Several weeks ago we picked the banjo for our supper out at the County General Hospital. The occasion was a get-together of the nursing staff, with Mrs. Jasper presiding and Russell Nunan as a guest speaker, plus a demonstration of new equipment for blood transfusion by a Baxter Labs man from Cleveland.
Preacher Nunan talked on a subject close to his heart, namely alcoholism and the A.A., or from one social drink to saturation. And the laboratory man gets a nod for his earnestness. Meanwhile, and between break-down tunes and choral singing, we met County General’s Manager, Mr. Dabney P. Gilliland, and none of our faithful readers (like Jimmy Blackmon, Maurine Barwick, Ione Lundy, and Ruby Brooks) will be surprised at the turn of the conversation betwixt us.
Quote:
"When' I was a boy, I used to play with a boy named John Campbell Gilliland."
"He was my father", replied Manager Gilliland.
"But John Campbell came from Kosciusko, in Attala County, and I thought you were from Jackson."
“That's right I am, and my father lived there for many years too."
All of which stirred the reminiscent vein and the dear days beyond recall. And we could see again a little boy, who visited his aunt, Mrs. Pat Sharkey, when she lived in the six hundred block on South Broadway. (The Perry family lived there in later years.)
John Campbell Gilliland was small for his age, had numerous freckles across his open countenance and, when we knew him, could have sung soprano in the boy's choir if there had been such an organization locally (which there was not).
His mother, who was Mrs. Sharkey's sister, was born Pattie Lee Campbell, over in Attala where the Campbell Clan was but definitely well-established. (One of the latter is currently head man of the C of C, U. S. A.)
Lee Sharkey, killed in a car-wreck thirty-one years ago last December, was Mrs. Gilliland's niece and namesake. But where, we asked, does the Dabney name come in? From my mother's step-father, replied Manager Gilliand, adding that the middle name was Parish. Then you must be Miss Dabney Mitchell's first cousin, said Old Stuff, and so he is.
All of which makes us glad we were at least casually acquainted with "Colonel," as the late Alfred Mitchell called his stepfather, and sorry that we did not know him better. For when a man's stepdaughter gives her son his name, and his stepson gives that same name to his daughter, well that just about puts the icing on the cake.
The last time we saw Col. Parish was in 1939, along Capitol Street in Jackson. He asked about Eugenia and Alfred and the children, and W'e should certainly have asked him about John Campbell Gilliland it we had had even the remotest idea that the latter was his stepson-in-law.
Daddy used to say that he had never known an unhappy blind person nor a mean and wicked stepmother. Maybe it was the Cinderella legend which put step-parents behind the eight-ball, not to mention the heartaches of David Copperfield.
Anyhow, come to think of it, there are other evidences of sweetness in step-relationships besides the Parish - Mitchell - Gilliland aforesaid. Take Roy Selvidge, the first-born son of Genie and Sidney Selvidge; Roy is named for Squire Leroy AlIen, who is Genie's stepfather.
John M. Anthony (twin) is named for his mother's stepfather. Mr. John Metz. Incidentally, Mrs. Anthony was born a Boyd, and in Attala County too. She moved from there to Leflore County, where she met and married Billy Anthony, a nephew of the late great Senator J. Z. George, and a great buddy of Old Stuff's Daddy.
We cannot close these ramblings without a mention of "Papa John" (for Johnny) Murphy and his step-grandboy Jimmy Kelly. One of cur tenderest memories is the sight of Jimmy, scarcely twelve months old, riding on Johnny's knee, and swapping baby-talk with Papa John.
That was at least eleven years ago, and the "entente cordial" of Jimmy and Johnny is still going strong. In fact, a few afternoons ago, we observed Murphy walking Kelly's dog.
-B. C.
