Wordless Wednesday - Before the Storm

The Train Depot at Terry, MS

Last evening, I was going through some photos of my niece's lovely wedding last April. The ceremony took place at The First Baptist Church in Terry, Mississippi, an old church that is still very active in this small town of slightly over 700 people. Needless to say, my niece was a beautiful bride, her groom was handsome, and our families and their guests had a wonderful time.


Following the afternoon ceremony, we traveled a few blocks away for the reception at the old Terry Train Depot, an historic building that has been refurbished and used for events such as my niece's wedding reception. The picture here was taken as we approached the front doors to the depot on the evening of the reception. Note the mileage between Chicago and Jackson and New Orleans and Jackson above the doors.





I had not been to Terry for many years, but the small town, located about 15 miles southwest of Jackson, was much as I last remembered it. It was during this trip to the wedding and the reception that I first learned the story of the reclamation of the Terry Train Depot.


The area that later became the town of Terry, Mississippi, was established in 1811 by settlers from Virginia. Terry did not become an official town until 1877, when the Illinois Central Railroad came through the area. For some reason I don't know, the old Train Depot building was moved from Terry in the 1950's to Parham Bridges Park in Jackson. But sometime during the 1990's, a group called Friends of Terry, with some help from the Hinds County Board of Supervisors, successfully returned the historic building to the town of Terry, Mississippi. After the depot's return to the town, the group known as Friends of Terry was instrumental in raising funds to restore it.

Although many newly married couples may remember the Train Depot as the place they cut their wedding cake and danced the night away, this lovely old building stands as a wonderful reminder of the railroad's contribution to many small towns in Mississippi and elsewhere.

Private Meriwether - Is he Lewis or is he Albert?

I have posted this picture before in the hopes that one of my readers would be able to help me identify the man in the picture, but the mystery is still unsolved. So I thought I would try again today. What you see here is a picture postcard that I found among the pictures in my paternal grandmother's photo album. Handwritten on the reverse of the postcard is "Pvt Meriwether." I am unable to identify the writer, although I know for certain that it is not the handwriting of my grandmother.

My best guess at Private Meriwether's identify is based on this information: My great-grandmother's name was Margaret Susanna Merriweather. She had only one sibling, a brother named Lewis, who served in World War I. I have always assumed the man pictured here was Lewis. But recently, I found that Maggie, as my great-grandmother was nicknamed, had a cousin, Albert Merriweather, who also served in World War I. Albert and his family lived near Black Hawk in Carroll County, Mississippi. And now I am wondering whether the man in the picture is Lewis or if he is Albert.

Tracing the Meriwethers has been a difficult task for me, since the spelling has varied in its use in different parts of the country, especially in Mississippi. The original Meriwether immigrant to the United States was Nicholas, commonly referred to as Nicholas I. And I descend from the family in Mississippi that was headed by Robert Emmett Meriwether and Susan Thornton Meriwether, who lived for a time in Carroll County. Many of them returned to Shelbyville, Kentucky before the Civil War began. Since very few descendants of this old family remain in Mississippi today, I have no one to help with the identification of the man pictured in the military uniform.

I have examined this picture closely to search for any clue that would help identify the man. His uniform appears to be very similar to a modern-day Marine's uniform, and the medal that he wears on the left breast of his jacket is similar to the Navy Cross. The picture appears to be a posed, professional one, and it was likely taken for the sole purpose of making the postcard. The room that appears in the background is richly decorated, with a leaded glass window, wood paneling, and what appears to be an oriental rug. I wonder if the location was somewhere in Europe.

I am hoping again that someone who sees the picture can identify Private Meriwether and possibly claim him (and me) as a relative.

Gardening in My Blood

February is here, and Spring is just around the corner, at least in my part of the world. And it is at this time of the year that I become excited at the prospect of seeing green leaves and colorful flowers again after a cold, icy winter. Since I already have daffodils, tulips, and narcissus peeking their heads out of the winter ground, the anticipation of having green trees and blooming plants around me again for the next 6-8 months is increasing daily.

This time of the year, especially in the weeks preceeding Easter, I often recall the memories of growing up with parents and grandparents who were true gardeners who learned their skills from families before them who had successfully lived off the land. As one might say in the South, they were born with "gardening in their blood," and it is without a doubt that I inherited my love of gardening from them.

Since every one of my relatives was raised in a rural setting, they were all true gardeners who grew everything "from scratch." They did not buy six-inch plants for the vegetable garden or 4-inch pots of bedding plants from a greenhouse or nursery. Nor were large discount or home improvement stores with "garden centers" available to them. I truly doubt my relatives would have used these resources even if they had been available. They grew most plants from seed. After consulting the "Farmers Almanac" for moon phases that designated the best times to plant, they planted vegetable and flower seeds alike with loving care and careful hands. They also grew plants, more often flowering plants, from cuttings passed between neighbors and relatives. And it was a common practice to split and share flower bulbs in the fall of the year.

My mother, who seemed to have a "handful" of "green thumbs," continued the tradition of growing plants from cuttings and often shared bulbs with family and friends. Even today, her gladiola and iris bulbs, and some of her ivy, are still growing in several states where her children have lived.

Although my Dad helped, my mother was the primary gardener in our suburban household. We lived on the north side of Jackson in a small subdivision built in the 1950s. Our house was a simple "ranch style," with a deep backyard that sloped downhill. The neighborhood was a typical one for that time period, and it contained everything a young family would want. An elementary school, a church, and a small wooded area that was a city park were all within a very short walking distance.

Unlike contemporary surburban developments, there were no strip shopping centers with "big box stores," pizza shops, nail salons, or dry cleaners. Neighborhood children played safely outside their unlocked doors, walked to school and to the park without parents, and the neighbors all knew each other. Kids who were old enough to ride a bicycle, and lucky enough to own one, could safely ride their bikes with their friends to a small family-owned store nearby to buy soft drinks, dreamsicles, bubble gum, and candy. It was a free and easy time, without so many of today's parental worries for the safety of their children.

My mother did most of the garden work, even cutting the front yard with an electric mower. And I was pleased when my friends often told me that we had the prettiest yard on the street. The yard contained lush St. Augustine grass and tall green pines surrounded the house. The needles produced by the tall pines were enough to mulch the mass of azaleas and gardenias that bloomed profusely each year. Climbing roses that covered our fence were heavy with blooms in May of each year. And the fragrant scent from my mother's flowers often filled the evening air that came in through open windows. I can still recall the scent of spring roses and summer gardenias in my bedroom at night. Like so many other 1950s families in the South, we had no air conditioning, and windows were left open all night. We felt safe in our surroundings then.

Our backyard contained fruit trees that my parents lovingly cultivated, and my mother turned the ripe peaches and juicy plums they produced into delicious homemade cobblers, fried pies, and jam. As children, my mother warned us that we should not eat green plums, or the green plum eater would suffer a severe stomach ache. I never liked green plums, so adhering to her rule was easy for me, but my brothers and their friends tested my mother's advice and ended up privately enduring a few stomach aches to keep from hearing her say "I told you so."

One of my favorite gardening stories from those years began with my dad's attempt in the 1950s to stop erosion in our lower backyard. He would never admit it, but his gardening skills were not as finely honed as my mother's, and I believe this story will prove that fact beyond a doubt. As I recall, it was his decision, not my mother's, to use red clover for the backyard erosion control project. She thought a retaining wall was needed, but my Dad thought that option was too expensive. And it was his decision to make a trip to the seed store for red clover seed that is the beginning of the story. Actually, it was not a seed store, but an old-fashioned hardware store where the owner sold everything from nails to appliances. Somewhere in between those two items, he sold seed. The store's seed supply was a "loose" one, kept in large, open bins and sold by the ounce, or more often, by the pound.

Daddy returned home with a large brown bag of seed, where he waited for just the right temperature, wind velocity, and a forecast of no rain for a few days before sowing it. When the right time arrived, he sowed the seed by hand, covering the entire lower backyard, even the ground under the fruit trees there. Next, he waited for green shoots to sprout up that would bloom and turn our lower backyard into the haze of crimson clover that he had envisioned would signal a successful project's end.

But something happened that altered the outcome of my dad's well-planned attempt at erosion control. Apparently, the seed bin at the hardware store was incorrectly marked, or someone, maybe even my Dad, had made a mistake when they filled the bag with seed. The seed was not red clover seed at all. It was "mustard seed." So my dad's dream of a carpet of red clover had now turned into green mustard, and we became the only kids on the block who had a portion of our backyard seeded with mustard greens. The thought of mustard greens for supper was not a pleasant one for my brothers or for me.

Although we grew up on homegrown vegetables, we did not have a vegetable garden in our backyard. There was no need to have one, since we had relatives who lived in rural areas where they had very large gardens and were willing to share the fruits if we were willing to share our labor. But my mother did grow a few tomato and bell pepper plants in the back yard. Along with these plants, she also grew another plant she called a "mirliton," or vegetable pear. She prepared the mirliton by cooking it in a casserole that contained onion, bell pepper, tomatoes, and ground beef. The resulting dish tasted something like an eggplant casserole, only better. I don't recall eating mirliton anywhere else, until I later lived in Louisiana. It was there that I saw mirlitons in the produce section of every grocery store and that I learned they were called "vegetable pears." My mother later explained to me that she first learned about mirlitons from some of her relatives who had moved to Amite County, Louisiana.

It's sad now that my parents can no longer care for their own yard that is home to the many lovely flowers and bulbs they painstakingly planted with love over the last 40 years. My mother has slowly given away most of her hanging baskets and large outside potted plants, because they required maintenance that she no longer can provide. And although the bulbs still come up and flower each spring, and the azaleas still bloom, it is not the same for my parents. I can sense and feel their sadness when they are able only to watch the seasons change.

But this spring, just like every spring, when I care for my own small flower garden, I will remember how my parents instilled in me the love of all living things, including the gardens they grew with so much care.

St. John's Church, Washington County, MS

A portion of the old Greenfield Cemetery is situated amid the ruins of St. John's Church, near Greenville, Mississippi in Washington County. The ruins pictured here, according to some sources, are among the most photographed of any in the State of Mississippi. The church was burned during the Civil War, and according to stories written about the church, lead from the beautiful windows was melted down into "mini-balls."

Mississippi Sunset

Lovely sunsets can be found throughout our country and all over the world, but this Mississippi sunset over the Ross Barnett Reservoir near Ridgeland, Mississippi, is one of my favorites. This vast reservoir, a source of water and a recreational facility for residents of central Mississippi, is home to a variety of wildlife and waterfowl. Beautiful homes overlook the lake from dozens of waterfront developments, and during the warmer months of the year, local residents and visitors alike take to the water in an array of boats of all shapes and sizes. What better end to a day at the lake than a sunset like this?

Madison County Developments with Historical Names

Left: The Chapel of the Cross, located near Annandale, Madison County, Mississippi


Even with the economy in the shape it is, Madison County, Mississippi, seems to be a place where new construction is still ongoing, and I especially enjoy reading the names of new developments in the towns of Madison and Ridgeland. More often than not, these names are historical in nature, and the naming process seems to be one that local builders and county and city officials alike take seriously and put much thought into. Assigning developments historic-related names has been a consistent process since the county first began its growth, as evidenced by the names of some of the older housing areas. For this discussion, three of those particular developments come to mind, Annandale, Rose's Bluff, and Dinsmoor.

Annandale, of course, is named for the plantation of the same name owned by the Johnstone family, the same family responsible for building the Chapel of the Cross on Highway 463, or Mannsdale Road. Originally built in a pastoral setting about three miles southwest of I-55, with very few services nearby, the development known as Annandale is now one of many well-established neighborhoods of beautiful homes set behind brick walls, where tall, old trees grace lush St. Augustine lawns. The entire development surrounds two well-known Jackson-area golf courses, Whisper Lakes and Annandale Golf Club, the location of at least one PGA golf tournament each year.

A Natchez Trace Parkway scenic marker just north of Ridgeland marks the original location of Rose's Bluff. The place that was once a small, white, and secluded sandy beach on the Pearl River at the bottom of a steep bluff is now barely recognizable to those of us who went there as teenagers for picnics and to swim. What was once a place to escape the vigilant eyes of 1960's parents in nearby Jackson is now the home of an upscale waterfront development of the same name. Rose's Bluff, the development, is adjacent to the Jackson Yacht Club and its marina on the Ross Barnett Reservoir, a 33,000 acre water supply and recreational area developed over 30 years ago by building a dam on the Pearl River near the Madison and Rankin County lines.

The development named Dinsmoor is home to large, elegant homes with a range of stylish facades for even the most discerning homeowner, all set on well-manicured lawns and located near a full range of contemporary shopping options. The name Dinsmoor came from the name of a Choctaw Agent named Silas Dinsmoor who served in the Mississippi Territory from 1807 until the 1820s. A reference to the development's namesake was made in a press release dated December 10, 2008, prepared by the City of Ridgeland, an announcement was made about of historical markers planned for placement on Old Agency Road. In that release, mention is made of a "quarrel" that "took place between Dinsmoor and (Andrew) Jackson on Old Agency Road in front of the Choctaw Agency."

As a native Mississippian, I am proud of the rich cultural history of our great state. And it makes me even prouder that cities like Madison and Ridgeland continue to work so hard to preserve the heritage that all of us hold dear.