I was told once, by a navy lieutenant, that writing is second nature to man. A child is born making sounds but is taught to pick up a pen and write. I must confess that his argument sounded very convincing when I first heard it--in a bar in Pensacola. Of course the lieutenant and I had no problem expressing ourselves orally at the time, whereas now I can't even mouth a coherent sound. I must now look at his argument from a new perspective.
My counter argument is that man invented the spoken word to express the pictures that were appearing in his head and when he realized that "ugh" or "hubba" or whatever his first words may have been, did not quite convey the message he wanted to put forth, he drew a picture on his cave floor or cave wall. And the pictures in his head became pictures of mastodons or bison, drawn crudely at first, and he saved "ugh" or "hubba" for lovemaking or idle chatter. It is my contention, Dit Dit, that Paleolithic man first painted on his cave wall and along with some form of homeopathic black magic hoped to control the fate of animals. As the cave painters became more and more familiar with their craft, the pictures became more and more abstract--more schematic. Pictures became symbols that finally evolved into writing. It wasn't until later, much later, that he developed a system of oral signals, taken from the written symbols, which accurately described the pictures in his head. So it is my contention, contrary to what the lieutenant argued, that man first painted, then wrote, and finally spoke intelligently. To say that no man enjoys writing or that writing is second nature to man is tantamount to denying the natural evolution of the written word. I am willing to concede that written and oral communication evolved together, but I ask you, which is more permanent?
Today, hundreds of years since Paleolithic man lived, you can enter his head through his paintings. The symbols are still there living on the cave walls. Where are the discussions around the fire? They have gone the way of the caveman. But Paleolithic man still lives through his symbols. Man survives through symbols.
The spoken word cannot survive the test of time for it is as fragile and short-lived as man himself. Give me a cave wall or a blank page and I'll create symbols that will live beyond my life span. And someday someone may enter my cave. And maybe through some form of homeopathic black magic, I may control my fate. There is fulfillment in that, Dit Dit, more fulfillment than any man could ever want.
So why do I write? I write because I cannot paint and I cannot speak and I have a need to communicate the schematic of my world. My brush will be the pen. My cave walls will be these blank pages. You, Dit Dit, will be my audience, my critic, and my friend.
Welcome to my world:
The logical beginning is the past and the past begins with my grandfather, Francis P. Abernethy. I suppose you could say that the Abernethy world began with The Judge, as he became known to all, for whatever came before The Judge, came from The Judge.
He was born in a little one-room cabin with a dirt floor and animal skins for a bed somewhere in the wilds of Pennsylvania. His mother died giving birth to him. His father, a very inexperienced father, did very little to raise him; or that is what The Judge wrote in his journal many years later: "I never knew my father. I knew my mother better and I never met her. The only good thing he ever did for me was to teach me the alphabets and the Morse code. From my earliest remembrances my father was always away. He was either hunting, fishing or exploring--I was never sure which. By the time I was seven, I was used to staying alone for days, even weeks. One day he never returned. I waited. I waited a year for him, but he never returned. I was fourteen, almost fifteen, when I left the cabin."
My great grandmother owned very little and what she did own, The Judge inherited. He left the little cabin with the dirt floor and animal skins with a small gold locket and five books: two history texts, a geography text, Fielding's Tom Jones and a small dictionary. He sold the locket at the first town he reached to secure money enough to spend the evening in a boarding house and a little left over to travel. But the meager amount he received for the locket disappeared all too quickly. He sold the books next, but soon that disappeared, too. Aware that without money he would not survive for very long, he decided to join the Union Army, already at war with the Confederate forces. It did not take the army long to realize that The Judge knew the Morse symbols and they wasted no time training him to receive and send the code through a system of flags. So the Judge became a wigwagger for the Union Forces. At the age of fifteen he was "fighting" under Grant's forces at Fort Donelson when a stray bullet blew off most of his right kneecap. A crusty old sergeant dragged him nearly a mile to the field hospital. The Judge repaid him by stealing his pocket watch. He did so, he claimed, because the sergeant had ulterior motives for saving him. He never said what those were. The Judge would never walk again without a cane. He spent the rest of the war in Boston studying law.
My grandfather's journal, which I found hidden in Albert's grandfather clock, appropriately enough, does not deal with the time he spent studying law in Boston. Only one entry mentions it: "I left the blood and guts and mangled human misery of the field hospital and went to Boston to study law." With the next entry he is in New Orleans practicing law.
For whatever reason The Judge left Boston and came to New Orleans. There he began a rather obscure law practice and though he never wrote about it in his journal, I gather he spent more time wooing the young socialites than he did practicing law. I imagine he must have cut a fine figure with his full head of hair, his athletic jaw, his limp and his cane. Folded neatly in the journal were two old newspaper clippings dealing with my grandmother, Abigail Ann Bouillon: one announcing her engagement to The Judge and one announcing her marriage. According to the clippings she was a very beautiful and wealthy young widow of New Orleans upper social class. Two years after the wedding she gave birth to a son and like my great grandmother died giving birth. The irony was not lost on The Judge for he writes: "She died giving birth to George, just as my mother died giving birth to me. Perhaps we are lucky. Our mothers will always remain pure and fine and good and perfect in our memories. Time will never have the opportunity to distort our visions of them."
The Judge suddenly became a very rich man.
In another journal entry he writes: "I felt profound sorrow when Abigail died. It was as if my mother had died all over again. I remembered my father and I knew that I could not abandon my son as he had me." So the Judge gave up his law practice and cared for his infant son, living off his rather substantial inheritance. But money not invested will eventually run out and it took the Judge twelve years to realize that Abigail's money would not last indefinitely. Thirteen years after my grandmother died The Judge decided to marry again, and again he chose a beautiful wealthy young socialite from New Orleans, Alicia Tattersgall. Her father had been a pioneer in the oil industry, having been one of the first to sink a well in Western Pennsylvania, or rather his money was instrumental in allowing a well to be sunk. He died in 1888 leaving the bulk of his investments and fortune to his only child. Alicia in turn married The Judge and turned control of her fortune to him two years later. The Judge writes: "With Alicia's fortune I suddenly found myself not only rich but powerful, also. I knew that once I had tasted that power, I could never again do without it. I had seen my calling, and it was Power." Oil had a future and The Judge prospered, but it wasn't until Alicia died, of tuberculosis, and my father joined the company that the original inheritance doubled and the name of Abernethy Oil became a common name in the south. My grandfather ruled Abernethy Oil. He knew how to manipulate people. My father organized it into a working unit. He knew how to manipulate statistics and numbers. Together they created an empire where The Judge was god and emperor and Father was the administrator. It was a powerful and effective combination.
I never met The Judge, for he died the same month I was born. But he isn't exactly a stranger to me. I was able to learn a little about what he must have been like through the portion of his journal I read and the stories Albert, from his childhood memories, told about him. I never knew him, but I can always resort to what he wrote about his mother: Time will never have the opportunity to distort my vision of him.
The Judge was the beginning and when he died, part of the Abernethy family died with him. Sometimes I can feel his presence as if he still exists.
Strange, isn't it?
I never did finish his journal. It disappeared from the grandfather clock one night, so I know very little of his final years. Neither Father nor Mother will answer my notes on the matter. Perhaps by my next letter it will have reappeared.
Your friend,
Norman Abernethy
