I have so much family history stuff on our shelves! It came to my attention that a lot of people that read this blog also would like to know it. What I'm about to write is not from me, but from Phyllis Price Terry
Maynor about her grandpa George Washington Anthony. He married Ollie Elizabeth
Spurgen and they had six children, one of which was Lou Alice Anthony. She was my father's mother. So enjoy these memories of some distant cousin recalling the life of George Washington Anthony.
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MEMORIES OF GRANDPA ANTHONYWritten by: Phyllis Price Terry
Maynor about George Washington Anthony
When I was a little girl I took Grandpa for granted. I unknowingly assumed that all Grandpas were loving and kind and could fix just about anything. When I got to be a teenager I thought Grandpa was so old fashioned and square (which he was, thank God). When I was twenty, grandpa went on to be with the Lord. Now that I am 51, I remember my Grandpa as just about the most perfect man who ever lived. How I wish I had had the wisdom to have listened to him more because he was a walking treasury of knowledge and understanding.
We always lived with my Grandparents or very near them when I was a little girl. How our lives were enriched by them and we were not even aware of it at the time.
I remember Grandpa carrying me around in his arms when I was little and picking mulberries off the trees around our house. How I loved them! Then we moved away from that place when I was six and I never had mulberries again in all these years until this year when I found a tree growing on the country estate that my husband Jimmy and I just bought and built on last year. I found the tree as I was making my Spring rounds looking for birds and their nests (I am absolutely wild about birds and anything to do with nature, thanks, I believe, to grandpa's blood coursing through my veins). Well I found a tree just loaded with green mulberries. I had no idea how long it would take for them to ripen, but I watched it closely and in two or three weeks the mulberries had turned from green to red to black. I picked the first one and with anticipation put it into my mouth. Surely enough, it tasted exactly the same as those Grandpa fed to me so many years ago. I had forgotten the taste. But it all came back to me with such an overwhelming joy. Thank you, Grandpa, for teaching me about the joys of nature.
Grandpa went to the woods and cut white oak splits and made baskets--all sizes and shapes. He made little ones to give to us kids, and bigger ones for Mother and Mama (our name for Grandmother). And he made real big ones to use at the barn for corn and cotton and such things. He made baskets for friends, too.
And Grandpa had a workshop that he had built and it was such a delightful place to look at (but not touch). In it were a home-made firebox and bellows. I've seen him so many times build a fire in the firebox and blow on it with the bellows until the coals were almost white hot. Then he would put in a plow or other metal farming instrument. When it was red hot he would bend it to whatever shape he was aiming for. Then when it was just like he wanted it he would douse it in cold water.
In the shop, too, was an iron anvil, and a homemade press (I think he had another name for it) where he pressed the twisted plugs of tobacco that he had grown himself. I guess his only vice was a love for chewing tobacco and snuff. I never thought of it as wrong, though. And he had shoe lasts, which he used to repair the family shoes. There was a different last for each size shoe. They were iron too, and were interchangeable on an iron post of some sort that held them stationary while he slipped a shoe over one and repaired it.
(This is Johnie talking for a minute. I have some old family tools and I may just have one or two of those shoe lasts that she is talking about. If they weren't his, then they were from approximately the same time period. Now back to the story.)
Grandpa had very nice handwriting and he could draw quite well, too. Once when I was about twelve he drew and colored with crayons a country house and gardens for me. Silly me,
didn’t realize what it would have meant to me now, and I misplaced it and it was probably thrown out in the trash. No, that's not right, paper trash was not thrown out but saved to light fires with. How it twists my heart now to think that precious work of Grandpa's probably was burned on a cold winter morning.
And Grandpa could sing and play a fiddle. He knew how to read notes and sing "old harp". Mama could sing, too, and she played the guitar. They did not have music in their churches, but they really loved music at home. In their Church, which was Primitive Baptist, also known as
Hardshell, they often sang the notes of the songs rather than the words. I can just hear them now, the church full of them singing, "Do, re, mi, mi, do, re, fa, fa, la, ti, do", and the parts harmonizing.
Grandpa loved his Church. He loved his Bible. and he loved the Lord. Until his eyesight became so poor in his later years, he spent much, much time studying the Bible. He could quote so much scripture. And he had such an understanding of it. He really felt a duty to share his understanding of it with as many people as possible so they would be enlightened, too, concerning the things of the Lord. After
Cayce moved away from Europa, Mississippi, to West Point when Grandpa was about 80, Grandpa was not able then to do much work around the place. So EVERY morning, weather permitting, he walked the few blocks to downtown West Point and he would stand on the street corners and stop any man who came by who WOULD stop and question him about his relationship with the Lord. Rarely did he get an answer that was satisfactory to him, so he would proceed then and there to educate that man on the truths of the Word of God. He told us of so many of those encounters. Sometimes he would talk with someone who really appreciated him, but more often his captured audience would be squirming to get away, or would become argumentative,
poor thing. It did no good to argue with Grandpa about the Bible because he could out-quote anyone I ever knew. And if he was not able to persuade the other party of his beliefs, he would at the very least so thoroughly confuse him that he was not able to argue at all within a few minutes. Grandpa enjoyed these little daily mini-crusades so very much.
My family lived only one block from the very prestigious First Presbyterian Church. On the Sundays when Mama and Grandpa could come to spend the day with us, often Grandpa would go down to visit with the Presbyterians. He would be wearing clean, but very likely faded, work pants, a clean chambray shirt and suspenders. He would walk down to that church filled with that bunch of high-minded people and he would sit on the front pew. After the choir had sung their selections and the Reverend had delivered his sermon, Grandpa would stand up and ask for a few minutes of their time. Then he would point out to them with all sincerity and gravity the error of their doctrine. He did not do this to embarrass them, but he honestly thought he was doing them a service. He would always be hurt because they were so ungrateful for his services. Finally, after this had happened several times, his physician, Dr. Tom Braddock, who himself a faithful Presbyterian, had a little private talk with Grandpa and explained to him that the Presbyterians were really not unkind people, but they would prefer to just go on in their unenlightened state. Grandpa never went back. Poor Presbyterians.
Grandpa knew all about herbs and their uses. He could always go to the woods and return with a root, or bark or leaf that would help alleviate the the symptoms of whatever malady had attached itself to one of his family. I remember one particular incident when I was about three or four and Joe Boy, being sixteen months younger than myself, was about two or three. Candy, and indeed any sweet, was a rare treat. But Mama, bless her heart, always kept huge quart size bottles of Milk of Magnesia tablets setting around. She took two or three of these tablets after every meal to alleviate a real, or imagined, sour stomach. At some time I had been given one of these tablets and they tasted pretty good to me. (We know now they are very much like peppermint candy). Well, on a particular spring day, right after lunch, when all the men had gone back to the fields and all the ladies had "lain down for their afternoon nap" as was the custom then, I was feeling mischievous (as usual). I spied Mama's Milk of Magnesia setting on the mantle, and I remembered their wonderful taste. So I climbed up on a chair and got the big bottle. Then I invited little Joe Boy to come with me for a little "Phyllis style" tea party. I must have known that I was misbehaving, because I led us out the back door and under the high back porch. There we sat ourselves down around our little imaginary tea table and I poured Joe Boy a bottle-cap full of the candy-tasting tablets. He ate them gleefully, then I treated myself with a
capful. I graciously served him again, then myself again; and this went on I don't know how long. By and by, the ladies of the house (Mother, Mama and Aunt Valera--we all lived in the same big house) awakened from their siesta and looked around for their little charges. I heard them calling, but kept quiet as a mouse. I expect I knew a spanking was coming shortly. Well, they finally found us under the porch with the incriminating empty Milk of Magnesia tablet bottle. I don't remember getting that much-deserved spanking for they were all so mortified that we might be quite ill from partaking of so much of the medicine. Grandpa was summoned, and I remember he went right away to the woods and came back shortly with a bitter tasting root (I believe it was
Calamus) that completely nullified all the joys of the former merrymaking. It was awful, but other than a few hurried trips to the outdoor toilet for the next couple of days, we were not the worse for our adventure.
My Mother told us that when she was growing up Mama and Grandpa were good and loved them, but very strict. She was not allowed to dress in the latest styles (of the 20's), and even though she was a star basketball player for her High school, she was not allowed to play in the revealing short uniforms the rest of the team wore. Mother had to play in a dress, because Mama and Grandpa believed in modesty. Mother began to raise her own children in much the same manner. Ah, but she had not counted on the recalcitrant Phyllis. I wanted to be like the other kids. Finally, when I was about twelve, Betty nine, and
Winnel seven, I wore her down. She agreed to making us some little shorts and short-cropped top sets to wear at home in the country only. She made these from large scraps left over from other sewing she had done for she did all the sewing for herself and us girls, making all the clothes we wore. Well, the day came when all three of us girls had our new short sets on and over to Grandpa's we went right after lunch, as usual. Grandpa was sitting on the porch swing and he took a look at us and said, "Well, I see Ree has made you girls some Summer-Town-Cool-Suits." That's all he said to us, but he did have a little talk with Ree (Mother). He was not able to prevail, though, and from then on Mother dressed us much like other kids.
Grandpa used to make wine in the summertime from elderberries, his own home-grown grapes, and I think peach (brandy). I remember that he was very careful in making it just right and was always satisfied with it, but I really don't remember ever seeing him drink any of it. I know us kids were given a little at times when we were sick, and I suppose the adults took it when they were sick, too. I never thought too much about his wine-making, but now that I am back in the country with my own grapes, I think I would like to try to make a little myself, for medicinal purposes, of course. So I checked with
Cayce and he still has Grandpa's old family recipe, which has been handed down for generations from the time that grandpa's ancestor Perry Antonio left Italy hundreds of years ago. I hope to make some of Grandpa's wine this summer (1990).
Grandpa was quite a gardener, and grew all kinds of good things to the delight of us grandchildren. He grew peanuts and popcorn and watermelons. He grew an unusual fruit called "vine peach". I never heard of them before or since. But best of all he grew strawberries. When the strawberries were ripe, he would "hire" us
grandkids to come over and pick them. He paid us a dime for each dish-pan full that we picked. It was wonderful to get the dime, because money was scarce for us in those days, but best part of all was we could eat all the strawberries we wanted as we picked. I've never had strawberries that good since.
Grandpa was never idle, except for a rest in his hammock or his front porch swing during the hottest part of the day after lunch. He was either busy in his orchard, or garden, or shop, or he was studying his Bible or crusading. But at times, he would be caught up with his work and he would make us little homemade toys. He made each of us a little rocking chair. And of course the little baskets I mentioned. But he made all sorts of little
whirly-gigs and things, too. One time he made my little sister
Winnell a cute little wishing well with a windlass to raise and lower the little bucket.
Grandpa was a great carpenter. His house and ours was full of his tables and chairs. He had made them for friends and neighbors, too. When my Mother and Dad got married he made Mother a pretty little Settee and washstand. But he also had done some real building in his younger days. When his own children were young, the school in the town they lived in in Texas had burned down. Grandpa contracted and built a new school for them. My Aunt Valera says that it was the finest building around, two story, brick. He had made a concrete block and set in the front of the building with the name of the school -- INDEPENDENCE HIGH SCHOOL. She said people for miles around talked about that fine building.
Oh, Grandpa could do just anything he wanted to. Really. He was so talented. And he was so understanding and wise. I'm so proud to be his
grandaughter.
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I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did! What a wonderful story!
--Johnie
