"This is going to be a terrible day; I have no one to hang!"

I've known quite a lot about my mom's side of the family for a while. I only really knew one of my grandparents. My grandfather had gone on a genealogy kick a while back and filled in most of that side of the family, but my dad never liked talking about his family.

I read Ge(neal)ogist on Maitri's site and decided to interrogate my dad (no waterboarding needed, but that was considered). Here are some of the responses


* What is your earliest memory?
My father and his parents were driving back to Carrolton, MS when a tornado came down and moved the car 100 feet. There was no damage and they drove on.

* What were your [father's] grandparents like?
Paternal Grandfather (deceased)
Paternal Grandmother (very very old, never knew that well) Known as Big Momma
Maternal Grandparents - Emma and William Bluford Vance. My dad knew them very well, because they were still living and my grandmother would drop my dad by their place from time to time. My dad never really liked, them, though. Bluford had a law degree from Vanderbilt, but never practiced law. Instead, he became Sheriff of Carrolton, MS. I've found this article describing the last legal hanging in Carrolton, MS. You see, this was one of Bluford's first hangings.

There was a mood for lynching, but McDougal’s family insisted the case be tried. Caught in June 1914, Myers was appointed an attorney, J.W. Conger. Oct. 31 at the Carrollton courthouse, a jury convicted Myers. Fifth Circuit Judge James A. Teat sentenced Myers to be hanged Dec. 11 by Sheriff W. Bluford Vance.

Conger didn’t file an appeal.

The day of the hanging was apparently a celebrated occasion.


Bluford used to love his hangings (although he didn't care for little things like trials). Bluford used to remark every morning, "This is going to be a terrible day; I have no one to hang!" He would sometimes find someone to hang. My dad was once brought to a hanging by Bluford; my dad did not think it was a very grandfatherly move.

Bluford became a millionaire off bribes from bootleggers (in a dry county). The money was lost to gambling later on (or so I've heard).

* What were your parents like?
My Dad's Father- Used to like to sit around and read a lot. Very literate, smart. Liked Football. Went to Ole Miss and got a degree in Civil Engineering. Worked on the Manhattan Project*.

My Dad's Mother- A gifted pianist, once taught Mose Allison, went to Juilliard, wanted to be concert pianist, but then got pregnant. My dad hated taking lessons from her.

* What are you proudest of in your life?
Answered the lowest point: Dad was going crawfishing with friends, they stopped at Schweggman's to get chicken necks (bait), the line was too long, so my dad tried to just shoplift, but got caught. "Getting caught stealing chicken necks is about as low as a man can get."

That's it for now. Thought it was interesting, so I'd post it. It's also amazing the genealogical resources out there these days.

* One of the things that always confused me growing up was why was my dad born in eastern Tennessee, despite his whole family being from the Greenwood area. Now I know. I don't know exactly what he did (a topic for future research), but I've been told by family friends it was mostly roads and bridges in eastern TN.

4 Years Ago

PDR_0029
Originally uploaded by Noladishu

Four years ago today, my grandfather died at the age of 99. He was my only living grandfather.

He grew up in Mississippi. His father died when he was only 6, so he grew up poor. He always had to work. He remembers delivering the papers that ended WWI. He dreamed of being an architect or an engineer. He used to win architectural drawing contests in the county fair. The Great Depression killed those hopes. He came to New Orleans and started working for a bank. He started sweeping the floors of the bank, but many years later, after marrying my grandmother, and going to night school, he became the president of the bank (Federal Farm Credit Bank, if memory serves).

He always had a passion for tinkering. At first, he didn't feel that he had anyone to pass it along to, since he had three daughters and times were different then. Years later, I come along as the first male grandchild and I'd say we had a special bond. We had lots of trips to the Butterfly. He used to keep a trunk full of slingshots and other assorted contraband for me and my little brother to play with, when out of sight of my mother.

He gave me subscriptions to Popular Science, Popular Mechanics, Scientific American, and whatever else I requested. He taught me the basics of shop.

He rode out Katrina at Lambeth House, since the new management could get their act together before the storm, but NOFD helped them evacuate after. He ended up for a couple of months in Lutcher, LA.

He came back to New Orleans when I did to finish my last semester for Tulane Engineering. We had debates on whether or not it was appropriate, given the state of the city, but he wanted to come back. He dearly loved New Orleans.

I graduated with a Bachelor's of Science in Mechanical Engineering from Tulane and he was there when I walked and got my degree. Despite being wheelchair-bound and not in the best of shape, he made it to McAllister Auditorium. He died three months later. He was pretty sick towards the end, but he had his mind to the end, which is about as much as anyone could ask for.

The photo is the two of us from August 2005. I was interning at an engineering firm on Magazine Street doing mostly drafting work while I prepared for my senior year at Tulane. The drawing is a rail-based launch system so a topsides unit could be rolled onto a barge and then towed offshore to be placed on a platform.

In Honor of Bora and the Saints, The Perfect "Pain Perdu"

Happy Bora
Originally uploaded by Noladishu

This is a photo of Bora. She's been a part of the family ever since I was born. My grandfather first hired as a sitter to help take care of his wife as she was going downhill fast from Alzheimer's. I was born just a few months before my grandmother died.

Paw-Paw liked her a lot and since he was getting up in years, wanted to keep her around. At first, his excuse was to help take care of me (and later my little brother). She taught us Creole French. She took us on the streetcar all over town. She was like a second mother to me and my little brother. As we got older, she took care of my grandfather more and us less.

When Katrina hit, her house in New Orleans East was ruined. She had insurance and Road Home money, but to this day, it's not rebuilt because she can't quite come up with the last chunk of money to finish it. I also think one of her contractors screwed her over and took the money and ran. She misses New Orleans every single day.

She still lives in Houston, where she evacuated to shortly before Katrina. She's in her eighties now, but still going strong. She's coming to our wedding in March if I have to drive there and pick her up myself. And she still watches the Saints.

Dear Saints, please win this one for Bora.


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The Recipe: Bora's Perfect Pain Perdu

2 eggs (beat)
1/2-cup sugar {can be cut in half if you wuss out}
1/2-cup milk
1-2 tablespoons vanilla
Cinnamon (eye it; enough to form a slight crust on the mixture)
Stale Bread {3 day old French bread sliced 3/4" thick is about perfect}

It took me a while to really get this recipe down. I asked Bora for a recipe, but being an old Creole woman, she knows nothing of recipes or measurements. I actually had to talk her through it while holding up measuring cups to try and nail it down.

Beat the eggs and add the sugar, milk, vanilla, and cinnamon. Once it's all nice and mixed up, start soaking the bread.

Get out a big cast iron pan and get it real, real hot. Melt some butter in the pan and take the thoroughly-soaked bread and plop it in the pan. It should be really noisy when you drop it in.

Don't worry if it smokes a little. If it isn't smoking, you're doing it wrong. It doesn't take very long per side. Only a minute or two (depending on size of bread, how much you crowd the pan, etc.). If you run low on sauce, don't be afraid to stretch it with a little milk. The recipe was designed to be poor-people food.

Pile up your Lost Bread and take to the table. You can coat it with cinnamon-sugar, maple syrup (if you're a Yankee), or good 'ole powdered sugar.