It's been another anniversary day today. On this date in 1930 my dad, Tony Thompson, was born in Jacksonville Florida. I thought I'd just reminisce a little bit about him.
Dad was the third son born to Algernon and Cordelia Thompson. Grandmother Cordelia wanted a girl, since she already had Bobby and Lewis, and she hadn't even considered that she might have a third boy. On the way to the hospital they passed a drugstore called Anthony's Drugs, and that's how Dad got his name.
My grandfather lost his job in Jacksonville when Dad was still an infant, and Cordelia's brother Jake went to Jacksonville with a truck and moved them to Augusta, Georgia. Jake worked for his brother-in-law who I won't name here because he was a notorious drunk and a total jerk. One of my great aunts had very poor taste in men, although the guy was rich. That was the only thing that was positive about him. Jake worked for him off and on in the grocery business. Dad did too, briefly.
When Dad was still small, they moved to Hepzibah, Georgia, which is a tiny town just outside of Augusta. In the 1930's it was filled with colorful characters, and Dad's childhood, although poor, was not deprived. All his life, Dad told stories about Hepzibah. I wish I had gotten him to write down some of them. I do have some notes he made.
My grandfather owned a general store for much of Dad's childhood.
My favorite story as a kid was about a guy named Big Boy who used to load up socks with poop and throw the missiles at cars rolling through town. Hepzibah didn't have a stoplight, I don't think. The same fellow used to drink hot Pepsi Colas and belch impressively. He was finally killed in a dramatic fashion. Dad said he fell in a hog pen and the hogs ate him. Gruesome story but Dad didn't give gory details. Anyone who threw poo at cars probably wasn't destined to live a happy life anyway.
Another story was about a man named Judge, or maybe he was a judge - I was never sure - who brought home steaks one night, but his wife had already cooked. She didn't want to cook the steaks right then. Judge got mad at her insistence they eat what she had already cooked, and he screamed at her to "THROW IT OUT TO THE G-D HAWGS!" - then he proceeded to crawl under the house and get drunk.
Dad said he liked to get drunk and go under the house and bark like a dawg. [Hey, it was better than being eaten by a hawg!]
I think I already told the story about how Dad and his buddies like to play soldier, and Grandaddy Thompson got them to work all one summer digging a trench like they had in World War I. That trench later held the septic tank.
Apparently Dad learned about the female form as an adolescent because an attractive teacher, nicknamed Babydoll, moved in next door and would undress with the shades up, where Dad could see her in all her glory. She later married a n'er do well gambler named Roy, who eventually got drunk and was run over and killed by a train.
Another local character got drunk and crawled up on the roof of an icehouse to sleep where it was cool, and somehow the building caught fire and he burned to death.
Wow, there's certainly a current here, isn't there?! Violent death was everywhere in rural southeast Georgia during the Depression.
I told an old story recently to a friend and it involved a dispute in which a young man was shot. This is the South, after all. You piss off someone bad enough, it's quite possible you will have to dodge a bullet. My friend related the story to someone else out in California and they were shocked.I find that hilarious. In California it's legal to smoke pot but you can't own certain kinds of guns. I could never live out there.
Dad and his brothers used to attack each other with butcher knives, two-by-fours, etc. One story involves dad stealing his brother Bobby's motorcycle, and the ensuing fight in which bother boys tried to kill each other.Dad got on the motorcycle and forced Bob into a ditch, and rode up and down and around the ditch saying if he tried to get out he'd be killed with his own motorcycle. Eventually, the gas ran out, and Dad had to face his older brother.
My grandmother used to see her boys fighting and grab a bucket of water and throw water on them, which made them stop.
But back to the motorcycle story. It was probably incredibly hot, and they were spirited young men. With access to vehicles and weaponry. What's so surprising?!
Here's something that needs to be noted about southerners. Most of us are descended from Irish and Scottish folk, and we are clannish. We take care of our own.
When I was in middle school there was a mean female PE teacher and she got mad at me one day and screamed at me, in front of all my classmates, for about 5 minutes. She was out of control. I was mortified with embarrassment. The next day, my dad went to school and had a discussion with the principal. That teacher never bothered me again. In fact, she was extraordinarily nice.
Dad had to fire a guy once who was seriously nuts, and the guy threatened to kill Dad. So Dad just put a pistol in the car and was wary for a while.
I always have a good pocket knife in my purse or my pocket. When I pull it out to peel an apple or something I always get one of two reactions. Southerners admire the knife. Non-southerners look horrified.
I am a gentle person, but you don't want to make me mad. LOL
Anyway, my dad was a great guy, and one of the funniest people on the planet.
When he was in first grade, he talked all the time. Finally, his teacher said to him "OK Tony, you think you know more than me. Why don't YOU get up here and teach the class?!" Well, Dad marched up to the front right away, ready to teach.
Dad was a banker for more than 35 years, but unlike most bankers, he was a lot of fun. He loved hunting, fishing, history, good barbeque, and his family. He is greatly missed.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
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