The holiday season gives us an opportunity to reflect on the best qualities of our fellow men, both through the sparkle of our children’s eyes as they look to an exciting future and to the memories of those now past who did a little good in their lifetimes. The name of one such good man from our past seems to return to my mind on occasion, Mabry Dozier.
Mabry came to Century shortly after graduating college where he began work at the saw mill. He soon married into a local family and over the years his company position progressed until he was a senior executive. Years after the mill closed, he was very involved in organizing our historical society. He donated and moved the old Post Office to our park, a building that he had saved from demolition and had stored on his property, and during the early 1990s he wrote several articles in this space which were often first-hand accounts of the folks who lived here. Much of those lives would be largely unknown if not for these notes. Thank you Mr. Dozier for writing this one.
An acquaintance had kind words for me the other day when he told me that he read my column and enjoyed it every week. I told him that I never knew from one week to the next what I would write. Early every Sunday morning I sit before my typewriter, spin a piece of paper into the machine, and the topic comes to me.
Every day is an experience worth writing about for anyone if we would just take note of it. Our life is a succession of moments, good and bad, as each of us race through days, weeks, months, and years to our common end. I take notes of these moments as if to say, “look, I’ve been here. See my marks upon the wall.” I feel compelled to write it down or the incident will be gone forever.
For instance, on Saturday, I was on an errand when I saw that a Century policeman had stopped Dempsey Grissett in his yellow pickup truck. They both had pulled into a parking lot. The blue light of the patrol car was flashing and Dempsey was waving his hands and arms as he talked to the policeman. I thought to myself, “Now what has Dempsey done wrong?” I went into the store and in a few minutes, Dempsey came in and spoke to me. I said, “Dempsey, why did the law stop you?” He said, “The man said I had the wrong tag on my old truck. I told him that it was the tag they sold me down at the tag office and I don’t know why they’d sell me the wrong tag.” Dempsey had the bill of his cap turned slightly sideways, as he always does. “He called on his police radio about my case and found out he was wrong about it, I guess, ‘cause he let me go.” “Dempsey,” I said, “All the years I have known you, you have been able to talk your way out of trouble.”
I was thinking about an incident that occurred years ago at the green chain of the old Alger sawmill. It involved Dempsey and his old white mule named “Scott”. My silence about the incident saved Dempsey his job. I’ll not tell about it, as it is our secret.
Dempsey would take on hauling jobs with his mule and wagon such as hauling fire wood and the like. He would also plow garden spots in the spring, breaking up new ground for folks. One day, years ago, I hired Dempsey to break up some ground for me so I could plant a garden. He came with his mule and wagon. I watched him as he unhooked the wagon and hitched the plow. An awfully foul smell passed our way and I said, “Whew! Dempsey, what’s that I smell?” Dempsey said, “That’s that old mule.” I said, “I don’t see how you stand it.” “It’s good for you,” Dempsey said. “That’s why I have good health. I never have a cold. You follow behind that mule all day and it will keep your head clear.”
The old white mule died long ago and now I see Dempsey, from time to time in his pickup truck. He is 73 years old now and he still wears his cap on crooked. He said his health is fair, but that in March his “blood went up” and he had to cut back on his “living”.
Dempsey, I love you. This is one of the moments that I record. – MFD
On behalf of The Alger-Sullivan Historical Society, we wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.
