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Note: ODUS CHRONICLED
BIOGRAPHY: McComb Man And Family Travel To New Home In Muskegon, Michigan, In Sky-Scraping Motorcade Headed By Perry Giles---Hardships Beset Them, Like Moses Of Old, In Journey To Promised Land (By C.A. Bedgood)
BIOGRAPHY: At 10:40 am, on Tuesday, March 6, eleven noses (including those of two trucks terribly topheavy with furniture, junk and the owners of nine of the noses) were pointed northward out of McComb, and as we stepped on the gas we were the only disturbance in an atmosphere of sunshine, plum blossoms and frogfulness.
BIOGRAPHY: At 10:40 am the following Tuesday I stood on the north shore of a frozen lake big enough to entirely engulf McComb and gazed in wonder upon a scene from whence apparently all but myself had fled. There were signs that the surrounding forest really swarmed with humanity, all very advanced in enlightenment and culture, but in a five-mile jaunt I came within speaking distance of not one. The peculiarly annoying thing about this was that I had needed a guide in hunting for my future domicile, and then when I finally figured my bearings for myself I realized that I was on the wrong side of the lake-and the lake is many miles around!
BIOGRAPHY: Well, the job of engineering two Ford trucks loaded to the limit with Mississippi household belongings and nine persons safely over the 1040 miles from McComb to Muskegon, Michigan, is something like that. I was assured before I left McComb as a part of this expedition that the world would like to know through The Enterprise how it was done-if ever-so this is my excuse for narrating a few of the experiences. It is necessary for me to give assurances of brevity, for already in my mind’s eye I see the editorial jaw sag a Bro. Emmerich gets this out of the mail and reads on the cover the name so synonymous (as he will tell you) of verbosity.
Motorcade Personnel
The chief engineer of this skyscraping motorcade was Perry B. Giles, of Michigan, better known to you as a sky-pilot who dropped out of some northern clouds one day a la Young Lochinvar and eventually soared away with one who to him was the Fair Ellen of McComb. (This by way of renewing your acquaintance with him and his general intrepidity). He had brought along in a truck from Michigan a husky friend, Russell Parkhurst, to help in the muscling which was expected to be necessary, and that proved to be one of his notable exhibitions of astuteness. Russell’s job was partly to look out for culverts and low wires, and partly to keep watch on the other truck. As the summit of each truck was a comfortable mattress, life seemed sweet to Michigan Russ as he was tossed along in the Dixie sunshine---for a while.
BIOGRAPHY: The participants in this almost grotesque exodus from Mississippi were Robt. F. Bedgood, his wife, their three little children and Miss Christine Bethea, all of Punkin Hill (four miles northeast of Summit, but not on any map), and the writer. Robert shared with Perry Giles the responsibility of keeping those temperamental trucks moving toward the North Star. My job was to handle as many of the kids as possible, attend to a few minor details, and, of course, to give advice.
BIOGRAPHY: In charge of little Bobbie Jean and “Bozo”, I started in the lead truck with Giles, Russ on top. All went merry as a marriage bell-more so-until day was well advanced, when we struck the only detour in the thousand miles. That detour, only 200 feet long, had a wee hole in it, and one wheel of our towering structure (surmounted by Russ) went into that hole. It was a wild period for Russ, and sufficiently terrifying to all beholders, for an awful mess of furniture was impending dizzily over one side of the road for quite a spell, and it took a lot of science to straighten things out. The road had to be doctored for the rear truck. At sunset the lead truck wobbled into Durant with a very sick engine, and it wasn’t so far from sunrise again when the weary engineer had purged his patient and stretched out on the lofty mattress for forty or fifty necessary winks.
Passing Jericho
It is hard to account for the slow progress on Wednesday, the second day, for things generally seemed to go sweetly enough. It was a beautifully serene outfit which rumbled over the Father of Waters at Memphis late in the evening. It was too lovely to last. The first sign of a disturbing element came when Russ rolled off the cozy mattress and dug his Michigan Eskimo rigging out of the cargo. A blizzard hit us square in the face as we turned northward toward Missouri. Blinding snow contributed confusion. The lead car threw a rear tire-tore it into scraps. We were passing through Jericho (yes, Jericho is in Arkansas!), and it took much self-restraint to maintain such scriptural atmosphere as we noticed. I was Methodist enough to contribute 15 cents-for a pair of gloves. In Stygian darkness we finally got under way again, but called ourselves licked for the night when we reached Blytheville, near the Missouri line. We needed something Blythesome!
BIOGRAPHY: We moved sluggishly in the cold and sleet of Thursday morning, but things kept on progressing towards the far-away northern goal. Missouri service stations were well rewarded for being on the job that day. A more of less funny thing was that the excellent Michigan car, which was supposed to set the pace, had given all the trouble so far, while the old vessel from Punkin Hill, supposedly far gone in general debility, sailed on like the ship of State. In the afternoon, after paying tribute at the toll-gate, we gazed grandly down upon one of the nations beautiful panoramas, the Father of Waters at Cape Girardeau, an old home of mine. And then we were in Anna, Ill. We had plenty of time to realize our position there, as it took it all to wheedle a tire man into a bargain. The only cheer I derived from Anna was in my discovery that peanut butter for which I had been paying 29 cents in McComb was 23 cents in Anna. AI left buoyed up by the hope that peanut butter cheapened in proportion to our progress away from the places where it was raised.
BIOGRAPHY: On the whole, we proceeded so gracefully across Illinois that night that the effect was to rather shrivel the expansive state in our imagination; but the Punkin Hill crate, having taken the lead under the rule of survival of the fittest, had very weak headlights, and everything traveling the other way had very strong ones, so there came a time when it too floundered like a newly landed catfish, having been blinded off the pavement. Its successful effort to remain upright was terrific enough; a black hole which yawned near by was unspeakable. But away we went again until with a mighty roar one of the tires set the scenery to oscillating, seemed to shake the surrounding though invisible Suckers to their depths, and settled our minds on the matter of lingering till morn in dear old Effingham.
At “Rising Sun”
Another place quite easy to reach was Terre Haute, Ind. Grand old Indiana, famous for giving the world a host of us-A.M. Hiatt, the Harrisons, Lew Wallace, Booth Tarkington, and innumerable others of varying degrees of magnitude besides me. The realization that I was back on the old sod again for the first time since Marsh Hainer and I were little schoolmates in dear old Rising Sun (on the Beautiful Ohio), even tho it was thoroughly paved sod, was so overwhelming that I piled out to get my feet on it. But when Jack Frost nippingly reminded me that he also sojourned in Indiana I hopped back again and was glad to remain as long as I could-which wasn’t very long. It being around about noon Thursday, we didn’t get to see the candle lights a-gleaming among the sycamores along the Wabash, but the floating ice was fairly beautiful, considering. Things were very nice, also, as we got an eyeful of old Lafayette, but we were so dazed by subsequent events that most of the other delights of travel in Indiana were lost upon us.
BIOGRAPHY: At Crawfordsville it struck us that Old Boreas had sent down a full delegation equipped with all facilities for giving us the works. After long and careful study of another one of our tires, we slipped at night through the Borean barrage and out of Crawfordsville, but a fresh delegation was lined up just beyond the suburbs, and we went down under its blinding shafts of snow, slinking under the first friendly cover which lighted the way-a service station, of course, on Linden Hill.
BIOGRAPHY: An of course Linden got its share of what little pocket change we had left such a share indeed, that the matter of finances had become one of our major problems. The worst, however, was yet to come. It was on the very chilly departure from Linden the next morning that we began to distribute defunct engine parts along the Chicago-Indianapolis highway. The Michigan truck started it, and the Punkinhillbilly was desperately ordered to beat it on to Mich. If possible and await the crestfallen leader’s arrival. It was a matter of saving hotel bills-only 250 miles, but it looked like they might mean as many dollars. I happened at that moment to be a passenger on the hillbilly, so I passed on in a highly inflated condition And then was exemplified the pride which goeth before destruction.
Doing the “Sun Dance”
At 10:30 Saturday forenoon we of the lone voyage were headed straight for the north pole, and were feeling that way, when the weary old bark sidled over to the edge of the pavement and settled down with an expiring sigh. No doubt about its being the last sigh for a very indefinite period! The situation was such that there seemed to be nothing to do but what we did. Awe suspected that there was a relief station somewhere ahead, and while Robert, the driver, hotfooted it ahead I drained the radiator to prevent an otherwise inevitable bust. As the seeker for succor faded away in the dim distance, the occupants of the cab emerged and commenced a sun-dance to heighten their personal circulation, but it was no use. We had to beat it to the nearest farmhouse, and the farmer towed us into the next town.
BIOGRAPHY: By this time our engineers had learned that the oil which worked so slickly in the Sunny South was a complete failure in the Frozen North, and it was a trail of broken piston-heads and burnt-out valves which they were leaving by the wayside. At this point, Medaryville, Ind., the repair man cooed “$6, please.” During the half-dozen hours of inactivity on our part it was my business to stand guard on the icy highway to see that the Michigan truck, all fixed up and flying high, didn’t rush past without discovering our plight (It didn’t!)
BIOGRAPHY: With Lake Michigan only 45 miles away, the exit from Medaryville was on glad hearts and bounding keel-or something like that. Our progress at Michigan City, on the big lake, was so light-heeled that we never touched it. But at New Buffalo, the next stop-Ah-h-h!
Return Of The Lost
Again I was set to patrolling the highway in quest of our belated companion, which, owing to rearrangement of human cargo, had separated the mother from two of the babies for practically the whole day. Again a repair man had indicated “$6,” and an innkeeper had taken us in-all but me,--and that was about as far as we could go. I did my job faithfully again until near one of the coldest midnights on earth, and then, after wishing it off on the town’s lone cop, headed for shelter. It was at this moment that the long-lost Michigander pulled into the filling station and began to tank up for the remaining 75 miles-and made it before dawn, too!
BIOGRAPHY: Somewhat heartened by this reunion, even though for only a breathing spell, the new tail-enders filled up on sleep and other things, squared things at the garage, and, not without some commotion, got away from New Buffalo at noon Sunday. Forty miles from our long-aimed-at destination we were met by anxious kin, who not only contributed moral support but ad put on a load of extra tires and towing equipment.
BIOGRAPHY: What seemed like an exodus from Mississippi may have appeared to observant Michiganders like a descent-or an ascent-of cotton-topped barbarians! But so far the Michiganders have remained very polite about it.
BIOGRAPHY: Written for the McComb, MS Enterprise-Journal by Charles A Bedgood and retyped by gr-grand-daughter, Marilyn Hamill, on 28 October 2006, for inclusion in a computer genealogy program. All those spaces and strange characters appeared when I put it here, on Rootsweb!
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Ashley County, Crossett
The Crossett Observer, owned by the Crossett Lumber Co., was established in 1906. H. P. Babb was its editor in 1912. Chas. T. Hedges was later its editor, until his death. It was then published by the Crossett Printing Company. C. A. Bedgood, formerly of Black Rock, was its editor for some time. C. C. Whittington is now its editor and publisher.
From: History of the Arkansas Press for a Hundred Years and More, Fred W Allsopp, 1922, p 58
BIOGRAPHY: Lawrence County, Black Rock
A newspaper called the Bowlder was published at Black Rock for a few months in 1888.
The Telephone, at Black Rock, was being published some time in 1890. George W Anderson and C. A. Bedgood were its publishers, at different times.
The Blade was published at Black Rock from about 1890 to 1902. S. J. Howe was one of its publishers, and its last one was J. C. Riley, who discontinued the paper and moved the plant to Walnut Ridge in 1902.
The Herald, at Black Rock, made its bow to the public in 1913. T. J. McDowell and R. G. Barnhill were its publishers. It disappeared during the World War.
The News was started in 1922 by J. O. Wesson.
Ibid, p 223
Walnut Ridge
The Lawrence County Journal was started at Walnut Ridge in March, 1877, by J. H. Balding, who had moved from DeVall's Bluff to Beebe in 1875 and from the latter place to Walnut Ridge. In 1896 this newspaper was sold to C. B. Oldham, who changed its name to the Courier. It expired in about 1905.
The Lawrence County Democrat, at Walnut Ridge, was founded by Wrenn & Jones in 1884. Mr. Jones sold his half interest to Mr. Phelps in 1885. In July, 1886, George Thornburgh bought the half interest of Mr. Phelps, and soon thereafter bought the other half interest from Mr. Wrenn, and changed the name of the paper from Democrat to Telephone. Mr. Thornburgh moved to Little Rock in November, 1889, but continued to conduct the Telephone at Walnut Ridge until April, 1890, when he sold it to H. L. Bugg, who in November of the same year sold it to George W. Anderson and Miss Annie King. The Telephone was converted into a daily newspaper at about this time, but the daily issue was soon discontinued.
Ibid, p 226.
Note: BIOGRAPHY: “PUNKIN HILL BILLY” RACES MICHIGANDER 1040 MILES---MODERN EX
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