Historical Society announces dedication

First, a special notice: The Town of Century and The Alger-Sullivan Historical Society announce a dedication ceremony for the unveiling of a state historic marker recognizing the Alger-Sullivan Lumber Company Residential Historic District in old Century.

The event will be held at 2pm on Saturday, April 21st at Front Street and Jefferson Avenue. The dedication will be followed by a small reception at Jones Park on Forth St. This is the first marker placed in north Escambia County since the 1960s.

Expected in attendance are residents of the district, members of the society, the mayor and members of the town council, our county commissioner and the general public.

A couple of stories have been bouncing around in my head for a while. They are not of any significance, just stories of working men. I thought that I might share a short version of both here. The first is from Mark Twain, first written in 1872 and recalled from a very irritating man who had a hatred for mining companies and who was later lynched for perpetual lying.

The second story is a personal memory and I swear that it is true, that is, as far as I know. I claim no eloquence to approach the author of the first, but offer only the gist of the story.

John James Godfrey was from Mississippi. He had made his way to California during the great gold rush and soon found work blasting for the Hayblossom Mining Company, or the “Incorporated Company of Mean Men” as called by its workers. Well, one day John James Godfrey was about his work.

He had drilled a hole about four feet deep, placed a goodly amount of powder and a fuse in the hole and was tamping it tight with an iron crowbar, when “whoosh”, the crowbar set a spark. Straight up into the air went John James Godfrey and his crowbar.

Up and up, higher and higher until he looked no larger than a boy. Well, he kept going up and up until he looked no bigger than a doll, and still higher and higher until he was no larger than a bee. Then, he disappeared. After a bit he was seen again. At first he was like a little small bee.

As he came down further and further he appeared the size again of a doll and still further the size of a small boy. Presently he was again the size of a full grown man, he and his crowbar whizzing down from the sky. John James Godfrey landed in his exact foot prints and his crowbar in the hole, he reached over and got to work ramming down and ramming down, as if nothing had happened.

Well don’t you know, the poor cuss was in the sky for only sixteen minutes, and yet the “Incorporated Company of Mean Men” docked his pay for lost time.

Andy, Calvin and I were telephone men. We worked during the years when those in this profession around Pensacola had a largely justified reputation of being a little off kilter. My friends’ many exploits became legend, here’s one story.

One day Calvin and Andy were sent to repair a cable in the ditch along a long rural highway. As a normal practice, the work truck was parked adjacent to the repair area and the passenger door left open to hear the radio and have a place to lean on cigarette breaks.

The two were sitting on the ground, working on the damaged cable when Andy noticed a large hairy dog sulking nearby. Andy’s “git!” was only answered with a side step and low growl from the cur. After several more shouts and a couple of rocks, the dog retreated and the men got back to work.

A few minutes later Calvin got up to stretch and found the dog looking at him with a smile from the seat of the truck. Calvin’s approach was then challenged with a series of barks and a retreat of the hound to the driver’s side. A meeting was called to see what might be done.

First, sandwiches were thrown near the door but were rejected, then a broom handle through a partly opened driver window was almost eaten away. One thing was sure, this dog was not man’s best friend. After more failed efforts Andy and Calvin were getting upset, it was close to beer time.

They decided to irritate the dog with some wasp spray squirted through the window; nothing. Calvin then said, “Dogs are scared of fire, I’ll light my torch, stick it into the window and chase him out”. The torch was lighted and held to the window, “whoosh”, a black cloud from the flaming wasp spray instantly filled the truck.

The hound leapt to the ground and into the nearby woods, with each bound lighting a fire from his burning tail to the underbrush followed by the duo madly swinging shovels at the new flames. After a few minutes the fires were out, the men then returned to the work yard and reluctantly explained the blackened truck interior to a skeptical vehicle manager.

The next day a lady stopped and told of her dog coming home with the hair burned off his tail. Of course, they knew nothing. After all, who would believe this story?