My mother was very proud of Dad's heritage. She said he came from and "aristocratic" family (smile.) Dad never spoke in that way, but in his younger days, he was privileged to own a automobile which he used to drive from Norfolk to Tenafly, New Jersey to court Mom. As Dad grew older, his fortunes declined, and when I was very young, I could only sense his past by looking at his pearl handled dueling pistols and his assortment of hunting guns. The thoroughbred horse and carriage were a thing of the past. Dad never talked of himself or his parents that I can remember. I suppose it may have been because he was a foster father and didn't think I would care. I do know this: his grandfather owned the Truxton Manor estate which later became the Truxton Manor golf course, and later still, the Norfolk International Airport, while his father, William Phillips, owned a sizable farm in what is now known at Algonquin Park, Norfolk, Virginia. The picture above is not a flattering picture of Dad. Here he has grown old caring for others, but in that frail body beat a heart of gold. God bless you dad.
It is a little puzzling and rather intriguing how a Virginia gentleman and a Pennsylvania country girl ever became man and wife. But, Bertha Evelyn Richards and John Milton Phillips were brought together and lived a life of service to others. I know the story from Mom's side. Mom lived her adolescent years on a tiny dairy farm in the hill country of Susquehanna, Pennsylvania. When her mother (I don't even know her name) died, Aunt Ella Lounsbury, who lived in Tenafly, New Jersey took her to raise. Aunt Ella was a lady of considerable means and social standing. She met and knew well known personalities of the day, including Elbert Hubbard, author and founder of the Roycrofters, and Henry Ward Beecher, a Presbyterian minister and the bother of Harriet Beacher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Aunt Ella saw to it that Mother developed into a lady of grace and put her through the State Normal College to become a teacher. During her collage years, she became friendly with Marie Hauk, who lived in the Pocono mountains. Aunt Marie (honorary title) married Joe Kinney and they moved to Norfolk, Virginia. Uncle Joe Kinney was an electrical engineer with a supervisory position at the Norfolk Electrical Power Plant. Somehow Aunt Marie became acquainted with John Milton Phillips and through her, Mom and Dad were brought together.
After a courtship that took Dad to Tenafly, Mom and Dad married. I think the details leading up to the marriage are covered in a diary which now rests in a Roycrofters desk in the home of my son, Charles Phillips. The desk also contains some autographed copies of books published by Elbert Hubbard. The Roycrofters' factory which made fine furniture was an endeavor of Elbert Hubbard. If you like, you can read about Elbert Hubbard and the Roycrofters here
After marriage, in 1908, the newlyweds lived for a while with Dad's parents in a lovely colonial home in Algonquin Park in Norfolk. The home still stands, but the farmland that was a part of the estate is now totally developed with modern homes. Mom thought highly of Dad's parents and often told me how nice Mrs. Phillips was. In 1909, Dad's father, William Phillips, died and the estate was settled. I have told about this
here.
After the death of Dad's father, Dad acquired a lovely historic house and farm on Shell Road in Princess Anne County. I tell all about this fine place here.
I don't know why Mom and Dad had no children of their own. It was likely not possible, because they took in another child, Jean. I can scarcely remember Jean, but I do recall the instance when I was a toddler and got caught under the holly tree surrounded by thorny leaves. They hurt my bare feet, and I was in much distress. To my relief, Jean guided me out . Soon afterwards, Jean disappeared never to return. Mom told me she had found a good home for her.
My birth mother, Dora Richards Pratt, died just three weeks after my birth. My Mom (yet to be) went up to the Pratt farm in the Brooklyn Township of Pennsylvania and convinced, my birth Dad, Ira Pratt, to give me to her. He did, and she brought me home by train and by the Old Bay Line Steamer. This was during WWI, and submarine nets at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay blocked the ship's channel and had to be opened to let the steamer through. I seemed to be the pride and joy of my new parents. I can remember Dad carrying me upstairs in my nightie and telling me I was his little 'humbug.' Mom doted over me and started reading to me at a very early age. She read: Treasure Island, King Arthur and Camelot, The Cave Twins, Mammerlink's Bluebird, Uncle Remus Stories, and many more. She taught me to speak correctly, walk proudly, and to display good social manners. She had no tolerance whatsoever for mediocrity, and would berate me severely when I spoke or acted improperly. Some of training took, but it left me with a feeling of insecurity. She looked down on my birth father, and in reference to my origins, she often reminded me that "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."
Dad was a good father to a boy not of his genes. He was kind to me, never berated me, and taught me all he could. I can remember him teaching me how to drive a nail at a very tender age. He told me to hold the nail "just so" as he placed it between my small fingers. Then he gave me a block of wood, a hammer, and a few small nails. I can also remember so well one windy March day when he constructed a kite for me. He found some sticks of just the right dimensions (probably scrap from the local box factory) and formed the structure for the kite. Then he covered the structure with butcher paper and glued the edges. He made a tail with tatters of cloth, and fastened a good length of fishing line to serve as the kite string. It was a windy day when we took it out to the open field for a test flight. I was filled with happiness as MY kite took it maiden flight. Thank you Dad.
There is something about laboring together that creates fellowship and a sense of intimacy. You can share aching muscles and weariness as an identical burden. Dad and I spent hours together in the field with hand hoes grassing the corn or tomatoes. Then too, I can see us bent over the hot beds (sometimes called cold frames) as we tended the young tomato plants. It was an art to control the growth of the young plants so that they would not grow too fast and be long-legged when set out. We would take scissors and go between the rows of plants when they were about six inches high and carefully trim the leaves about half way. This slowed the growth and made them stalkier and sturdier. It was tiring work, reaching and stretching. Our muscles tired, but together we carried on till the job was done. Now seventy years later, the memory brings me comfort and nearness.
I fondly remember our pleasant Sunday walks together. To visit Lloyd Webb's farm, we would go down the hill by Hattie's house, past the giant pine tree with a lightwood scar, across dusty Shell Road, then over the marsh on a wooden farm bridge, and follow the lane up the hill to Lloyd's first cut. (I remember this lane so well, because once I slid off the back of a galloping mule as it climbed the hill.) We would walk on the southern side of a mature pine woods, and view the strawberry field. Then we followed the well worn path which led us to a ravine to the "Radish Hole" where carrots and radishes were washed before packing for shipment. (I have spent hours in the radish hole in water up to my knees washing radishes and carrots.) Then we would proceed up the hill to Lloyd's bigger cuts, where we would see how the bean and corn crops were coming. Dad would pass judgment as to how each crop was doing and tell me what Lloyd was doing right, and wrong. Lloyd Webb was not an experienced farmer and often relied on Dad for advice. On other occasions, we toured the Shumadine and the Doughty farms. I remember in particular the beautiful crop of Marglobe tomatoes that Mr. Teed Doughty had on his farm which was at the mouth of King's Creek. He had a flock of sheep that kept his large yard groomed down to the water's edge.
After Aunt Mary passed away, Brewser Benson and his new wife moved into her house (the dependency right beside our home.) Brewser was a good young man and helped as needed, but at this time we no longer employed regular farm workers. For some reason I cannot remember, Brewser's wife had to be taken to the hospital. Dad loaded her into our car and rushed her to Saint Vincent DePaul's hospital on Church Street in Norfolk. He stopped at the emergency room entrance and while opening the car door, slipped on some accumulated grease and fell on his knee on the concrete. The fall shattered his kneecap. Surgery was performed, and his leg placed in a heavy cast. We had to move a small bed into the dining room, as it was impossible for him to mount the stairs. The recovery was hard, and he cried out with pain. Uncle Eddy made an inclined appliance to elevate his leg and mitigate the pain. His knee was damaged so that it was permanently stiff, and a real handicap for him the rest of his days. That is the reward he got for helping others. In this day and time, the lawyers would have had a field day and he would have received a handsome and just settlement.
Have you ever seen a giant red oak eight feet in diameter? Such an ancient tree overhung our shed and provided shade for Aunt Mary's wash pot. But, time had ravaged this great tree, and huge dead limbs threatened disaster. One winter, Dad decided it was time to take it down. This was an enormous undertaking to be accomplished with a two-man saw and an axe. We engaged Julian Ross from Queen City to help us. Julian had been a tower of strength in his younger days, but he had reached his eighties and was crippled with rheumatism which he treated with "gum goackum."
With a lot of trepidation on my part, we tackled the tree with axes and a two-man saw. We sawed and panted, and took turns relieving one another. The bowl of the tree was so large that the six-foot saw would not pass through it, so we sawed a ring around the tree to a depth where there was no sawing room left. Finally, the great tree succumbed to our efforts and fell with a resounding boom. However, our work had just begun. Now we were confronted with the task of converting this monstrous hulk to firewood. At this point, I believe that Ross remarked: "We must be fools, an old man, a cripple, and a boy, to tackle a job like this." There was a laugh, but, we carried on with saw, axe, maul, wedges and wooden gluts. We strained and labored for days and finally amassed a great pile of good oak firewood for the winter. Thank you Ross and thank you Dad for these precious memories.
Time passed on. I had married and left my parents and beloved farm behind. Dad had continued to age and his health deteriorated. I was called into Naval service in World War II. At one mail call, I received a letter from Mom saying that they were giving up the farm, and I was offered the opportunity to take it over. Sadly, I couldn't, for I was earning just $90 a month and there was a debt on the farm. They had to sell, and Mom and Dad moved to a nice little bungalow in Ford Park, just a half mile from the Norfolk Ford Plant. They settled into their new place. Their neighbors were good and for a brief while they enjoyed their new freedom from farm responsibilities. Then one fateful day, while I was attending the Navy Radar School at the Navy Research Laboratory, Annapolis, Maryland, I received a Red Cross telegram that Dad was deathly ill. I was given special leave to return to his bedside. It was so sad. This great man who had done so much for others was breathing his last breaths. God, how I miss him, and if I get to heaven, I want to tell him how sorry I am that I did not do more for him and help him save the farm.
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