Asylum Heights

by Austin R. Moody

  ASYLUM HEIGHTS

  A

  STORY OF LIFE AND LOVE

  DURING THE

  DEPRESSION ERA

  IN CLARKE COUNTY MISSISSIPPI

  AND THE SOUTH

  BY

  AUSTIN R. MOODY, MD

  Copyright © 2010

  All rights to this book are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author, Dr. Austin Moody, 5904 Garden Oaks Drive, Austin, Texas 78745.

  Printed in the United States

  SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is lovingly dedicated to the memory of my mother, Edith Capitolia Hailes Moody, my father, Edgar Angus Moody, my sister, Dorothy Virginia Staunton, and brother, Edgar Angus Moody II, and also, to my maternal grandmother, Ellie Reid Hailes, and my grandfather, William Silas Hailes. In addition, I must include my great grandfather, Michael Hailes, who left the beloved soil of Ireland, within which rests our entire antecedent maternal forbears. Naturally, I must not forget my own children, Austin R. II, Cynthia Rayne, and Barry Gray; plus my only living in-law children, Jerry Kothrnann, and his wife Kate.

  Younger counterparts who played a major role in my early formative years in Southeastern Mississippi, include my Uncle Glen Hailes, whose life I watched with much admiration and adoration for his strength, charm, and generosity; his brothers and my favorite Aunt Lessie Belle, the mother of my nearest cousins, John Hal and Bobby Adams. To round out the family portrait of the most significant players of the clan, I cannot forget my Uncle Tom Hailes and Tom Junior.

  My special thanks and much love to Christine and Christina De Lessio, her daughter and her husband Michael, Christina's father, Sal DiGiacomo and mother, Angela, who incorporated me into their family as though I were one of their very own. I had been Sal's physician for many years.

  Christine was my first assistant in the preparation of the book for publication. My second assistant was Tiffany Hall of Austin Texas. They both were towers of light, prodding me into the right direction through the myriad of details of formatting, proofing, detailing, editing and delivery of the manuscript that finally emerged as Asylum Heights.

  Finally, I must express my gratitude to my first publisher, Bruce Howard of Specialty Publishing Company of Quitman, Mississippi, and particular thanks to his assistant, Pamela Erler who led me to his doorstep. He demonstrated great patience and faith in me and in the book for which I am eternally grateful.

  Austin R. Moody, MD

  Author

  ON FRONT COVER

  Souinlovey Creek from the new bridge at Boykins old crossing; taken in early spring.

  Photograph courtesy of Kimberly A. Shaw.

  Table of Contents

  THE BEGINNING

  UNCLE GLEN

  THE DIAGNOSIS

  THE FAMILY

  PAPA HAILES

  THE DEPRESSION (OCTOBER 29, 1929)

  AFTERMATH

  THE VINE

  MR. THORNTON

  THE PLAN

  THE SUNDAY VISIT

  CALLIE

  THE NEW WORLD VINEYARD

  VITICULTURE TO VERAISON

  THE HARVEST

  THE ELEVATED WINERY

  TREE HOUSES

  THE VINTNERS

  SUPPLIES

  THE PACKAGING

  SOUTHWEST LOUISIANA

  THE LOUISIANA CONNECTION

  THE MONTELEON HOTEL

  AFTER HOURS AT THE BIG BOY CLUB

  THE BIG EASY

  THE OWL’S NEST

  THE RESTITUTION

  NEW YEAR’S DAY 1932

  NEW ORLEANS (ENCORE)

  DOTHAN

  MOVING IT

  BELLE TERRE

  CLAUDINE

  THE DISCOVERY

  THE INVESTIGATION

  THE NOOSE TIGHTENS

  THE HALLUCINATION

  MARSHALL WINTERS

  DEJA-VU

  SEQUELAE

  HOME

  THE MEETING

  THE FINALE

  PREFACE

  This book is a love story. Not of one love but many loves. This tale is about one family’s love, the dynamics of which were tested in the crucible fires of circumstances at a critical time in our nation’s history. Additionally, it is a love of the family’s place and of their ancestors. In 1792 our forebears left the comfort of their home to find another in our new country. The family has occupied it since then and has gained the rights to own it in perpetuity.

  These same circumstances threatened this home and family with the loss of everything. That demanded all the resolve, strength and ingenuity that they could deliver to be able to survive. Working together they accomplished this by whatever means they had at their disposal.

  There are other loves and circumstances that you will find in the book. The location of the story is not critical. The contents and the action of the players, however, are very important and they provide the matrix of the book. Bearing this in mind, let us now begin to relate the actions that we have described.

  THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BEGINNING

  Uncle Glen had a stroke. It was 1934. I was almost six years old and I vividly remember him lying upon a stretcher, moaning softly as he was removed from the ambulance by the driver and my grandfather. They carried him through the humid, sweltering August afternoon across the brilliant daylight of the courtyard and into the darkness of the entrance to Asylum Heights, the Mississippi State Mental Hospital in Meridian.

  It was cooler inside, but not much. There was neither any breeze nor blowing fan in the foyer and a dank, clinical antiseptic smell pervaded the halls. He lay huddled beneath a sheet and he could neither walk nor stand because of weakness in his right leg. His right hand was contracted into a fist and I wondered if he were angry or in great pain. He did not know where he was nor why he had come to be there. He could not speak and did not know me, nor respond as I repeatedly begged him to look at me.

  He had been extremely handsome until I saw him that day. His mouth was sagging to the left and his salivation steadily flowed across his bearded chin without his awareness or care. I did not understand the depth, the significance, nor the permanence of the situation. I only knew that there was something terribly wrong with someone I loved, and I began to cry. Mother whispered, “He is very sick, you must be quiet.”

  Two attendants in white uniforms approached from within the hospital. They lifted and carried him from the foyer through two heavy metal doors, and after the stretcher passed through I could hear the lock engage on the other side. His deep, stertorous respiratory sounds faded as he was taken away to his bed in the ward.

  When we could no longer hear him, Mama and Papa Hailes accompanied my mother and me to the admitting office. The receptionist greeted us cordially, and after a rather extended interview regarding the developments that culminated in our arrival and presence in the admitting office, looked into the file tray on her desk and extracted the necessary forms to be completed in order to justify Uncle Glen’s entry into the hospital. Mother filled out a lengthy questionnaire and after providing the necessary information we departed leaving Uncle Glen in that brooding, lonely, and impersonal red brick edifice to await his coming tribulations.

  I missed him so very much, wondering his fate as my father drove through the night along the red rutted scars of the road back through the deep, dark night toward home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  UNCLE GLEN

  My mother and my father had several brothers and sisters, but I had always held Uncle Glen as my idol, my favorite relative. He was tall and thin with dark blue eyes and black, wavy hair. He was a witty storyteller with a quick magnetic, effusive smile and lots of cash
money. He could afford the best clothes and brought home expensive suits, silk shirts and ties when he returned from trips to New Orleans. He looked very sporty in his black and white oxford shoes and white snap-brim felt hat.

  He owned a Studebaker convertible automobile that was painted cream yellow and white. It was embellished with thin black body striping, and its presence had been rendered even more commanding with the addition of wire wheels and wide, classical white side wall tires. It was the kind of car that women couldn’t resist. My mother didn’t thoroughly approve of him, but she would always melt when he came to see us as he never forgot to bring her a present.

  I would shriek with anticipation when he drove up into the yard after his forays into the city. It was always like Christmas and Easter combined. I knew there was something for me in that car but I had to find it. My benefactor wouldn’t say a word. He would extend his arm to me with the car keys in his hand and break into laughter as I snatched them like a spider monkey and began my hunt, first in the trunk, then under the seats, the glove compartment, the ash trays, in any orifice, even under the hood in the engine compartment. I never failed to find my treasure because I always knew that my search would be rewarded with the likes of candy, puzzles, a ball and bat, a wagon, a wristwatch, or once even a brand new Schwinn bicycle.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE DIAGNOSIS

  After his arrival, Uncle Glen underwent a period of profound clinical instability with septic fevers, intervals of coma and shaking, tongue-macerating Grand Mal seizures. At times they would persist despite the aggressive administration of the usual and accepted medications. During the more severe episodes the staff tried, and yet more often failed to stop or to prevent the uncontrollable jerking of his arms and legs accompanied by total loss of consciousness. The nursing staff and attendants could only call the doctor who increased the medications. They would then apply cold or hot poultices to his tormented body as required and position him in order that he would not aspirate any regurgitated stomach fluids in the event he vomited, and hold on to him until the storm had passed.

  On the tenth day, a meeting was called by the doctors with the family to render an announcement of the findings of the tests that were performed. The members included our immediate family, Mama and Papa Hailes, my father, mother, my sister Dorothy and myself, and also Aunt Lessie Belle, Uncle Floyd from near De Soto, and Uncle Foster, a lawyer who owned a furniture store in Atlanta who had come home to be with us during this difficult time.

  We were assembled in the staff lounge and waited the doctor’s arrival. After approximately thirty minutes the door opened and three of the physicians entered the room, and the austerity of their expressions verified the gravity of their diagnosis. Dr. Moriarity, a specialist in infectious diseases, turned to the nurse that had accompanied them into the meeting and said, “Mrs. Jenkins what we have to say here is very serious. Please accompany the children down the hall to the play room.”

  I suddenly realized that I too was a child, and was about to be removed and would not be able to hear what the doctors would say to the grown-ups about Uncle Glen’s condition and what was wrong with him. I turned and implored my parents, “Daddy, mother, I don’t want to go out with the other children and play. I want to stay and find out what’s wrong with Uncle Glen!”

  They looked at each other and then my father spoke to the doctor. He said, “Let him stay. He has been living with this just like the rest of us and is entitled to know what’s wrong.” The doctor looked evenly at my father and said, “What I have to say is not pleasant, it is ugly and not easy even for an adult to accept. However, if you are sure that you want this, then the others can leave and he may stay.” The nurse led the others out and down the hall, and then all eyes turned upon the doctor after the door had closed behind them.

  Dr. Moriarity turned and faced my grandfather and said, “Mr. Hailes, I much regret the necessity to inform you that your son, Glen Hailes, suffers from a life threatening neurological disease. It is an infection in its late, near terminal stage, and has destroyed much of his brain tissue and he has had a stroke. This injury has created a loss of muscular function of his right upper and lower extremities.

  The cause of this condition is a microscopic infectious organism, called a spirochete. It is more popularly known as syphilis. Glen suffers from its most severe and more often than not, terminal, final form called tertiary or neuro-syphilis. He has had the disease for at least two or more years, and it is most difficult to understand how he could not have realized that he was ill and that he had not seen a physician for treatment until now.”

  Papa Hailes maintained his silence.

  Dr. Moriarity continued, “We will do the best that we can for him. If he survives, he will never be the same as he was before. I will make every effort to keep you informed of his progress on a daily basis initially and thereafter we shall see as it evolves. Does anyone have any questions?”

  The only response to his question initially was the silent shaking of Mama Hailes’ shoulders then followed by her gentle weeping. Papa took her in his arms and comforted her while Uncle Glen’s sisters and brothers gathered about her in an effort of consolation and sharing their own pain and sadness.

  Dr. Moriarity finalized the interview by saying, “You have my deepest condolences. This is the most difficult part of my profession.” With that, he motioned to his attendant staff, and they quietly departed.

  Uncle Glen underwent treatments that were the standard of the time. These were made in the efforts of his physicians to control the rampant infection that consumed his body. Their efforts were so barbarous and inflicted so much pain in their administration they exacted as much from the victim as from the treatments themselves. His nerve damage would remain as a souvenir of his passion and recklessness, a transgression that would walk with him and that he would bear as a constant burden throughout the rest of his life. To this day, I can recall the sounds of his approach as he walked down a hallway, displaying the characteristic “slap-slap” sound caused by contact of the sole of his right foot upon the floor by the loss of enervation, causing a “foot drop” and depriving him of the position sense of the of the leg.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE FAMILY

  I knew that Papa Hailes’ father’s name was Michael and that he was born in l792 in Ireland. In my childhood my mother never spoke of him though I am sure without any intent to withhold or to hide any information about him, his personality, or character. I do not believe that he had been imprisoned, but of that matter I am unsure.

  He obtained a ‘writ of homestead’ from the State of Mississippi that allowed him to claim the land under his feet as far as he could walk. He drove a stake into the ground, and then placed three more, always turning to the left, until he had encompassed 166 acres. These wooden markers were his “claim stake” for himself and his heirs or assigns on our property in perpetuity.

  After filing his homestead in the records of Clarke County, he established the rights of a township that he named “Hale,” Mississippi. For reasons unknown to me, he did not apply the family name “Hailes,” and it has remained so named to this day.

  My recollection of Papa’s mother, i.e., my great-grandmother, was the daughter of an Irish tradesman and a Cherokee Indian woman. I have no knowledge of how they met, courted, and finally presented themselves before a frontier minister to make vows and pledges that to the knowledge of every member of our communicant family were never compromised nor broken, at least on her part.

  My mother told me on many repeated occasions that she was a great being, devout in her faith, steadfast in her devotion, work and love for her family. I regret so much that I had no opportunity to gain some knowledge of her parents, her family and culture. I particularly wish that I could have known her sufficiently to have shared the experiences of her life and to thank her for what she had given to me and my offspring. In that way, I would have had some moment of identity and communication with our ancestors, tho
se who shall forever remain in the shadows of the past.

  She could have elucidated and clarified many of the mysteries with recollections, memories and stories, and with the names of some of those who were responsible in part for our presence upon this earth.

  I admonish every reader of this book to get to know the oldest members of your family, especially your grandparents of both sides and, if possible, your great grandparents. Get to really know them and ask them to remember all that they can about their parents and grandparents. You will never regret it, because you still have the opportunity that I would give anything to recapture.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PAPA HAILES

  Papa Hailes had the voice of an Irish tenor, a love of people and knew no stranger. He addressed everyone as “Neighbor,” and was restless in his pursuit of kindness and generosity to everyone. He lived the Golden Rule, and though his rod of that linear measure was at times as malleable as the soft yellow metal from which its name was derived, I have no doubt that he faithfully adhered to the admonition, “Thou shalt love thy Neighbor as thyself.” He was its embodiment, except occasionally.

  To my knowledge he never had an enemy in his whole life nor much else save a legion of friends, a household of loving children, their aunts, uncles, and all of their brothers and sisters and their children, defining an ever expanding pool of warmth and light that basked in the summer of his life and that was deeply mourned at its twilight and in the final darkness of its end.