My grandparents Joe and Agnes Bordeaux walking through a peach orchard located across from my grandfather's childhood home outside of Lillington, N.C.
“There’s a lot of things coming up in your lifetime that . . . you should know and don’t know. But see, when somebody like your mother passes on, you’ve missed a good library, I assure you.”
Lillington Homecoming: In of Search Joe Matthews and the Past
By: Thomas Cluderay
"The only thing I know about Joe Matthews is his name was Joe and I was named after him," my grandfather Joe Bordeaux explains — or perhaps he's just thinking out loud in anticipation of the day. Leaning back in the passenger seat of the car, donning a Carolina blue shirt and his staple navy suspenders, he's speaking of his great grandfather, my great great great grandfather, a farmer and likely land investor who lived in central North Carolina more than a century ago. "One thing I'd like to see . . . is my great granddaddy's grave, Joe Matthews, on my mom's side. See, my grandmother was a Matthews, . . . his daughter."
It's an early-fall morning and we're driving from Raleigh to Lillington, N.C., not even an hour south on Highway 401. Sleepy, population less than 3,500, Lillington is tucked away in Harnett County. The Cape Fear's murky waters flank the town to the north and Fort Bragg watches over it from about 30 miles south. Lillington also is where my grandparents Joe and Agnes Bordeaux — Meme and Poppy to me — grew up. (Well, technically, Poppy lived outside of the limits making him forever a "country boy," while Meme was a "city girl," at least in their minds.)
Today, Meme and Poppy are making a homecoming of sorts, my mother driving and me in tow. If you follow the trip back to its headwaters, you'll find me musing with my grandparents over many months about joining them on a tour of their hometown and their deeply entwined roots. But really, I guess you could go back even further to a mélange of stories I've heard over the years about life in Lillington, from them and other family members. We now finally have a free weekend that works for everyone, even for the weather which casts a bluebird-egg sky over us, extending as far as the eye can see.
"Lillington was 1,500 people total (back then)," Meme is quick to point out. "You don't know what small towns are like (today) . . . . Everybody is dying out or leaving." Meme sits next to me in the backseat as my mom drives us. She's always loved loud colors and therefore I'm little surprised that she's wearing a brightly striped sweater and even brighter red pants. She also bears her revered brooch, which all of the women in my family borrow for special occasions.
Both 85-years-old, 65-years-married, Meme and Poppy have a lot to say about hobos, rationing and life with hardly pennies to rub together. Like other "Depression babies," they're not shy to give thanks for even simple things, simple being Lillington's essence when they lived there between the '30s and '50s. (Meme and Poppy moved to the Research Triangle when Poppy returned from Korea and they've been there ever since.)
"There's no question about it . . . we were true conservatives, we had to be because we didn't have that much to live on," Poppy says about growing up in that time.
As we approach Lillington, Meme asks me to pull out "little bitty" page from her green bag on the floorboard. I do so, handing it to her. Taking the page in her wrinkled hand, she begins to read off points of interest — "cemeteries for Joe and Agnes," "the Presbyterian Church," "Main Street," "where we worked" — floating places for me, but soon to grow dimension tied to physical space. Meme finishes reading and asks Poppy to weigh in, too. He thinks for a moment and mentions his family farm and again Joe Matthews' grave, but only if we have time — and can find it. Needless to say, we have a full day ahead.
Meme and Poppy arrive at my mother's house in Raleigh at 8:30 a.m., on the dot, just as we'd planned for this Saturday morning. Meme told me on the phone the night before that Poppy intended to wear shorts, but he shows up in khaki pants since "you're never sure who you'll see when you go back home." With my family's tendency to talk all at once, we greet each other juggling about three conversations (or more) at once. My stepfather is playing golf today, but wishes us well as we get on the road.
After a ways on 401, we start to hit a constellation of tiny communities, each one a little more steeped in memories as we close in on Lillington. When we reach Chalybeate Springs, just ten miles north, we pull off to make the first of many stops that day. We cross rusted tracks, worn down from countless trains over the decades. These very tracks once carried Poppy's parents Ethel and Vaden, my great grandparents, to Raleigh on their honeymoon in the late-20s. When they returned, Poppy's Uncle Meade played a joke on them by showing up at the train depot in an oxen-pulled cart, as if this would be Ethel and Vaden's ride home. Poppy tells me how his mother was mortified and wouldn't even look in his uncle's direction. Next to the tracks, Poppy points to what's left of his mother's parents' home, now overgrown with trees and brambles, you can still see the white structure and its faded green shingles. According to him, a general store used to stand just a few hundred yards beyond the house, Verlie Penny's Community Store, where you could find just about anything you needed. There's no sign of the store today, only a cluster of shaggy pine trees. Meme and Poppy also recall when gypsies and hobos used to pass through in their early days, the middle of the Great Depression. Those days are long gone.
Next on our trip, we stop at Chalybeate Springs Baptist Church where Poppy's parents are buried as well as many other Bordeauxs and Hamiltons. Poppy's grandfather Jack Hamilton was a deacon when the church organized the cemetery, which now sprawls across the road until it reaches pasture. Poppy's grandfather died in '34 making him one of the oldest there, he says. As we walk among the tombstones, Poppy points to his parents' graves ("Now this is Daddy Vaden . . . . He has a great great grandchild named after him, Vaden, Blair's son," and "This is mother, Ethel, and 'H' is for Hamilton"). He also shows me where his brothers and sisters' graves are ("Wilton was three years older than I . . . . He died in '86" and "Now this is my sister Charlotte, she's the last one we put out here"). The plot is nearly full, save for maybe one more space, but Poppy has a story to impart for just about everyone here as we pay our respects.
My mother Randi holds Poppy's arm to help him maneuver the cemetery's uneven ground as we tour the family graves.
Meme and Poppy examine Poppy's grandmother Alice Hamilton's grave, which is missing its cement cover.
It's late-morning when enter Lillington, crossing over a bridge spanning the Cape Fear and then turning onto Main Street. The town, itself, is barely four square miles in size. It came to be in the 1870s, named after Revolutionary War Patriot John Alexander Lillington, but wasn't chartered by the state until the turn of the century. It's also the county seat.
The stores along Main Street extend just a couple of blocks, if that. As we walk down it, Meme recalls how she used to work on Saturdays at Atkins Brothers Mercantile, a merchandise and clothing store, as well as at other shops in her teens, running home for lunch before returning for the afternoon shift. Meme notes how she "worked for probably 25-50 cents an hour" back then, knowing she "couldn't have made over 50 cents an hour." Atkins Brothers has long since closed its doors, like many of the other old businesses downtown, making way for (a few) new ones. Even the old courthouse, built in 1897, was torn down in 2003. As far as we can tell, only the barbershop remains, tucked away in an alley just off of the sidewalk.
Meme walks down Main Street, peering into shop windows along the way.
Meme speaks to a family leaving the Fall Festival taking place a few blocks away.
Meme shares memories about life in downtown Lillington, including how her younger brother Joe P. would ride down Main Street in a cart pulled by his billy goat, charging anyone willing to join him 25 cents a ride. "That was the meanest looking goat," she tells me. (Her brother now lives in Florida.) For lunch, we grab a table at Sweet Magnolias Grill, which used to be Johnson and Bryan Stores, a food and supply store with a large meat shop in the back. We order pimento cheese and Reuben sandwiches, chips and fried okra. While we wait on our food to arrive, Meme proudly tells the server about our homecoming tour.
Close to Town Hall is Lillington's Centennial Plaza, a small red-brick square flanked by polished granite benches with a large iron clock rising up from the center. Tiny American flags sprout up in the landscaping, likely leftover from the Fourth of July some weeks ago. The town dedicated the plaza in 2003 and the bricks bear the names of the town folk who made contributions to make that happen.
Meme's siblings got a brick in memory of their parents, Joe P. and Irma Smith, which we find along the walk.
Meme and Poppy have a plaza brick with their names and graduation year on it.
Not everyone is leaving Lillington as Meme suggests. In fact, my brother-in law Will, who recently married my sister Rackin, has opened up an independent pharmacy in the town with a fellow classmate. Today is Lillington's Fall Festival, so we're pleased to see Will set up downtown with a stand for people to stop by and get their season's flu shots. We each get one while we visit. The festival has brought lots folks out for arts and crafts, hamburgers and hot dogs, and live music. (Speaking of pharmacies, despite Lillington's size in the '40s, it once had two drug stores just across the street from each other on Main Street, McPherson Drug Company (later Kelly Drug) and LaFayette Drug Company. According to Meme, you just went to one or the other, but she couldn't tell you why.)
Meme and Poppy graduated from high school in 1948 in a class of only 28 students. The school where they went, built in 1926 and where Meme's mother Irma also taught, is still there. A few additions have been made over the years, but the red-brick steps to the entrance are just as they once were.
Poppy played baseball in high school on this very field, having "a right fair ball club for country boys."
The football field remains in the same place, too, although the school has removed the old bleacher stands save for their cement foundation which sticks up out of their earth near the far fence line.
Meme and Poppy got married young like so many people at that time. Meme had gone away to college for a year in Greensboro, N.C., and returned to save money for a car. A local politician saw promise in her abilities and helped to line up a post with a congressman in Washington, D.C. Meme says she turned down the offer though because she wanted to get married, she was in love. Neither Meme nor Poppy remember the wedding proposal, only that Poppy was nervous about getting married and that it was likely Meme who popped the question.
When asked if he was nervous on his wedding day, Poppy emphatically says, "Yes . . . . because I didn't know whether it was the thing to do or not." Back then, he explains, marriage was a new concept for the two of them. Of course, that's now been more than 65 years ago. Meme tells me she remembers two things about that day. She first remembers Poppy cutting pine branches from behind the Presbyterian church to place on the altar as decorations. She also recalls cutting her leg badly with a razor in the tub before getting into her wedding dress that morning, requiring attentive care from her sisters to stop the bleeding. When asked what her parents thought about their wedding, Meme says, "Listen, my mother had had so many children and so many marriages, I don't even know if she paid much attention to it." Yet, despite their wedding's lack of fanfare and pageantry, it's clear that Meme and Poppy love each other.
Meme describes their honeymoon as "a riot," with a comedy of errors leading them to a hunting lodge on Lake Waccamaw, near Wilmington, N.C., followed by a night out on Holden's Beach, with no running water, not even an outhouse. In fact, it was an outhouse that Poppy gave Meme as a wedding present when they returned to Lillington. They laugh about it now and also take stock of how far they've come in the world since then. Meme and Poppy might not have had another vacation for 15 years, but ended up raising three children, my mother and uncles Tom and David, while creating a family construction business which is still going strong today. They also have nine grandchildren and now two great grandchildren.
“My former boss man, Bill Johnson, he was an attorney, he was my mentor, and everything I know he taught me. . . . He was behind so many things I did, because I respected him so much, and decisions I would make.”
Bill Johnson's office, where Meme worked for four years, was located above the old barbershop. Mr. Johnson passed away a few years ago, but a sign with his name on it still hangs outside of his old home, not too far away. Meme recalls how he was a skilled gardener with a beautiful yard and how "he went over every Wednesday and plowed his daddy's farm."
We stop by the cemetery where Meme's parents Irma and Joe are buried. I learn a bit about them over the course of the day. Her father lost his Chevrolet dealership in the Depression, a blow from which he never fully recovered. Meme's mother, who taught Meme in 5th or 6th grade, also made the best fried chicken every Sunday. Poppy remembers her cooking vividly. "I don't know how she cooked it," he says, but "I wish I knew how . . . . I'd open a place and I'd be bigger than Kentucky Fried Chicken."
Well into afternoon now, we leave Lillington for Poppy's old family farm outside of town where he spent many days working in the tobacco fields. Poppy came from a large family, mostly boys, which meant that the house was always full. When he was younger, Poppy's parents often dropped the children off at his Aunt Rena's house for the night, which was just down the road. Poppy refers to Aunt Rena's place as "his second home." He also recalls a large currant tree next to that house, which he and his brothers would climb. (The tree is no longer there.)
After driving past fields of tobacco and soybeans, we finally approach Poppy's old family farm. "It's a little further up," my mother points out. "Right here, right here, yeah," Poppy says. The farmhouse is set off of the road a bit, nestled under a clump of towering oaks, down a gravel drive. Pulling up to the cream-colored house you see two American flags hanging out front and a sleepy dog stretches and walks out to greet us nervously. Poppy's father built the house years ago out of pine lumber. The family sold the farm after Poppy's mother died in '92. Meme walks up to the front porch to sit for a moment while Poppy sees if the current owner is home.
The farm's owner comes out to greet us. She's been knitting in the same room Poppy's mother once did and she is impressed to learn that Poppy grew up here and that it was his father who built the place. The woman's family has been living here since 2000, she tells us. She and Poppy then go over particulars about the place with him asking whether the well still works and noting how the crawl space under the house has been filled in. The old tobacco barn out back recently collapsed, she notes.
My mother takes Poppy's arm and the two of them explore the front yard. He recalls how his mother took it upon herself to repaint the house when his father died. According to him, no one liked the rust-red color she painted the trim with, but they all kept their opinions to themselves out of respect for her.
Poppy stands in his old driveway and points up to the trees that form a canopy overhead and web of shadows on the sandy ground beneath. According to Poppy, his father planted these trees when he built the house, originally three oaks, but then a dogwood when one of the oaks died.
Poppy recalls how he used to spend time in the orchard across from the family farmhouse. "You saw that (peach) orchard," he says to me. "I have walked those rows many a time holding a plow handle." He also remembers hunting (mostly quail) and trapping rabbits with his rabbit boxes.
Meme and Poppy mention several times during the day how rarely they went to a doctor growing up. If you really needed to go to a hospital you went to Raleigh, Meme explains, "but you didn't go to the doctor unless you were dying — I'm serious." If you got badly cut up, Poppy tells me that you just cleaned things up with kerosene.
As we cross over the Cape Fear again later in the afternoon, Poppy tells me about a record flood the town experienced in the '40s, where the swollen river spilled over its banks and just about every ditch and crossing in town was rendered impassable. Cooped up for days, Poppy and his brothers eventually decided they needed to go to the store by mule. The trip proved to be an undesirable one with the mule getting mired in the mud and Poppy breaking his arm trying to dismount before they both sank any farther. Years before the concrete bridges were built you crossed the Cape Fear River at Lillington by ferry.
After visiting Poppy's family farm, Meme and Poppy start to feel the day catching up with them — we've covered a lot of ground and after all they're 85-years-old. But Poppy isn't quite ready to call it quits, with us still needing to find Joe Matthews' grave. As we're retracing our way back to 401, Poppy suddenly points to a house on a curve where a man is sitting in a chair. "Right there, Randi," he says to my mother. "Pull in right there." We pull in as he's instructed and my mother rolls down the window. Poppy calls out to the man who cautiously approaches. There's an old family cemetery near here, Poppy tells him, not real big or anything, but just off of the road. Poppy says he thinks the plot is "up yonder," pointing, and asks if the man knows anything about its location. The man chews on the question and then tells him he thinks there are some tombstones on the next farm, which you can see just before the road bends. He then advises us to knock on the farmer's door to get permission before our search continues. After thanking him, we take his advice and drive up to the next house. We're hopeful the farmer is home when we knock as there are old school buses lined up in the side yard, their tops sawed off and tobacco leaves piled high ready for transport. Poppy gets out of the car using his cane and makes his way to the door. Fortunately, the farmer comes out as he's seen us pull in. Poppy asks again about an abandoned family plot and much to our delight the farmer nods and says there's one up in a grove of trees at the edge of the property. He points and we see the trees, not two hundred yards away. As we head there, the farmer tells us to help ourselves to some grapes growing on a vine over there. A few moments later we get out of the car again and make our way through the underbrush, careful not to cut ourselves on the brambles and watching out for ticks. Pushing past, we come up to a low cement wall with a cut in it as an entrance and beyond that there are two gravestones, both with the name "Matthews" inscribed on them. "Oh it's right — there are the tombstones, see they've got the old wall," my mother says excitedly upon our discovery. "That's it, I'll be darned," Meme says, too. Poppy sees it, too, relishing locating what he'd had in his mind to find all along, the resting place of his great grandfather Joe Matthews.
“MATTHEWS / Joseph H. Matthews / Aug. 28, 1830 / Apr. 2, 1888 / Elmira Matthews / Aug. 12, 1839 / Dec. 31, 1927 / Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God. / By Their Daughter Dora”
And so we did what we set out to do, find Joe Matthews and the past as Meme and Poppy bring their homecoming to a close. The trip breathes new life into stories I've heard them tell over the years, stories pulled from the dusty shelves of their minds' libraries, recorded and hopefully preserved now for future generations in our family. Driving back, I take a moment to appreciate this opportunity to go back and see where everything began for my grandparents, providing a richer understanding of how far they've come from those days on Main Street and in the tobacco fields, and for how much they've sacrificed to give all of us — my mother and my uncles, my sisters, my cousins, and now Meme and Poppy's great grandchildren — possibilities that were unimaginable in their day growing up. I also realize the importance of knowing where you come from, if you have that chance, for as I was rubbing my fingers over Joe Matthews' gravestone I felt my great great great grandfather as very much alive. After all, as Faulkner once wrote, "The past isn't dead. It isn't even past."
Concluding our homecoming tour, I join Meme and Poppy for a photo at the edge of a field. According to them, the field once had an airway beacon tower standing in the middle, its rotating light guiding planes to Fort Bragg. Radar and radio have long since replaced the towers as means for guiding planes to runways. In fact, most of the old towers were broken down and used for materials in World War II.