Monday, November 17, 2014

Birmingham Photo of the Day (22): The Hillman Hospital Annex Cornerstone

Often we walk by history every day and never notice. Recently I was waiting on the bus to take me to my car in the UAB remote parking lot and sat down on a bench. I was facing what is now called the New Hillman Building on 20th Street South. The Annex, actually between Old [1902] and New [1928] Hillmans, was opened in 1913. Here's what I saw on the corner of that building near its entrance:







This plaque for the Hillman Hospital Annex lists the agencies and men prominently involved in the structure. By 1907 the charitable founders & owners of Hillman Hospital, the Board of Lady Managers, transfered it to the Jefferson County Board of Revenue. The individuals were prominent in their day. Dr. Charles Whelan had been elected physician for the city of Birmingham in 1899. Dr. Edgar Poe Hogan published medical articles and served as part-time Superintendent of the hospital from 1910 until 1930. He also participated in the Spanish-American War and served in the Alabama legislature. He died in 1965. H.B. Wheelock had worked as architect on the original Hillman building.

The cornerstone plaque for the original Hillman Hospital building is below, taken from the BhamWiki site. As that article notes, Hillman Hospital originally opened on the city's Southside in 1888 as the Hospital of United Charity. Local businessman Thomas Hillman made a donation to rebuild the hospital after a fire and it was named for him when they new structure opened at its current location. All the names listed on this plaque except for the architect and contractor are women, the wives of local businessmen. That group had begun organizing for a charity hospital as the Daughters of United Charity in 1886.




A photo of the two Hillman buildings in 1929 and some history of the hospital and how it became a part of UAB can be found in one of my earlier blog posts. More about Hillman Hospital can be found on the BhamWiki site.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Mickey Rooney's Connections to Birmingham

On April 6, 2014, legendary actor Mickey Rooney died at age 93 after eight decades performing in films, television, stage, radio and vaudeville. During that career he made over 300 films and was the top box office draw in 1939. He also famously married eight times---including the first time to another legendary star, Ava Gardner---and had nine children. His second wife and first two children bring us to Rooney's Birmingham connections.

Rooney attended the 1944 Miss America pageant in Atlantic City; a runner up in that contest was Betty Jane Phillips from Birmingham, Alabama, who was Miss Birmingham that year. Rooney took notice and he and Phillips dated while he went through basic training in Alabama. Later that year, in a house off Highland Avenue in Birmingham, the two were married.

The union produced two children, Mickey Rooney, Jr. and Tim Rooney. Both sons appeared on the original Mickey Mouse Club television show and made a few other film and television appearances. Mickey Jr. currently owns an entertainment production company and has an evangelical ministry in California. Younger brother Tim died of a muscle disease in 2006. Both sons were born in Birmingham.

Betty Jane and Mickey were divorced in 1949. The following year she married Buddy Baker, a composer at Disney. They eventually divorced as well. Her third husband was jazz guitarist Barney Kessel; they divorced in 1980. She died in 2002.

The former Betty Jane Phillips was known as B.J. Baker throughout most of her life. She had begun singing in Birmingham, where she had her own radio show at age 14. Over the years she sang with many big bands and appeared on various television variety shows. She also provided backup vocals for artists ranging from Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra to Sam Cooke, Bobby Darin and the Righteous Brothers.





Mickey Rooney in a 1945 publicity still




Betty Jane Phillips Baker in the 1940s




 The happy couple in 1944



Mickey Rooney, Jr., in a photo taken from a 1978 album cover




Tim Rooney in a 1962 publicity shot





All photos are taken from either the BhamWiki or Wikipedia sites.



Monday, November 10, 2014

Once Shelbyville, A.T. & Now Pelham

Near Pelham City Hall stands a historical marker that includes the following text: “Near this site stood Shelbyville, A.T., first county seat of Shelby County; named for Isaac Shelby, governor of Tennessee. Shelby County was established February 7, 1818 by an act of the Alabama Territorial Legislature.”  Yes, the first seat of county government was located where Pelham is now. And yes, the community and the county existed before Alabama became a state.

Congress created the Alabama Territory in March 1817 from the eastern half of the Mississippi Territory, which dated from 1798. In the 1810 census what became the “A.T.” seven years later had around 9, 000 people. By 1820, just after Alabama was granted statehood in December 1819, the population had swelled to almost 128,000. In 1826 a town on the other end of the county, Columbia, was renamed Columbiana and has been the county seat ever since. Shelbyville remained a tiny town for over 150 years even after changing its name to Pelham in the 1870s.

As the marker also notes, an orphan’s court was held in what is now Pelham just two months after the county was created. A private home served as the first courthouse. Even in that sparsely populated frontier of the United States, some provisions had to be made for orphans and their right to any family estate. An index for the county’s orphan’s court book 1818-1836 is available online, and the book is kept by the Shelby County Historical Society in Columbiana. This first court of the county was later replaced by probate court.
The map below is a close-up portion of Fielding Lucas' 1822 map of Alabama that shows two towns in Shelby County at that time. The map can be seen at the Historical Maps of Alabama online resource






A version of this post appeared in the winter 2015 issue of the Pelham City News.


Thursday, November 6, 2014

Pondering Alabama Maps (4): Early State Road Maps

In the first three installments of this series I looked at the city of Pelham on some old maps. Why Pelham, you ask? I live there, silly! Now let's look at some early statewide road maps. 

One of the earliest Alabama road maps is surely the 1914 one below, which can be found at UA's Alabama Historical Maps collection. Below the state map is a detailed look at roads in Shelby, Bibb, Chilton and Autauga counties. This map was drawn by civil engineer and draftsman H.E. Anschutz under the direction of W.S. Keller and R.P. Boyd, State Highway Engineer and his assistant respectively. 

UPDATE on 2 July 2015: Historian Martin Olliff recently pointed out to me that W.S. Keller was Helen Keller's half-brother.

Notice anything interesting in the detail from Mr. Anschutz's creation?? That's right--in all this spaghetti, none of the roads have names or number designations. You'll find the same thing on the 1924 map in the digital collection. 









Now let's take a look at the state's 1925 road map:





And here's a zoom of the Selma-Clanton-Montgomery area:




Now we see some numbers on these roads. At first they seem like mileage numbers, but that doesn't work out. These numbers are the early highway designations in Alabama. 

No draftsman is identified prominently on this 1925 map, although I suspect we find his name in the lower right corner: D.E. Shields and the year 1924. 




In the next installment I'd like to continue by looking at some more state road maps from the 1920's and into the 1930's.

A fascinating history of the early "good roads" movement in Alabama is Martin Olliff's "Getting on the Map: Alabama's Good Roads Pathfinding Campaigns, 1911-1912" in the Alabama Review 2015 January; 68(1): 3-30.



Monday, November 3, 2014

A Visit to Historic Hobbs Cemetery in Huntsville

Well, a "visit" is an ambitious word in this case, since the cemetery is so small and so close to my mother's house in southeast Huntsville just north of the Tennessee River. But it's worth a stop, anyway.

This pocket cemetery sits between two houses in a development that is only a few decades old. This section of Huntsville has been growing for some time, as the commercial and residential developments just north in Jones Valley indicate.


Yet in a few places something older will pop up, such as the Historic Hobbs Cemetery on Siniard Drive. And this place is pretty old. More than 20 people are buried here, including John Hobbs who once owned Hobbs Island just to the south. Hobbs died in 1833; his brother-in-law James Fennell died in 1817 and his headstone may be the oldest in Madison County. Where Fennell was originally buried and the relationship between his grave and Hobbs' makes for an interesting story.


A railroad once terminated at the island. Railroad cars would be loaded onto ferries and floated downstream to Guntersville Landing. Offloaded there, the trains then made their way to Gadsden. The island is currently listed for sale at $7.8 million. 

Hobbs also owned 1500 acres with 53 slaves to work cotton and breed horses. He married Keziah, sister of James Fennell. Those three, as well as the Hobbs' two sons and daughter are buried in the cemetery. A portion of the surrounding wall was damaged by Union troops during the Civil War. The family repaired it afterward, although it fell again over time. As the Camelot neighborhood around it developed, Clowers' Realty built a protective fence around the newly restored wall. 

As these photos taken in August show, the cemetery is currently in need of some cleanup. In February 2012 the Huntsville Times ran a story about a Boy Scout who was cleaning up the cemetery as part of his effort to earn the Eagle Scout badge. Nate Hornsby expressed the hope that others would care for the cemetery in the future. Perhaps someone will, although neglected cemeteries are pretty common in America.












Monday, October 27, 2014

Somerville's Historic Courthouse

On a recent trip from Huntsville back home to Pelham, I stopped at the old courthouse building just off state highway 36 in Somerville. That town is as old as the state, having been incorporated in 1819. Somerville served as the seat of Morgan County government until 1891. Morgan County was created as Cotaco County in February 1818 during the brief Alabama Territory period. The county was renamed in June 1821. The name "Cotaco" survives today as another small community in Morgan County.

The first wooden courthouse in Somerville was built around 1825; twelve years later the current building was constructed. The structure is the oldest courthouse building in Alabama. By 1891 much of the county's population lived in the towns of Decatur and New Decatur, and a vote resulted in the government's move to Decatur. The two sides of the historic marker seen below give further details about the town.

Once the country seat moved to Decatur, many other uses were found for the Somerville structure. Over the years it's been a site for town council meetings, municipal court proceedings, a school, a church and a senior citizens nutrition center. 

More detailed histories of the courthouses of Morgan County can be found in Samuel A. Rumore, Jr.'s article "Building Alabama's Courthouse: Morgan County" in the January 1989 issue of the Alabama Lawyer. That piece is one of many columns Mr. Rumore wrote for the journal on Alabama's county courthouses. 

UPDATE 4 March 2023

I've recently come across Paul Huggins' article, "This old house--for sale. Man prepares to leave 1st courthouse" published in the Decatur Daily 1 November 2004. The article profiles Rick McLemore, who restored what is described as "the oldest structure in Morgan County", had lived in it for a number of years and plans to sell it. The building was originally a tavern and inn known as Vaughn's Store constructed between 1812 and 1816 when the county was known as Cotaco. Originally on the Cotaco-Florette Road, McLemore had it moved two miles to 72 Ryan Road. The building apparently served as the courthouse during Alabama's territorial and early statehood periods until that wooden courthouse was constructed in 1825. Huggins notes, "It's not only the oldest inhabitable structure in the county, it's the oldest standing courthouse in Alabama". 

Further Reading

Frank Sikora, "Old Courthouse has served many functions in Somerville. Birmingham News 30 July 1990, pp 1B, 2B

Ronnie Thomas, Restoration reveals hidden list of names. Decatur Daily 26 November 2007

Hollie Thrasher, A piece of Alabama history honored in Somerville. WAAY-TV.com 9 May 2012















Thursday, October 23, 2014

Did Alabama Still Have Slaves in 1883?

The following item was posted to the USGenWeb genealogy site in 2008. The original article supposedly appeared in the New York Tribune and was then reprinted in the Huntsville Weekly Democrat on November 28, 1883.

The article was written by an unnamed visitor to the South from Massachusetts who takes a horseback journey from Andalusia to Greenville on the "Bottom Road." What he encounters in the backwoods is a situation unchanged from antebellum Alabama. 

I leave it to the reader to decide the veracity of this article. Some details are real. The Weekly Democrat was published in Huntsville from 1866 until about 1919. The Tribune was established by Horace Greely in 1841 and published until 1966. Andalusia, Greenville and Selma are real Alabama towns. Pittsfield is a real town in western Massachusetts. 

A bit of Google searching produced nothing on possible Wiltsie or Delhi plantations near Greenville and nothing definitive on the "Bottom Road" mentioned. Deeper research beyond Google might turn up some answers. The version here is unsigned; some research could determine if the Tribune version--assuming there was one--had a named author.  

Until such serious research determines otherwise, I would suspect a hoax. This narrative fits a common 19th century American pattern--the sophisticate from the North describes his or her visit to the backward South [or West] and the strange customs and people he finds there. This item also appeared only six years after the chaos of Reconstruction ended, and would fit the view of an unrepentant South.

I apologize for  the formatting; my limited tinkering skills could not fix it. Blogger is definitely not a WYSIWYG editor.






The Huntsville Weekly Democrat November 28, 1883

Southern Rip Vanwinkle 
------------------
“Slaves” Still on a Forgotten Alabama Plantation
------------------
New York Tribune.

   PITTSFIELD, MASS., Sept 20.—Last summer, on my way from Florida to Selma, Alabama, I determined to make a part of the journey on horseback for the benefit of my health.  I was unacquainted with the country, and so was the 
clergyman with whom I spent a night soon after I started.—However, he produced an ancient map and by its aid I chose the “Bottom road” from Andalusia to Greenville, a distance of eighty-three miles, according to the same well-meaning guide.  I had no idea that the “Bottom road” was unused until I had ridden perhaps twenty miles and left the last, cabin behind me.  But the 
weather was fine, and I would not turn back.  When the first night came without 
the sign of habitation, tethered my horse, rolled myself in a blanket, and 
slept on the ground.
   All the next day I rode, and saw not a house nor a human being.  At 6 
o’clock, when I had already made up my mind to spend another night in solitude, I came upon a roadside camp fire, besides which a negro sat.  Of all the colored men that I have met, this one was the fattest, greasiest and happiest. He gave me a bow as I stopped.
   “Good ebenin’ to you, massa!” he saluted.
   “Good evening,” I returned.  “Can you tell me how far I am from the nearest 
home?”
   “It’s a powerful distance to walk,” the fellow grinned.
   “And who lives there when you get there?” I questioned, after vainly trying 
to get the distance in miles, or at least in length of time.
   “Ole mars’, he lib dar!” was the answer; and further questioning elicited 
the information that “ole mars’” was another name for Mars’ George Wiltsie; 
that I was then on the border of his plantation; that his residence was several 
miles distant; that the negro was yelept “Sam”; that he resided with “ole 
mars’,” and that he “was down dis way splorin’ to see if dar could’nt be timber 
cut in this seckshun.”  I was soon camping by his fire with my horse feeding 
near by on the grass.

 LIKE MASTER LIKE SLAVE

   In ten minutes I made up my mind that “Sam” was the most ignorant of 
Africans.  Could he tell me how far I had traveled since the yesterday 
morning?  He had no idea how far to the next turn.  How far to the nearest 
neighbor?—Did’nt spect there was any nearest neighbor now.  Mars’ Pelton used 
to be nearest, but his house was burned there dozen years.
   After some other questions, the answer to each leadivn me more and more 
convinced of the creature’s ignorance, he began to praise Mr. Wiltsie, 
concluding with “De bes mas’r in Alabam.  Never selled any of us nigs for some 
while!”
   “And you all continue living with him the same as you did before you were 
freed?”
   “We ain’t freed!” declared the paragon of ignorance: and I now came to the 
conclusion that he was a tool.  Out of all patience, I fixed my bunk for the 
night and placed my pistol at my pillow.  In the morning the negro was not to 
be found, and I was more and more convinced of his insanity, and had him in 
mind as I rode onward.

 SOMETHING LIKE A MOATED GRANGE.

   My third day’s journey—at least the forenoon’s part of it—was not unlike the 
first and second days.  At 2 o’clock I suddenly came upon a field of corn by 
the roadside. A little further on, five or six negroes were standing, among 
them “Sam” of the previous night.  “Dat’s him!” I heard Sam say as I 
approached, and like the cows and mules the negroes scampered.  I went on to 
the house.  It was an old fashioned typical Southern house that had evidently 
seen better days.  The main door was of heavy carved oak, battered and weather-beaten, and the knocker that I took up was much worn.
   It was ten minutes or more before my twice repeated knock had an answer.  
Then the door was opened slowly by a colored woman.  A nod of the head answered 
my question as to whether the master was at home, and scarcely invited I went 
in.  The woman vanished, to appear again after a minute with a scared face.  
   “Walk up mas’r,” she said leading the way up the stairs and through halls.  
I was ushered into a large room fitted up as a library.  A gentleman occupied 
an arm chair beside an oriel window.  His face was yellow, his hair was long 
and white, and a heavy grizzled beard hung over his breast.  He was a man of 
more than 70 years, with remarkable blue eyes that flashed in a defiant way as 
I introduced myself.
   “I can not arise, sir,” he said, in a lofty tone.  “Be seated, and tell me 
what you have come here for.”
   “I would like to remain with you all night.”
   “Yes; but travelers never come through here.  You are the first traveler—the 
first white person that has been here—that I have seen—in more than twenty 
years.  Why did you come?”
   I gave my reason as well as I could.  
   “You must have lost your way,” the gentleman said.  “I never have visitors.  
The Bottom road is never used.”
   “Then there is a better road by which you get out? I remarked.
   “I never get out,” he answered.  “For twenty years I have been a helpless 
paralytic.” 
   “But your servants—“ I began.
   “Never go from home,” he finished.  Then he went o to say that he needed no 
communication with the world, and, followed with some particulars of himself 
and family.

 THE STORY OF A RECLUSE.

   The plantation of the Wiltsie family had originally comprised a section of 
5,000 acres.  It had been in the family since the State was settled.  The 
father of the present owner had been a politician of some eminence, and also a 
man of wealth.  He had left this one son who had married and inherited the 
estate.  After a few years of a happy life the wife had died, and two sons 
gladdened the father’s heart.  They were educated as the sons of Southern 
gentlemen and came home from their graduation twenty-three years ago.  One—John—had gone to New Orleans to purchase slaves, and had been murdered there. The other—James—had, in the following year enlisted in the Confederate army and been stricken with malignant fever when in camp at Selma, and there had died.  The deaths of the two sons had been occasions of prejudice to him.  “John’s death determined me that I would never buy or sell another slave, and I never have,” he said.  “Before James’s death I was an advocate of the freedom of the South.  But after the death of James I did not care what became of the South.”
   “I do not care to see the world,” he said.  “No one comes, and if by chance 
they do, they shall have my welcome. I am content as I am.  The world gets on, 
I suppose, but how or in what way I do not care.  I take no papers, have no 
mail, communicate with no one.  We make our own sugar, flour and meal, raise 
our meat, grain and fruit. I take no interest in our government, and neither 
know or care who is Governor of Alabama or President of the Confederate 
Southern States of America.  I do no trading; my goods and slaves that I have 
satisfy me.  In more than twenty years I have not bought nor sold anything, 
from a box of pills to a slave.”

 RIP VAN WINKLE REDIVIVUS

   “I beg your pardon, Mr. Wiltsie,” I said, “but do you not know the history 
of the last twenty years.”
   “I know not and care less!” was the answer.  “I hope you do not propose to 
enlighten me.  If you do, as a matter of pity to me, I will excuse you.  I do 
not care to know.  The histories of times past that I read are just the same as 
that of times recent—names , dates and places being changed.
   “But surely you know the result of the rebellion?”
   He struck the table with his clenched fist, exclaiming excitedly, “I tell 
you once more that I do not know what has been done, and I do not care!”
   “I see that you suppose that the secession was successful?”
   “I suppose it!  I have never thought,” he replied.  “A well-made scheme is 
always successful.  Though little I care for citizenship, I am proud to be a 
citizen of the Confederate States.”
   “Why,” I said, “do you not know that the civil war resulted in suppression 
of the rebellion?  The secession was a failure.”
   The man glared at me and said nothing.
   “You spoke of slaves,” I continued.  “You do not own slaves now, do you!”
   He glared more fiercely, and did not answer.
   “There are no slaves in America,” I continued.  “Every slave in the South is 
a free person?”
   Still he glared then hissed:
   “Are you from New York?”
   “I am from Massachusetts.” I answered.
   “You are a fool,” he said.  “When Sam cam home at midnight saying that a 
crazy man had met him in the bottom lands, I knew whom to expect.  Sam ran away from you last night because he saw you were crazy.  But I thought then, and know now, that you are a Northern sorehead.  You have come here to amuse me with lies.” 
   Keeping my temper as well as I could, I looked him squarely in the face.
   “Mr. Wiltsie,” I said, “let me ask you a question.  Will you answer it 
directly?”
   “Well?” he said sharply.
   “Do you know that Alabama is still a member of the Union, as it was before 
it seceded?  And do you know that slavery has been abolished?”
After abusing and cursing me, he gave me a most emphatic “No”.
   There were four of five hours from the time of my arrival until I was shown 
to my room, and in that time I tried as well as I could to convince my host 
that I had told him that which was true.  But in vain were my efforts.  The old 
man was positive he was right, and confident that I was a liar.  We had supper, 
and at 8 o’clock he called his “slaves” in the house and we had prayers.  There 
were nine of the negroes—three men and four women, who gray-headed, and a girl in her teens, and a little boy.  They sat with bowed heads, and after the 
reading, went out.  Then Mr. Wiltsie signified that I had better retire, and 
one of the women took a tallow candle and conducted me to a chamber.  When my sable escort withdrew, she bolted the chamber door.  The two windows had 
already been nailed up.
   At 7 o’clock the next morning, I was let out of my prison, and sat at the 
master’s frugal breakfast immediately after.  He was very uncommunicative, and when the meal was over, before he had rung for    “Sam” to wheel out his chair, he said to me;
   “Good-bye!  You can be off as soon as you may please!”
   I said, “Good-bye,” and one of the servants showed me out.  My horse was at 
the door, and, when I rode off, it was in the opposite direction from which I 
had come the night previous.  After two days of hard riding, I arrived at Delhi 
plantation near Greenville, not having seen a person since leaving Mr. Wiltsie’s.  Not at all to my surprise, I found that the hermit planter’s nearest neighbors (forty miles from him) did not know of his existence, or that there was a plantation on the “Bottoms road.”