th president of the United States in 1828. There was a good deal of slander by his opponents during the presidential election, with no proof that either Andrew or Rachel had reason to believe that she had not been divorced before the marriage. Rachel died soon after the election, having never set foot in the White House.

Having spent the hour Mr. La Salle told us it would take to have a “real” tour of the mansion, and knowing that we were going to be driving into a possible snow and ice storm, we were ready to be on our way. There were no shirts to be bought, so D bought Mr. La Salle's book, The Marriage of Andrew Jackson at Springfield Plantation, we thanked Mr. La Salle for his outpouring of most interesting history, and found our way back to the highway, heading north for Little Rock.

We crossed to the east side of the Mississippi River, and traveled more or less along the west side for a time, seeing huge Bald Cypress trees with their many knees protruding from the water. I think I once heard that it is the knees sticking into the air that allow Cypress trees to grow in the water.

We drove in light rain through Little Rock and on to Conway, Arkansas, stopping at a motel at 10 p.m. We were pretty apprehensive about the weather; snow and sleet were predicted for overnight. We considered making a run for Springfield, Missouri, in the dark, but it was already 32 degrees and raining, so thought daylight would be better.

In the morning (February 6th), we awakened to several inches of new snow. The temperature was still 32 degrees, but the roads were wet, with no ice. We debated taking the shorter two-lane road through the Ozarks or going far west to stay on four-lane roads with less hilly terrain. We checked at a truck stop and the report was the road was still good through the Ozarks, so we got rolling.

The drive through the mountains was beautiful, with snow hanging on the trees. The back roads must have been bad, because all the schools were out for the day. We passed great numbers of antique shops, all closed. The road in places was carved out of rocky hills, with sheer cliffs close to the road. The road ran along several high ridges, with great views of the tree-covered mountains and valleys. The altitude changes had our ears popping. We smelled fresh lumber, and then passed a couple of lumber mills, and a whole valley filled with stacks of fresh-cut lumber.

As we neared Branson, the rain and snow that had never really stopped turned to fog and sleet. We hadn't planned to be back to D's folks in Springfield until sometime the next day, so talked about going to Branson for the night. D was talking on the phone when we got there, so I drove right by, but she made me go back. The turn wasn't marked very well.

Mid-afternoon found us settled into a motel, and then the weather took a turn for the better. We drove the length of Branson, finding an Imax theater where we saw The Ozarks. We explored Branson for a while and went to the “Legends” season opening show. Great impersonations of Elton John, Patsy Cline, Faith Hill, Neal Diamond, the Blues Brothers, and Elvis. Very talented performers looked and sounded like the real McCoy. We had middle seats in the second row, not a very busy time in Branson.

When we got out of the show, the temperature had dropped to 23 degrees, and the parking lot was a skating rink. We eased out onto the very hilly main street of Branson, and gingerly drove back to the hotel.

February 7th, we woke to 16 degrees but sunny skies. D dropped off six rolls of film at Walgreen's and we checked out the huge outlet mall nearby. Got some good deals on stuff we might need sometime. We went back the Imax for an excellent show, Lewis and Clark, which brought home to me the incredible difficulties they survived on their trip up the Missouri and across the mountains to the west coast.

We picked up D's pictures at Walgreen's, and by the time we drove the 40 or so miles to Springfield, she had them all in a picture album.

We arrived at Don and Dorothy's at 2 p.m., and took them out to Culver's in the evening. Next morning, our plan was to eat lunch and hit the road. Don made a wonderful meal of roast beef, potatoes, gravy, salad, and creamed corn, with ice cream for dessert. He fed us at 10:30, but we fooled him and stayed almost until noon anyway.

Cat-Who-Barks had been following D around ever since we arrived, so we took her along, in spite of my idea that she would have a much more satisfactory retirement with Don and Dorothy. She was cranky and whiney until we moved her bed to a spot between our seats so she could think she was a human and look out the windshield at the sky instead of out the side window at the same sky.

We stopped at a rest area where the sinks were automatic, and when the water stopped, a hand dryer started right in the sink. D figured it out, but it was too advanced for me. I wiped my hands on my jeans; same as I do where they have those worthless hot air hand dryers mounted on the wall. What will they think of next? Suppose it's our tax dollars at work.

We sneaked around the west side of Kansas City to add the state of Kansas to our list of states for the trip. Good road, little traffic. We found what D considered the worst motel of the trip in Sioux City; the heater made more noise than heat. Not that I noticed, having so far slept through a major earthquake in Yellowstone Park when I was a kid, and Hurricane Camille as a teenager in Mississippi. Poor D, she says I snore and have sharp elbows, too.

February 9th, we started looking for excuses to not go home, knowing we could only postpone the inevitable. We stopped at Watertown, where we toured the Terry Redlin Art Center. This is a Do Not Miss place, and admission is free. I could have stayed two days, easy.

We left Watertown in sleet and wind, thankfully leaving the sleet behind after a few miles. We found our way home by early evening, greeted by extremely cold temperatures, having driven 4100 miles since leaving home on January 22nd.

I would like to publicly thank everyone who made our trip possible. Ben and Toid, thanks for putting up with livestock chores and frozen stock fountains in the below zero weather that plagued the homeland most of the time we were gone. Becky, thanks for taking care of the house chores. Linda, thanks for your help, too. Thanks to Peggy for helping Becky and Linda. Without all of you, this wonderful trip of a lifetime would not have been possible. Thanks again!

Desperately Seeking
Stuckeys
Chapter One
by Doug

I was shaving my cat when the phone rang. I know that sounds like a contrived opening line, but it was true. My cat had gone through some winter depression and let his coat completely go, resulting in gnatty dreadfulness to rival that of Bob Marley's. I'm not the kind of cat owner that sits around brushing his cats; I just don't have time.

Anyway, there I was working away at Torgo's knots with a cheap electric razor I found at some national shopping outlet, when the phone rang. The caller ID read "Memories Amalga," which is better than "Unavailable," so I answered it.

"Hello Sir, I want to take this opportunity to tell you about a unique offer..."

I knew as soon as I heard the over-friendly, highly trained voice that it was just the usual truckload from another telemarketer. In my opinion, telemarketers rank on the social scale one small step above dog fight promoters, so I gave the disembodied female voice on the other end of the line my usual dodge; I hung up. Not particularly original, I admit, but effective. Nor is my method polite, but calling people at all hours of the day attempting to defraud them isn't exactly Emily Post either, so I have no compunctions about slamming the receiver down like a spiked volleyball on a telemarketer.

After a week with my new razor, I turned it on myself. The tedium finally got to me, or maybe it was just knowing that I owned an electric razor and it was waiting there for me to take charge of my own destiny, I'm not sure. But there I was staring back at myself from the mirror, bald as a Hare Krishna at the airport.

I stumbled out of the bathroom, a bit dazed by my transformation. An envelope stacked on top of my mountain of junk mail and bills caught my eye with its provocative red lettering and sultry font: FREE SAMPLE!

I fished it out of the pile (Sometimes I don't get my mail for weeks, a reflex from my days of irresponsible personal finance.) and opened it. It was from some outfit calling themselves Memories Amalgamated and contained a small plastic pouch, apparently a medical sample of some kind.

I skimmed the enclosed cover letter and ascertained that it was "brainfood" of a "completely revolutionary" nature. A "safe, organic memory enhancer" that was supposed to restore memories that were long deteriorated. NOT A DRUG, they repeatedly stressed...

"Grandma, what's four times eight?"

"Thirty-two." Grandma answered politely, even though she had answered that question as many times in the last three hundred miles. I never could remember four times eight. In fact, I have to think twice about it now.

"Can we stop at the next Stuckeys?" I chimed. "I've got my eye on one of those giant pennies and I need more film for my camera.""

If you had ever traveled out west in 1974 in a giant landshark of a Cadillac, you know that there were Stuckeys souvenir and rock candy stores every 50 miles, and it was crucial that you hit every one.

I convinced Dad to pull over at The Colorado border and he snapped out the last picture on my last roll of Polaroid film. Mother and I stood feebly in front of the State line sign and allowed part of our souls to be whisked away for posterity.

I stripped away the sticky backing of the photograph and inhaled the sweet library paste smell, waiting patiently as Buddha for the images to materialize. Having canonized the moment, Father pointed the bow of our mighty ship westward.

I resumed my math assignment, somewhat annoyed with having to mix these beautiful, foreign landscapes with multiplication tables. Still, there was that giant penny, and who knows, maybe a coyote or a rattlesnake would show up. After all, our destination was California, where everything cool in the world ever came from, so who could complain about that?

"Grandma, what's four times eight?"

(To be continued)

Editor's Comments: It is interesting to note that Elaine and Don chose to write about their parents in the same era. They did not plan this but nice to get two different perspectives of that period of their family history. I, too, lived during those days -- but in an area that had already finished their pioneer days. Those were challenging times and make good reading!