Sir Walter Scott wrote, “Breathes there a man with soul so dead who never to himself hath said, “This is my own, my native land … ”
These words came to my mind — almost romantically nostalgic — because recently Sylvia Higginbotham invited me to accompany her on a business trip to nearby Maben. She was assisting a Maben resident, Maury Shurlds, publish his memoirs, entitled “Memories.” She had invited me because she knew I had Maben roots; I spent the first two years of my life there.
We met at the Natchez Trace restaurant. Maury had brought a little vase of spring daffodils for our table, which included several of his friends and family members.
Not only had I lived in Maben as a toddler, but I am also one of those people who have “crib memories.” (Psychologist Kevin Leman says most crib memories involve the child being lifted up, which is certainly reasonable. There is not much a little child can see if it is not lifted to a level higher than an adult’s knees. Anyway, my early memories fit that pattern.)
While Sylvia and Maury conducted their business, I wanted to explore some of those memories, to see if current residents recognized anyone I thought I recalled, or at least had heard stories about. Southerners like to play “Do You Know … ?”
“Did you ever hear of the Boyls Brothers Mercantile Company?” I asked.
“Don’t believe so.”
“Did you ever hear anything about John and George Boyls or George Yeates?”
“Nope.”
“George Yeates was once mayor of Maben. He was my great-grandfather.”
“Um-hmm.”
“I remember a boy called Pork Chop. Do you know who he is?”
“Never heard of anyone called that.”
“Well, there was a woman here who taught all the children how to play a musical instrument. I think her name was Birdie … ”
“Thomas! Yes, some of her students still perform. Very well, too.”
Bingo! I had found a link. She had taught my father and uncle to play the cornet.
I said, “I think I heard that, because of her, little Maben had an orchestra.” This was one of the things I feared I might have romanticized about the town, made it into a kind of Brigadoon, rising from the mists, that I had wandered back into; it was reassuring to have one legend verified.
Other stories could not be. I do know my father could use sign language, not the quick signing you usually see, but the laborious method of spelling the words letter by letter. His reason was that there was a deaf-mute among the few boys he grew up with in Maben. Therefore, all the fellows learned sign language so as to be able to include him.
An even more apocryphal tale was that my maternal great-grandfather and his friends had attempted to teach themselves Greek, because they had no other way of learning it. On a more prosaic level, it is reputed that when he was mayor, he crashed every child’s birthday party. He seemed to enjoy ice cream and cake.
Too good to forget
I vaguely remember my paternal grandfather and his brother had the store, a cavernous space packed with everything imaginable and heated by a pot-bellied stove. It was apparently a gathering place where people visited and old men sat outside, whittling.
The store sold flour in printed sacks which later could be used for garments. Water-removable advertisements were printed on them. One evening, my grandparents and a group of friends visited a “Holy Roller” church, where a very large woman began rolling. She had on bloomers made from flour sacks that still had “Boyls Bros. Mercantile Company” emblazoned across the seat. Granddaddy took some ribbing about that.
My grandmother used to tell a tale of a “big old country boy in bib overalls” who bought something at the store and said, “Jus’ charge it to Pa.”
“OK, son,” said my grandfather. “Who is your Pa?”
Silence. Finally the boy said, “D***ed if I know!”
These stories I only remember being told. I was not there.
None of the modern citizens of Maben that I met knew anything about that old town, which was somewhat larger than it is today, but not much. The oldest member of our party had lived there a mere 46 years. My own memories were not much more than trying to climb out of a play pen, jumping on a bed, or tasting my first pimento sandwich.
I had to content myself with asking our companions to give my greetings to the two residents who still live in Maben, that I remember from later visits there in my youth.
“Tempus fugits,” as they say, and Maben, although small, is peopled with contemporary and well-traveled residents. Shurlds, himself, was in the military service and attended Mississippi State, Emory and Yale. I hope to read his “Memories.”
Betty Boyls Stone is a freelance writer, who grew up in Columbus.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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