Some of my fondest memories are of my grandmother and the farm. She left us with some mysteries to solve, and they pointed back to cotton.
In 2004, my grandmother, Bessie Barron Mercer, passed away. She was the epitome of the “diamond in the rough.” She was a tough, poverty-stricken, loving mother who spent most of her life improvising care and comfort for others. As one neighbor put it, “I can hear her singing across the cotton field.” And her laugh! It cascaded across the fields like the call of the pileated woodpecker.
For most of us, the starting point at which we first encountered Bessie, or Mama, was on the farm in Southeast Missouri, just south of Poplar Bluff, Missouri near the Arkansas border. The nearest village was Neelyville. Otherwise, it was as flat as far as the eye could see, nothing but one farm after another. It was there that our parents would drop us off for a couple of weeks or even longer, giving her grandkids an opportunity to learn of life in a place far distant from the comfortable, more urban homes in which we lived. The place was a working farm, so it was not always the most amusing place to hang out. It was hot and dusty. We were assaulted with the smells typical of dairy cows and hogs, entertained by chickens and assaulted by a mad rooster. But it would fill our minds with mountains of memories, a world that has long since passed.
Behind it all were two rather mysterious people: Bessie and Bill. Mama and Papa, we called them. I can still see them getting ready for the day, usually at an ungodly hour. Later in life I would discover that breakfast was a meal my grandparents ate after the morning chores were done, all the while I was sleeping. Even though they had a gas stove, Mama would still stoke up a fire in the wood-burning stove and artfully handle the hot burners on which cast iron skillets would be placed. It was a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs, with homemade biscuits under gravy. But it was the ritual of the event that intrigued me. I can still see Papa spilling a small portion of its steaming hot coffee onto the saucer, swishing it around just a bit before sipping the coffee from the saucer. Then there was the hard block of butter, something I never saw in the grocery store. He would take a thick slice of the stuff and chop it up, mixing it with homemade jam, then spread it over his biscuits.
They were particularly religious and it was interesting to see how their faith intersected their lives. It was rather boring and a bit bizarre, but the long rides to Naylor, Missouri to their church was at least a change from the monotony of farm life. It would be there that I would discover that Mama could play a piano, that they would sing songs that were not in our hymnal back home, and shout out prayers and “Amens” without reserve, as I would nestle under one of Mama’s handsewn quilts attempting to find a comfortable position on the wooden pew. They would afterwards have a Sunday dinner, not at a restaurant, but at one of their farms. They never went out to eat.
Bill would die in 1968. It was a sudden heart attack. It was also the end of a chapter in our lives. Bessie couldn’t run the farm. It had to be sold. I would not be returning until the early 80’s, and then rarely afterwards. Bessie would move to Mississippi and go on to live to be a hundred years old, passing away during Hurricane Katrina. In that time she enriched our lives with her presence, and left me with more questions than answers. One thing she would often say is that they moved from Oxford, Mississippi because of the boll weevil. As she slipped into the debilitating influence of Alzheimer’s, she would often repeat that story to others, and kept mentioning the “big white house” they left behind. That “big white house” piqued my curiosity and I set off on a journey to discover what she was talking about. Did that house still exist? Were the Barrons (her family) landholders? If so, did they own a plantation? And being in the Deep South, the question that was unavoidable was whether they owned slaves?
On this journey I had five objectives. I wanted to see my grandmother’s grave, proceed to Oxford, then at least take a look at Dyersburg, Tennessee to see the place they migrated to, and then move on to Wardell, Missouri to check on my grandfather’s grave. Finally, I wanted to see the farm, the place I spent many memorable summers.
Grandma’s Grave
My grandmother died during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. She was a hundred years old and quite fragile. They evacuated her home one block from the beach in Long Beach, Mississippi and moved her to Pensacola, Florida to a nursing home where she passed away a few days afterwards. After the personal care and space she had in her home in Long Beach, she must have certainly experienced the disorientation and loneliness of a nursing home, but under the circumstances of that natural disaster, it was the best that could have been done for her. She was buried later in Long Beach.
I was in Alaska at the time and it was nigh onto impossible for anyone to travel to the Gulf Coast unless you had property in the area. I recall attempting to make travel arrangements, only to discover that both train and air traffic were either not permitted or severely limited. I was disappointed in not being able to say good bye to grandmother in the traditional way, with a graveside service and the reunion of extended family. But there were no such luxuries at that time. Even burials were suspended being that many cemeteries remained inaccessible. So where she was buried was unknown to me for ten years.
I found her marker, a simple stone flush with the ground, probably the most fitting testament to her life. It was shaded by pine trees, resting in a well-maintained cemetery. I later visited the site of her last home. It was gone, one of the many homes destroyed in the hurricane.
Oxford
I arrived in Oxford, Mississippi in January, 2014. Everyone I talked to said you need to enroll on Ancestry.com. That is somewhat expensive and, besides, what’s the fun in that? My question revolved around property, that “big white house.” So I headed to the Recorder’s office and browsed through a few decades of deed registrations spanning the period of 1835 through 1920. Only one record of a Barron. It was a conveyance issued in a will. The man had died and left a conditional tenancy to several individuals, most likely in exchange of caring for his widow. One of those people was a Vic Barron (short for Victoria). She had married a TJ Barron. Vic Barron was a witness and WJ Barron was a notary public. “WJ” was Bessie’s father, usually referred to as Jesse.
TJ was not part of the immediate Barron family that Bessie belonged to, but there were only two lines of Barrons living in Lafayette County, as best as I could surmise from my research. It was the only hint of residence I had of any Barron. Later study of the census record showed the Barron families lived next to each other. With that knowledge, it led to some credence that the location described in the conveyance would point to the general area where they lived.
The parlance of plot assignments was NE ¼, Section 9, Township 10, Range 3 West, 160 Acres of an area also referred to as the Widow Duke land. Maps at the Recorder’s office show the Range lines (basically longitude), crisscrossed East to West by township borders, each township divided into four sections, each section divided into four 160 acre quadrants. Some people wonder what the magic of 160 acres is about, but it was the confluence of navigational math and the idea of a full-time farm in 1787 when surveying standards evolved in the United States. So what Mr. Duke had left to his widow was probably the full-size farm granted to the original settlers in the region.
I found the location of the “farm” and it only deepened the mystery. It was hilly and blanketed by oak forest. This was definitely a far cry from the flat cotton fields I expected. I went away thinking that I might have to revisit the deeds office and do more research. Recordings have been known to be in error, but at this point I was running out of time and had to move on. My next question was “Where is the best place to grow cotton?” To be honest, I did not see any prime farmland in Lafayette County, yet a quick glance at its history shows it was a rich agricultural land. Where did it go?
I was somewhat at a loss of where to go next. I had obtained considerable information at the Lafayette County genealogical society, attached to the city library. But I returned to the hotel uncertain where to proceed next. The next morning it occurred to me where the best place was to find local information: McDonalds. Just as I expected, I arrived at the restaurant and found sitting around a long table of bunch of old men drinking their free coffee. After eating my breakfast I asked if I could join them. Turned out one of the men was a retired US Forest Service ranger (I worked for the USFS in 2014). I informed them of my project. One of the men smiled and suggested I check out the extension service. I went over to the county extension office and they pointed me to the USDA Soil Research Lab which was not far from the University of Mississippi campus. It was there that the truth became known.
What Ancestry.com cannot provide is Seth Dabney. About my age, he came to me draped in decades of knowledge on Lafayette County’s soil. He produced a book last updated in 1981. Within was a color map. Most of the county was covered in yellow which signified a type of soil. This type of soil covered the quadrant in question. Under prime conditions, this soil would have about a meter of rich topsoil, followed by sand. Seth’s question to me was when, and I stated 1915. He smiled and replied, “In 1915, Lafayette County was experiencing desertification.” About every inch of land was being farmed, and they grew cotton everywhere, even on hilly ground. At that time the top soil was being depleted and many farms were being abandoned. The exposed sandy soil was not treated with ground cover and the result was a broadening expanse of desert ground. In essence, the boll weevil in Lafayette County was merely the nail on the coffin.
In conclusion, further study of the census record would be required to piece together the plots of land owned by various individuals in the area. This could help determine where the Duke property resided and the surrounding families and structures. The “big white house” that Bessie referred to may have been the brief interlude in her history where she lived in a relatively fine house. Victoria was a daughter of JH Cook (to whom the conveyance was issued) and it is conceivable that the Barrons may have inhabited the house and cared for the widow and her farm.
Bessie’s father was Jesse Barron. How this may have pertained to his family is not clear, but one thing gleamed from the oral history of my mother and others in the Wardell area was the tendency of families to allow their children to reside in other homes. Lautain, Bessie’s second daughter, lived in a home in Wardell so as to babysit full time the children of the local doctor. Erlene Hampton, later Miller, was a niece to Bill and Bessie Mercer and she often lived in their home to escape what may have been an abusive situation. So it is not surprising to discover that Bessie may have lived in the big white house at times, assisting Vic Barron.
Return to Oxford
There were simply too many questions left unresolved from my first trip to Oxford. So the following year I returned. Oxford was a wonderful town. I revisited the Recorder of Deeds office, double-checked the conveyance as well as another review of records. What I discovered the previous year was confirmed to be accurate. I returned to the library extension that held old records and reviewed the census records from 1912. As I read down the page the families that lived along that country road seemed to come to life. I counted 47 residences. Today? I couldn’t recall, but maybe four or five homes now remained on that road. So you could imagine that in 1915 the dusty road now labeled as County Road 3011 on the map had a large white house inhabited by the widow of Mr. Duke, with Victoria Barron assisting the widow, tagged along by an eleven year old, skinny girl with dark hair. And along that road were numerous tenant farms, of which one was that of Jesse Barron and his wife, where Bessie Mercer lived.
The plot on which the Duke farm resided was nestled around a ninety-degree bend of the road. Where the house may have rested is still a mystery. Boone County, Missouri, where I grew up, was blessed to have detailed road maps of the county going back into the late 19th century, pointing out the locations of houses, schools and churches. Not so for Lafayette County. The only thing I could go on were the census records which gave you an indication of who lived next to whom. The Barrons lived together.
When I go through the photos I sense a ghostly presence that this was the place my grandmother once walked, the country lane she once skipped down with her sister Myrtle. It was probably during those hot summers that she would pick up the phraseology. “I Swanee!” and “My lands!”
The first photo was taken as you drive west on the country road. If the location of the Duke home is accurate, then this is the most likely location of the farm. As you can see, it has basically returned to prairie grasses and weeds.
The next photo shows what was opposite the field. The road roughly divides the Duke plot in two, so the house may have been on this side of the road. But, again, all that remains today is a recently built country home. The photo with the American flag shows recovering forest, amidst which could be the remains of a home.
The next photo shows the land further down and it is here where you can picture a farm in operation. The land was flat and looked rather fertile. But it is today used to grow hay, not cotton.
The final photo is the same plot of land first pictured from the opposite direction. As you can guess, to find the remains of the “white house” may be quite challenging. If I return, I will need to contact the landowners and be properly dressed for an overland hike, with a healthy dose of bug repellent.
Dyersburg
No doubt, desperate poverty forced the Barrons to move north. Why Dyersburg, Tennessee remains a mystery. One trail I may follow in the future may be to compare landholder names in Lafayette County with names near Lenox, a small village northwest of Dyersburg. Oral research and school records pointed to that small village. It might provide a clue as to how Jesse narrowed in on that town.
During my drive north to Dyersburg and Lenox, I took a side-trip to the only gravesite where a Barron is buried in Lafayette Country. It is in a cemetery adjacent to Philadelphia Baptist Church, northeast of Oxford. It belongs to Solomon H and Magarette Barron. Solomon died in 1886 at the age of 61, so he may have been the grandfather of Jesse Barron. All in all, it paints a bleak picture that only two Barrons, over nearly a century, have little recorded presence in Lafayette County and could not even afford a marked grave except for Solomon and Margarette. Thus was the life of tenant farmers.
I spent the night in Dyersburg and proceeded to drive west the next morning toward the village of Lenox. Lenox was a sharp contrast to Oxford. It rested on the edge of a massive flood plain that extended several miles to the Mississippi River. This would, no doubt, be perfect cotton growing conditions. Jesse, however, would move on to Wardell where Bessie would eventually meet Bill Mercer and marry. Yet many of the Barrons remained in Lenox, so much so that some remember “Uncle Bill”. I was able to obtain a couple of contacts but due to time constraints unable to meet them.
Yet it was here that many of the pieces began to fit regarding the Barron family and Bill Mercer. Bill was from Dyersburg, so it is rather peculiar that both families saw it advantageous to take the ferry across the river to southeast Missouri. That part of Missouri was undergoing one of the most remarkable engineering feats in US history, the Little River Drainage District, transforming southeast Missouri’s marshy land into rich farmland. But for a few years, the Barrons had Lenox as their home where Jesse more than likely continued the family tradition of working on farms, particularly growing cotton.
Wardell
Wardell was, back then, about a day’s trip from Lenox, impeded no doubt by the crossing of the Mississippi. Not sure whether there was a bridge back then, but it was most likely crossed by ferry since cars were not yet all that prominent. It only took me a couple of hours to drive there from Lenox. I located Bill Mercer’s grave. His grave, as well as the rest of the cemetery, was in good condition. I walked about the cemetery to see if any Barrons were buried there, but found none. What I did find, however, was something rather peculiar. The following families appeared: Mercer, Miller, Petty and Peterson. Anyone familiar with the Mercers would immediately recognize the name of their neighbors when they owned the farm at Coon Island, fifty miles to the west. All I could think of was the closeness of those families while they lived in Wardell, to venture to Coon Island and forge a new life, only to eventually be buried together in the cemetery fifty miles from their homes, back in Wardell.
Today, Wardell’s old business district is mostly abandoned shops. I located the dry goods store where Bessie and possibly the Pettys worked. Mom tells the story of how a snake was discovered in the shoe section and everyone conspired to never tell Bessie about it – her fear of snakes was already famous.
Wardell was a thriving agricultural community1, complete with a school, post office, several stores and, most importantly, a large cotton gin operation. From what I could surmise from the Pettys, Bessie and Bill would live in several locations over the years, but mostly in town. Bill would “commute” to work as a “foreman” for one of the large plantations nearby. He also would set up a mechanics shop where he would eventually become famous for saving the town.
I am guessing this was in the 1930’s when a crisis hit the village of Wardell. The cotton gin, during the peak of the cotton harvest, had a major mechanical failure. A large valve had completely failed, requiring that a new part be ordered. Problem was the delivery time was not anticipated for weeks. Transportation options were not what they are today, so the local farmers were facing the possible ruination of their entire cotton harvest. Then along comes Bill. He looked at the broken part and said, “I think I can make another just like it.” And so he did, using his advanced skills in blacksmithing and welding to fabricate the part from scratch.
I have always found it peculiar how the girls recall their days in Wardell. Mom would just laugh and not say much about it. My aunts never talked about it. For the three sisters, life in Wardell was not easy. They were poor. It was a tiny, country town miles from any other. They did not talk much about it. But for the adults, it would be that nucleus of friends and neighbors that would propel them to their next great adventure – the farm.
Coon Island
My next stop was the farm. All the years I was on the farm, I never heard the place described as Coon Island. But Harley Petty confirmed that it was known to them as such. What we knew as “the slough” is now a wildlife reserve, practically a Duck Dynasty paradise. The land we once knew as a ring of family farms of about two to four hundred acres each, has been replaced with an unending rice field. The only house visible is the old Moore’s house, which today appears no different. Even the old tractor they used remains in the same place I remember it, back in 1968. The old barn even remains pretty much as decrepit as ever, but rather functional.
The only family that remains in the area is Harley and Bonnie Petty. They farmed into the mid 1990’s and Harley sold some of his acreage and focused on building homes. He has done very well, as did his son. I was able to locate the Petty’s purely by a chance encounter with Harley and his son back in 1981 or so, when I revisited the place. At that time, Ronnie Miller (Erlene’s son) had a home in an area where the black top was extended to the southwest. On the way to his house we met Harley picking blackberries. It was ungodly hot, Harley was drenched with sweat, but had that infectious smile on his face. He is no different today.
Harley speaks fondly of Bill and Bessie. Bill was a giving man, always willing to put down everything to help a neighbor. Bessie and Harley’s mother would sit under the shade trees, sipping sweet iced tea and shelling peas. I recall those days as well, especially if I was the only one of the grandkids on the farm. Bored to death, about my only recreation was hopping the fence and visiting the Petty’s. I recall Harley giving me a ride on what was then a giant tractor, the old Minneapolis. I recall the numerous shade trees because in those days no one had air conditioning and those gum trees seemed capable of producing some air movement on the hottest day.
Harley also confirmed the thread of news that led one family then another to Coon Island. The entire area was once owned by a timber company. So much timber was harvested that there was even a railroad built into the area. Most of the inhabitants were Eastern Europeans. But as the timber was cleared, it became evident that the potential sale value of the land exceeded the regrowth cycle of the trees. The lumber company closed the operation and began selling the land. Because it was riddled with stumps, brush, trees and debris, it was sold at a substantial discount. Furthermore, banks were provided more incentive to loan money for this type of land. As a result, two families that had no land in Wardell were able to procure land: Pettys and Mercers. For Bill Mercer, he needed help from the daughters, but it would be the first piece of farmland owned in the line of Bessie Barron and Bill Mercer. The profoundness of this event cannot be measured.
I recall the land, often wondering about the huge piles of timber that lined the fields. In the interim period, there was a lot of livestock farming and I recall how Bill peppered his farm with pastures for hogs and dairy cattle. I recall the auction barn outside Poplar Bluff. It no longer exists because I doubt there is a piece of meat within 30 miles of the place unless it is the family chicken. But the self-subsistent full-time family farm was evolving. Not long after Bill perished, the livestock was sold, the fences and barns brought down and rice was introduced. A few years after 1981, the Mercer home was demolished and is today nothing but a rice field. The only trace of the farmstead is the culvert along the road for their driveway, and a ghostly collection of jonquils along the road ( a bit peculiar alongside a 500 acre rice field ).
Harley also answered another mystery – the church that Bill preached at. Their spirituality factored profoundly into their approach to life. Bill was seen as a rather quiet, modest man who was always willing to help. I have never met anyone who did not like him. I was young then and found him rather distant. But I sensed the ice breaking the day we were crossing the back barn lot. It was then that we were spied by this nutty rooster that proceeded to race across the barn lot and jump onto the tractor! After being lectured earlier that week about throwing dirt clods at that rooster, it was comforting to see my grandfather way-lay into that rooster with his big, steel-toed boot, kicking that old bird twenty feet into the air. Finally, a man after my own heart.
Well, back to Bill’s church. From Mom, I found out he was a changed man after getting that farm. I have heard Bessie say that one day, while plowing the field, Bill stopped the tractor, got off, knelt and thanked the Lord for that farm. It still brings me tears to picture this big, simple man, thanking God for a farm. I appreciate the depth of his prayer the more I learn the legacy Bill and Bessie inherited, generations of being tenant farmers, hard labor supporting and supervising farms, but never owning one. Bill apparently never took another drop of liquor, a habit he was known to indulge in on the weekends. He felt led to preach the gospel on the street corner in Wardell, and that would evolve eventually to being a lay preacher at some unspecified church near Naylor.
Church of the First Born
Harley gave the name – the Church of the First Born. I did an Internet search for the church and it triangulated to the Sylvan Schoolhouse. That old schoolhouse is now on the National Historical Registry. I found it on the GPS mapping program and proceeded to locate the building. It took me down a meandering dirt country road. I was a bit puzzled. I recalled as a kid riding in the back of the early 1950’s Chevy with a hand-made quilt to keep me warm, going up and down hills and seeing trees outside the window. Sylvan Schoolhouse was out in the middle of a flat plain with no hill in sight.
Well, I tapped into the GPS program my next destination: Dora, Missouri. It took me through Naylor and I drove the few blocks of the village and found no hill or anything resembling what I recalled of the church. The route took me west and it was only within a few miles that the countryside changed to rolling hills. I kept my eyes open and to my surprise saw the sign – Church of the First Born. It was early Sunday morning, so I left a note in the door with my number and referenced Bill Mercer. Someone texted me a number to contact, a person who remembered Bill Mercer.
The wonders of mobile phones and texting brought me, a total stranger to anyone in the Church of the First Born, into contact with an elderly woman. She told me the story she remembered of Bill Mercer. He preached the word, this simple man of little education, his hands calloused from hard work, who did not receive a salary for being a preacher. She was a teenager back then, and she told me the church at that time was in Naylor, but the building was long ago razed. The congregation then moved temporarily to the Sylvan Schoolhouse until the current church building was constructed. Yet, I still remember those hills, whether it was to a church they were traveling or a visit to one of many “brothers and sisters” that I saw. This woman, without solicitation, echoed the words of Harley and others – that Bill was a kind man.
A Legacy
As I completed this journey, I reflected on the significant truths we do know about Bill and Bessie. In this day and age, we can no longer easily trace families from our generation because not many of them consist of one man and one woman. Divorce and single-parenthood has made it difficult to trace families. In contrast, I saw the lineage of a desperately poor family sticking together because it was all they had – each other. These were people who saw the family as the only thing that mattered, that accepted one another regardless of the road that a head-of-household or circumstances would take them. It is an amazing testament.
The other thing that has changed radically is the dispersal of the family. “Go West, young man” was Horace Greeley’s proclamation, but for practical purposes a large part of the family unit remained behind. And when they moved West, they moved together. Indications show that the Barrons may have migrated from Alabama, but they did so together, in much the same manner they moved to Dyersburg, Tennessee. Today? We and our children are spread thousands of miles apart. Our parents often age in isolation, far from the caring eyes of their children. It is the world we live in, mobile, virulent, evolving. In my own office I work alongside people who lived in Puerto Rico and Kwajalun, and another in Germany. Our generation is the end of the Cotton Road.
A Post-Script: It is quite peculiar that in my research, writing and editing of this story, I failed to come across a digital photo of my grandmother. I know that amongst the old time photos I have several pictures of Bill and Bessie Mercer, but I have yet to digitize them for the web. Hopefully, when I update the story, I will have a picture of them. But, alas, maybe it is a good thing. We can all picture in our minds our own grandparents and the unique lives that they lived, much like my grandmother’s journey down the Cotton Road.
© Copyright 2024 to Eric Niewoehner
- Wardell, in some sense, is still an active community. Like many rural towns, they have lost population as farmland has consolidated and this has affected businesses in the town. Came across a nice video showing the town. ↩︎