[Granville-Hough] 28 Apr 2009 - Uncle Ligie

[Trustees for Granville W. Hough]

Date: Tue, 28 Apr 2009 08:06:46 -0700
From: Granville W Hough <gwhough at oakapple.net>
Subject: UncleLigie - 28 April 2009

Uncle Ligie Hough.

Uncle Elijah ôLigieö Hough has just about faded from collective Hough 
family memory. Brother Donald Hough believes he remembers seeing him 
after he found DonaldÆs first pocket knife. I, Granville Hough, can 
remember him more clearly as a family member to be reckoned with, out of 
whose room you stayed, and whose chair you did not sit in or move. Older 
brother Dueward Hough said Uncle Ligie always had a friendly greeting, 
fire (a packet of matches in a sweat-proof container), a handkerchief, a 
sharp pocket knife, and a twist or plug of tobacco. (A twist of tobacco 
was one or two leaves of curing home-grown tobacco, twisted until it 
could be turned back in the middle and the ends joined together. Then 
you secured the ends by wrapping a smaller leaf around them to hold them 
in place until the twist was dry. You needed a sharp pocket knife to cut 
off a chew, but it was potent stuff. Uncle Ligie would share a chew with 
anyone he met, black or white.)
Uncle Ligie was born 23 Nov 1874 near Raleigh and died 8 Dec 1929 in 
Smith County at the Lisha and Lizzie Hough home between Mize and Magee. 
At some point in his youth, he probably had spinal meningitis which 
disabled his back so he could not stand upright. He himself could not 
remember that illness, but he could remember that an ox had stepped on 
him and broken his back. It may be that both events happened. (Many of 
us learned at an early age that cattle would step on your feet unless 
you got out of their way. They could step on your back only when you 
fell down and were too disabled to move.) At any rate, Uncle Ligie grew 
up disabled in body, but with a mind sharpened to compensate. As he had 
to depend on others, he also developed his social skills. He was 
remembered as a good talker, a hearty eater, a natural family historian, 
and an ardent Mason.
My mother, Lizzie Hough, developed her own methods of dealing with Uncle 
LigieÆs voracious appetite. Whatever food she had most of she placed in 
front of Uncle Ligie. If she had just enough to go around, she placed it 
in front of Lisha. On one occasion, she had prepared a dish which lasted 
meal after meal, recalled as hominy. She just could not get anyone to 
eat that hominy. She decided to talk it up as a special dish she wanted 
everyone to try. So, while she made her pitch on the special dish, she 
placed it in front of Uncle Ligie. He took his usual double portion and 
passed it on. To LizzieÆs relief, the whole platter was emptied. At the 
end of the meal, Uncle Ligie remarked, ôI tried hard, but I did not find 
anything æspecialÆ about that hominy.ö Everyone agreed with hearty 
laughter, and Lizzie could only say, ôWell, in that case, I am glad itÆs 
all gone.ö
Uncle Ligie and my father Lisha disagreed on Masonry as a secret and 
fraternal order. Uncle Ligie must have joined early in life at a lodge 
in or near Raleigh. Great Grandpa Sampson Arender was also a member, as 
were other members of the Salem Community. Uncle Ligie emphasized the 
fraternal, while Lisha emphasized the secret (something to hide). Uncle 
LigieÆs membership probably helped him as a cripple, and as a visitor to 
distant relatives on the Gulf Coast, in Louisiana, and in Texas. When 
Uncle Ligie came to live with Lizzie and Lisha, he was a respected 
member of the local Oak Hill Lodge, which had its meeting room in the 
Oak Hill Schoolhouse at Concord Baptist Church. He was lodge brother to 
LizzieÆs Richardson brothers. Like the school and church, the lodge 
membership was from both Smith and Simpson counties. Uncle Ligie left a 
trunkful of references on the history and functions of Masons. My 
mother, Lizzie Hough, eventually gave this trunkful of books to Mr. 
Archie Runnels, an aspiring Mason who wanted the books but had no means 
for buying them.
In growing up, brothers Elijah and Elisha both became E. Hough for mail 
purposes. Uncle Ligie would not change as he said he had the E. name 
first, and it was rightfully his. So Elisha became E. J. Hough, to avoid 
conflict, the J being initial only. Being older and very observant, 
Uncle Ligie must have felt Lisha should pay more attention to his advice 
than to that of others. In general, they got along well because Uncle 
Ligie avoided conflict. He worked hard at the tasks he could do and he 
endured the pain and frustration of his condition.
Lizzie and Lisha once had a conflict which would never have become known 
had not Uncle Ligie talked about it. Lisha had a tendency to tease 
people, and sometimes not too kindly. One day, he went too far with Lizzie.
Now, Uncle Ligie was set in his ways. He had his chair on the left side 
of the fireplace in the living room, which was also the bedroom for 
Lizzie and Lisha. After breakfast, Uncle Ligie would go sit by the fire 
and lean back against the wall in his chair, take out his twist of 
tobacco, cut off a "chaw of tobaccy," and chew it, spitting over his 
left shoulder into the fireplace. After about a twenty minute chew, he 
was ready for the dayÆs work.
After breakfast on this particular day, Uncle Ligie heard the rising 
crescendo of voices in the kitchen and wondered what was going on. Well, 
Lizzie always said she was feeling bad, was pregnant, and was in no mood 
to be teased on any subject. And whatever this subject was has been 
forgotten. Anyway, Uncle Ligie saw Lisha come laughing from the kitchen 
into the living room. Lizzie was close behind, mad as a hornet. Lizzie 
took a mighty swing at Lisha, who fell flat on the floor. From Uncle 
LigieÆs angle of view, he thought Lizzie had slapped Lisha down. He 
applauded, laughed heartily, and said: ôRound 1 for Lizzie. Lisha, it 
looks like you have met your match this time.ö He continued to laugh so 
heartily that he swallowed his chaw of tobacco and had to cough it up.
Lizzie always said she indeed swung at Lisha but he dodged and she did 
not even touch him. However, in dodging, he fell over a childÆs chair 
and wound up on the floor. Lizzie retreated in tears to the kitchen, 
Lisha left the house, and Ligie continued to chuckle. When Lizzie and 
Lisha got back together, they agreed on various mistakes, but the 
biggest of all was forgetting Uncle Ligie was there. They knew he would 
tell the story the rest of his life to any and all. They decided to let 
him have his fun, and that they would never admit or deny anything about 
the incident and say: ôWell, Ligie thought he saw something like that.ö
Uncle Ligie generally supervised any temporary hoe hands or cotton 
pickers Lisha hired. He got along well with colored neighbors and shared 
stories with them. Of course, they soon learned the story of his life, 
how he had never married, and had never had sex with a woman. This 
seemed to them to be an unnatural state, and they offered a solution.
In Dec 2003, my brother Donald asked me if I remembered Mandy Langston 
and how she sometimes came to our house. Of course, I remembered ôOle 
Mandy,ö but I could remember no surname. I could picture her as a tall, 
scrawny black woman who could carry things on her head. It may be in my 
imagination that we set aside various extra things we might have such as 
canned goods, potatoes, molasses, or vegetables from the garden, just in 
case ôOle Mandyö came by. We also had lard and coal oil (kerosene) and 
lye soap stored in our chicken house which we could and did share with 
Mandy. (Storing these items in the chicken house may sound strange, but 
it worked this way. These were barnyard chickens who worked that area 
and the fields close by. In the chicken house, we had a separate room 
for the setting hens, separated by wire mesh from the roosting chickens. 
In that room we kept the flammable kerosene and lard. If anyone tried to 
steal these items, the setting hens would squawk loudly enough to wake 
the dead.)
ôOle Mandyö would visit us periodically for years after Uncle Ligie 
died, and I never connected the two at all. My brother Donald told me in 
2003 that an older brother had once told him that Ole Mandy was the 
solution to Uncle LigieÆs sex deprivation. She was a widow past 
child-bearing age who was quite capable and very willing. She lived 
about two blocks away as a dependent of the William and Loney Langston 
family, who were our nearest neighbors. She and Uncle Ligie apparently 
worked out an ôarrangementö which satisfied their mutual needs. After 
Uncle Ligie died, I have a vague memory of brother Dueward once 
announcing at the supper table that someone had left fresh flowers on 
Uncle LigieÆs grave. To which my father said it was all right by him for 
anyone to put as many flowers as they wanted on Uncle LigieÆs grave.
After Mandy moved away about 1935, I did not think of her again until 
1984 when my daughter-in-law asked me about Amanda as a name for her 
expected daughter. I told her it was generally shortened to Mandy, and 
that I had only known black people with that name. I suggested Susanna, 
for my great grandmother, Susannah (Cole) Miller, who had been a pioneer 
settler in Smith County. So that is how my granddaughter was named Susanna.
I did not learn the full story of ôOle Mandyö until seventy-five years 
after the supposed events happened. If I chose to believe the events, 
then they explain why ôOle Mandyö was treated differently. If I choose 
not to believe them, I have no explanation. If Uncle Ligie and Mandy get 
to heaven, I hope first that they are not crippled or widowed. If there 
is in heaven such a thing as sex, then I hope they are able to make up 
for lost time if that is their desire.
When Uncle Ligie died from pneumonia in 1929, it may have been from 
getting wet and exposed while feeding the cane grinder at the molasses 
mill. The grinder crushed the cane and the cane juice collected in a 
barrel which fed downhill into the evaporating pan where the juice was 
boiled until molasses were made. The grinders were operated by a heavy 
pole lever which a mule pulled round and round. The cane feeder put the 
cane stalks into the grinders, but he had to duck each time the mule 
came around with the long pole lever. If he did not duck, he got bopped 
on the head, a most unpleasant experience. Uncle Elijah, not being able 
to stand upright, never got bopped; so he was a favorite cane feeder.
The main thing I remember about Uncle LigieÆs sickness and death was a 
personal victory of sorts. My brothers had cut the stovewood for the 
winter and split up most of it into the cooking size. It was in a large 
pile ready to be stacked when my brothers got diverted in 
molasses-making, taking Uncle LigieÆs place and doing other chores. My 
mother moved Uncle Ligie from his unheated north room into the ôboyÆs 
roomö where there was a fireplace and she could keep him warm and 
comfortable. She also had three younger children to care for. I went out 
to the woodpile where she could see me through the window and started 
stacking wood. I was six years old. I stacked a cord of wood that day, 
and I had to stop when there was no more split up.
Uncle Ligie died a day or two later. I am relatively sure there was no 
church funeral. He was buried in the Ware Cemetery on our Hough farm, 
and there was probably a graveside service. I do not remember being 
there. In 1936, when we placed a gravestone for Lisha Hough in Sharon 
Cemetery of Simpson County, we also placed gravestones in the Ware 
Cemetery for Uncle Ligie Hough and our sister born dead in 1914.