12 - The Pinebluff Sanitarium, Doctor Kemp, Robert Mitchum and Aunt Henrietta

    

Bad boy Mitchum (photo RKO)

     I had almost forgotten about the Pinebluff Sanitarium until Johnny Mills, an old family friend and blog supporter, reminded me of its place in local history.   Johnny is a passionate collector of history of the Sandhills, and as a native of Pinebluff, he is particularly fascinated by its heritage.

      Just for memory, my hometown of Aberdeen, North Carolina, is ringed by other little towns of varying interest --Southern Pines, Pinehurst and Pinebluff-- none further away than two or three miles.

     When I was growing up, Pinehurst was a decidedly upscale, rather exclusive privately-owned village, renowned for its golf courses.  We Aberdeenians more often than not had little reason to go there. Southern Pines was more down to earth, but still much more prosperous than Aberdeen, and at that time boasted a number of quaint hotels and golf clubs, of which Aberdeen had none.  Lastly, there was the sleepy little village of Pinebluff, which had once aspired to some of the tourist luster of its other "pine" neighbors.  By my day, it was pretty much an extension of Aberdeen, sharing its school and some of its churches.  It had nevertheless maintained a special, picturesque demeanor with many acres of beautiful longleaf pines, recalling its earlier, mostly unsuccessful ambitions to attract wealthy tourists.

      Pinebluff's most ambitious tourism project was undoubtedly a grand hotel built in 1925, an impressive Tudor structure modeled after a Swiss watch factory.  It was framed by a lush woodland of nearly 50 acres, and built to lure seasonal visitors from the North.

      Whereas restaurants in the South, then as now, have always touted "southern cooking", the Pinebluff Inn distanced itself from its cultural environment by promising in its publicity "only the most refined northern cooking."

      Unfortunately for its investors (which included the aforementioned Johnny's grandfather), the hotel had its fate sealed with the arrival of the Great Depression in 1929.   It limped along for awhile, but soon shut its doors, later declaring bankruptcy.

      A young psychiatrist discovered the property a few years later, and  bought the hotel along with its plush pine woods for what was said to be a song.  Most of the elegant inn's furnishing was still intact, and Doctor Malcolm Kemp --a debonair, chain-smoking lady's man and a Northern transplant himself--  turned the property into a psychiatric sanitarium with a minimum of refurbishment.  When I was growing up, the Pinebluff Sanitarium was to many Sandhillians a mysterious and foreboding institution.  Some of the more uninformed simply thought of it as the loony bin hidden in the woods.

          In fact, although shock treatment was used with a disconcerting frequency and some now-questionable LSD experimentation was carried out long before the hallucinogenic drug was discovered by the hippy generation, the majority of Dr. Kemp's "guests" were there of their own volition for a fairly pampered drying-out vacation.  The clinic was to a large degree run like a sophisticated vacation lodge.

     Some were not so attracted by a Pinebluff vacation.  Like my Aunt Henrietta, who in widowhood had developed an increasingly noticeable penchant for scuppernong wine.   When she showed up tipsy at church two Sunday mornings in a row, it was the last straw for my straitlaced Grandmother Pleasants who reached out to other family members for assistance. 

     When Aunt Henny saw herself railroaded into the sanitarium by one of her equally hard-drinking sisters, she steadfastly refused to cooperate. The first night the nurse brought in a tiny shot of whiskey, part of the drying-out process, and placed it on her bedside table.  She never so much as acknowledged its presence.  She didn't drink it, and she refused subsequent medication of any kind.  Two days later, when she finally obtained a rendezvous with Dr. Kemp, she calmly explained that any further detainment would result in a law suit.  She was released within the hour.

      The sanitarium's most notorious guest was undoubtedly film star Robert Mitchum.  His stay became part of Pinebluff folklore, now difficult to separate fact from fiction.

      
      Mitchum was known as Hollywood's bad boy.  He had served a well-publicized jail term for smoking marijuana back when people cared, and he was generally known as a hard drinking hell raiser whose binges could play havoc with a film's budget.  Producers were wary, but his star power was enormous in 1957 when he came to North Carolina to film "Thunder Road" near Asheville.  

     When he reported for work clearly off the wagon, it was decided by producers and insurance representatives that a few weeks at Dr. Kemp's Pinebluff establishment would be of mutual benefit to all concerned.   Mitchum was not in agreement, but he was given little choice.  Under a certain coercion, he signed himself in for an undetermined period of abstinence.

 

Mrs. Collins circa 1963

   It is at this point that accounts tend to diverge.  The only certainty is that the film star was one of the sanitarium's least pleasant visitors.  He was said to have taken an immediate dislike to Doctor Kemp, and refused to even speak to the sanitarium's occupational therapist, Mrs. Collins, a charming Southern lady who was eager to meet the star and get him involved in basket making.  Throughout his short stay he regularly made fun of the doctor in front of other patients and repeatedly ridiculed Kemp's old-fashioned spats.

     There is no documented evidence of how long the uncooperative actor stayed, though it is generally agreed that he left earlier than planned and against doctor's advice.  All accounts concur that he did not depart entirely cured, as tales of his alcoholism continued throughout his lengthy and successful career.  

     The Pinebluff Sanitarium had a much longer life than the hotel which preceded it.   Dr. Kemp continued to run the institution into his seventies; and by the time he finally retired in 1967, he was unable to sell the imposing property.   Left to abandon and still fully furnished (including a fine concert grand piano in the main salon), it burned to the ground in 1975.   I had my own dealings with Dr. Kemp and the sanitarium in its later years, but then that is another story altogether.

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

 Grandmother Pleasants was also mentioned in Hotel Musings No. 2 "Grandmother Pleasants and Mrs. Kennedy";  Hotel Musings No. 4 "A Two-dollar Hamburger Under A Silvery Dome" and in Musings and Meanderings No. 10 "Ousting Mrs. Oliver".  Aberdeen was earlier featured in Hotel Musings No. 26 "Babe Ruth's 60th Home Run."   (to access, click on highlighted titles).

10 - Ousting Mrs. Oliver

Piano playing days circa 1955

        
       Mrs. Lucile Oliver was my grammar school piano teacher.  She was from one of the Dakotas, and she used to tell me no matter how cold it got in Aberdeen, that South Dakota was a lot colder, how it started snowing in October and didn't stop until March or April.  I have always liked extremes, whether it be weather or anything else; and when I was a kid I dreamed of finding somewhere extremely different from Aberdeen, so for awhile I thought of one day living in South Dakota.

     She was a little on the dumpy side, with a sheaf of salt and pepper hair piled atop her head much like the hairdos at the turn of the 20th Century.  Her 1950's horn-rimmed glasses completed the schoolmarm look.   Which is all to say, no glamour girl was she!

    I was kind of her star pupil when I was about eight or nine.  I had no special talent, but I seem to remember managing an okay-version of  “Fur Elise” at about that time.  My Aunt Ruth in neighboring Southern Pines was particularly proud of my musical abilities, and she once  arranged for me to perform on the new grand piano of one of her daughter's boyfriends.  My big memory of that occasion was when my host pulled a cord and tassel, and summoned the butler to bring me a Coca-Cola.  Needless to say, there were no butlers in Aberdeen, and I shouldn't think there are any left in Southern Pines by now either.  

     My grandmother Pleasants, who was an accomplished musician and who played the church organ for several decades, also sang my praises, but I don’t think anyone outside of the family was very interested one way or the other in my piano playing.  At any rate, I was never very motivated, and preferred playing the sheet music of the day rather than my more serious assignments.  I was nevertheless always fond of Mrs. Oliver, and I feel sure that it was mutual.

     She had her piano classes in the grammar school building. I don’t know exactly how it worked, as I don’t suppose she was officially part of the faculty; but she was somehow subsidized by the school, and her pupils also paid something extra for the lessons.  It was certainly considered a plus for the Aberdeen School, and for a number of years it worked out well for Mrs. Oliver also.

     I guess it was when I was about twelve that people started to whisper.  It is one of the unfortunate things about small town life, as opposed to a more anonymous bigger city.  When there is anything perceived as gossip-worthy, things can quickly get out of control.  Long before personal computers, gossip could go viral in no time.

     That’s what happened with poor Mrs. Oliver.  

     Apparently she was having a liaison with a married man.  I don't think I ever knew who the other party was.  The scandal clearly centered around her, and it was almost as though he were considered an innocent bystander.  It wasn't long after the rumors began that I heard there was a movement to get rid of her. 

     
     Mrs.  Lewellyn was the ring leader.  She was a former school teacher and was known as a busybody.  She was also a rather astute politician, and had recently been appointed to a place on the school board.  My mother had never much cared for her, and when it came to light that there was a petition being circulated, Mother uncharacteristically jumped to the defense of Mrs. Oliver.  I say “uncharacteristically” because both my parents tended to flee confrontation.  Along the way, they communicated this dislike of open conflict to me, and I must say that it has served me very poorly throughout life, because it is pretty certain that those who know how to confront get along a lot better than those who don’t!

      Mother did enlist some of her friends to start up a counter petition, but it was too late.  The anti-Oliver movement had taken off like wildfire, and there was no turning back.

       It split the town, at least in my eyes.   Even one of our family's oldest friends signed the vigilante petition.  The friendship didn't really survive, though the initial hard feelings mended as the years went by.  I never forgot, however, and I never forgave.  
  
     Anyway, Mrs. Lewellyn finally had her way.  The school board gave little resistance.  The fact that the families of most of Mrs. Oliver’s pupils counter-petitioned for her to stay had little effect.  It was a moral issue, and she was pronounced not up to standard to teach Aberdeen’s little musicians.

     When  her contract was terminated (dramatically before the end of the school year) I joined a handful of her students to follow her, and she tried to make a living teaching in each student’s home.  But it was a losing battle.  Thinking back on it, I still feel a tiny bit of guilt, because I chose this moment when her classes must have been so important to her, to decide I no longer wanted to play the piano.  I was oblivious at the time, and no more than 13, so it was hardly a condemnable act on my part.   

     She soon folded up shop and left the area for good.  I think she went back to South Dakota.  It turned out she had been diagnosed with a terminal cancer about the time that petition was being circulated.  No one had known.  I corresponded with her for a short time --with a lot of parental pushing-- but I wasn’t very persevering, and like so many teenagers encouraged to do the right thing, I soon lost interest.

     She died a little more than a year after leaving the area.  Her funeral service was held in Aberdeen, I cannot imagine why.  It was the first funeral I ever attended, so I remember it well.   The thing I recall the most was seeing Mrs. Lewellyn there, she and some of the others who had signed the petition.    

     There was a rather tawdry novel at the time which had a huge national success, “Peyton Place.”    It was a study of the dark side of small town America, and had recently been made into a hit movie with Lana Turner.  I remember thinking when I saw Mrs. Lewellyn at the funeral, what a great scene to slip into “Peyton Place!”    


 

... Some more Southern reminiscences

Friend Joel Fletcher, art dealer in Fredricksburg,Virginia, author and grand raconteur, responds to today's posting with some of his own Southern memories, growing up in Louisiana:

     It is the kind of thing that would have happened in Ruston, Louisiana, the
town in northern Louisiana where both my parents were born; not as likely in
then Cajun and much more tolerant Lafayette where I grew up.

     Mother told me a story about a young couple who moved to Ruston in the
1920s.  The husband got a job coaching at the local high school. One day,
just as the wife was about to get in the bathtub, she remembered that she
had forgotten to put in the window the card that indicated to the ice man
how much ice she wanted. She wrapped herself in a towel and went to the
kitchen. She was halfway across the room when the back door started to
open (doors were never locked in Ruston then)  and she did not have time
to run back to the bathroom; so she ducked into the kitchen closet and was
squatting uncomfortably on the gas meter when suddenly the door to the
closet opened and there was the gas man come to read the meter.  With no
presence of mind, she shouted: "I was expecting the ice man!"   Everyone in
town knew about it by that evening, and the couple were shunned by the entire
town and soon moved away.

     Lafayette, in the heart of Cajun country, was very different from Ruston
where my grandmother and aunts lived on what was known as "Presbyterian
Hill."  Even as a young boy I knew about the whore house on Jefferson Street
on the other side of the railroad tracks. And I grew up hearing whispers of
adultery.  When one prominent business man was caught having an affair, his
wife punished him, according to my father, by not leaving him so she could
make him miserable for the rest of his life.

     When I was again living in Lafayette in the 1970s, one day my mother
startled me when the name of the wife of the town photographer came up in
conversation and Mother casually mentioned that during the war, when her
husband was away, the photographer's wife "worked as a prostitute at the
Terrace Hotel," as if it were a perfectly normal thing to have done.

     I also took piano lessons, but only very briefly.  My teacher was Miss
Rosenthal, sister-in-law of the wealthiest man in Lafayette, Maurice
Heymann, who owned the local department store and after the war built the
Oil Center for offshore business that was responsible for much of
Lafayette's prosperity during the oil boom years.  Mr. Heymann had met his
wife in France during the First World War and she came with a spinster
sister who was a musician. I began taking piano lessons from Miss Rosenthal
when I was about 7 or 8. Somehow I was terrified of  her. Not only did she
have a strange accent, but she made me balance dimes on my fingers when I
was practicing. I was almost relieved when I came down with a very severe
case of scarlet fever that kept me at home for many months of convalescence.
When I at last recovered, I never went back to piano lessons.

     When I returned to Lafayette in the 1970s, I got to know Miss Rosenthal
slightly and realized that she was a very sweet, shy person, and I wondered
how I could ever have been so frightened of her.  By the early 1980s, she had
become a little confused. I once saw her driving slowly through town with
her purse on the roof of her car. And about this time I heard that she had
gone into the First National Bank to make a deposit wearing only her slip
and a pair of shoes.

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Aunt Ruth is also featured in  "Renata" from  Musings and Meanderings No. 4; Mother and Aunt Ruth in "Thanksgiving, Ruth and Dickie" from Hotel Musings No. 49; Grandmother Pleasants in Hotel Musings No. 2 "Grandmother Pleasants and Mrs. Kennedy" and Hotel Musings No. 4 "A Two-dollar Hamburger Under A Silvery Dome"    (to access, click on highlighted titles).

8 - Hazeline and Josephine

Hazeline and Josephine, Midway 2003

     Hazeline and Josephine were twin sisters who sometimes looked after me when I was a small child.  They were little more than a dozen years my senior, so they would have still been in their teens then, and their job was presumably confined to baby sitting.  They were the children of Leanna who worked for many years for Renata Fairchild (see musings no. 4, "Renata").  Hazel and Jo sometimes worked for Renata also, helping out in the kitchen.

     Growing up in the Sandhills as black females was certainly no bed of roses in the 1940's.  As soon as they were old enough, they headed North where life was supposed to be easier.  In many ways it was, but they were disappointed to discover that the same racism they had grown up with was just as prevalent in Philadelphia or New York as back in Aberdeen.   Prejudice manifested itself differently, often more discreetly, but it was never far away.          

     They eventually found relative financial security, working in a variety of factory jobs, sometimes taking domestic work. They had several husbands between them, and plenty of children and grandchildren.  When I next saw them in the 1990's, Hazel was already a proud great grandmother.

     For as soon as they were able to retire, they had what seemed to me to be an odd dream --to move back to Aberdeen!   And even odder in my view, the first person they thought to reacquaint themselves with was one of their old employers, my mother.

     Mother was never anything of a liberal, but neither was she particularly retrograde.  During the South's difficult period of desegregation, after the federal laws had long been passed, she tended to say that she wasn't against change, just thought it needed more time.  Most of the blacks felt that a hundred years or more was plenty long enough!

     Things may have been tough when the twins were growing up, but by the time they returned as mature women, life in the South had profoundly changed.  More than the North, they told me more than once.  For people like themselves, of modest means, living in the Sandhills now seemed infinitely preferable to the alternative in a big city ghetto.   I think Mother was as happy to see them as they were to see her, and she enthusiastically  piled them into the car, and off they went to visit all the old ladies --Juanita, Gala, Ulma and the others-- who had once been employers to them or to their mother. Everyone was truly delighted to see them and to welcome them back to the area.

     As children, they couldn't do most of the things that I would have taken for granted.   You tend to  read more about separate water fountains or riding in the back of the bus, but these were ultimately minor inconveniences when you think that they couldn't even go into the drugstore to spend their money.  And of course they weren't allowed anywhere near the town lake!  So it must have been a special satisfaction to return to their hometown with all the rights they were once deprived of.

       We went with my friend Judy (another one of their cares) to a deli in Pinehurst some years ago.   Pinehurst is a particularly chic golf resort a few miles west of Aberdeen, and I hadn't realized what an exceptional treat it would be for them.   Josephine told me that, growing up, she would have never dreamed of  one day going to Pinehurst for lunch.

     Their younger brother, Lacy, had also returned to Aberdeen after a successful career as a brick mason.   He had built a fine home for himself, and when his sisters arrived, he had the means and talent to convert Leanna's old run down  cabin into a  comfortable and attractive home, too.

 

    Hazel's pride and joy was Brandon, her five year old great grandchild.  His mother was dealing with her own problems, and Hazel's big dream was to have him start school in Aberdeen where she felt he could have a real head start.

     Though already  over 70, she and Jo brought Brandon  South to begin first grade in the new Aberdeen Primary  school.   The experiment only lasted a year, but he got a taste of  community life and personalized small town schooling before returning the next year to Philadelphia.   He was an especially bright and personable little boy, and the year in Aberdeen seemed to be a success.
 
     Unfortunately, the twins were too old by this time to be raising a small child, and they had no choice but to return Brandon to the care of one of his  grandmothers at the end of the year.  It broke Hazel's heart, but she had the satisfaction of having tried.
    
     When Brenda arrived on the scene, they seemed crazy about her, and we always visited with them when in North Carolina.  I never actually remembered their caring for me as a small child, but I developed a special affection for them in later years.

     Josephine had never learned to drive, and she always depended on Hazel for getting around.  By the time the twins reached their 80s, she was feeling more and more isolated living on the outskirts of Aberdeen.   In 2014, a few months before Hazel's death at 87, she moved back to Philadelphia.   The last I heard, she was missing Aberdeen.  I wish I had a more upbeat ending, but then that's life.



Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Renata is also featured in  "Renata" from  Musings and Meanderings No. 4; Mother in "A Christmas Gift ... or the Little Red Lamp", Hotel Musings No. 51  (to access, click on highlighted titles).

   

5 - Deep South Drama At Aberdeen Lake

Summertime at the lake 1953 (Moore County Historical Association)

  
 

     Looking back, there was something vaguely idyllic about growing up in a sleepy southern town in the post-war years,  but life was easy for only some of us.  There was a distinctly darker side for others living in Aberdeen.

      This is a  story about our one-time police chief,  his teenage daughter,  a young black man, and the Aberdeen Lake.   The names have been changed, but the story is only too real.

      As for Chief Pringle, picture Rod Steiger in the movie "In The Heat Of The Night."  Then just take my word for it, the Aberdeen character was a whole lot worse.   He was fat, loud, rough and roundly feared and hated in the black community.   He had any number of children, but Peggy Ann was his favorite, at least until she started growing up and showing signs of independence.

      The Aberdeen Lake was municipal property, and like much of the town, it was then  reserved for "whites only."   It sat on a well kept lot with bathhouse and refreshment center, a jukebox and dance floor popular in the evenings with several generations of jiving and bopping teenagers.  It then stretched north by  the all-black community of Broadway, but by that point there was no longer a beach nor easy access to the water.

      Peggy Ann was not an especially attractive girl, just kind of average.   She lived in a house in the middle of town just about where the Aberdeen creek turns into the lake.  The young black man (whose name I never knew, but let's call him Cary) lived a half mile away in Broadway.

      All of what really happened, no one really knows today.  What is fairly certain is that in some measure Peggy Ann and Cary knew each other, perhaps only by sight.   Whenever the black man went into town, he would have inevitably passed by the police chief's house.  It had a big porch with swing, and he probably saw Peggy Ann there.  They just might have exchanged words at some point.

      One day, Cary slipped a written message to Peggy Ann.  It proposed a rendezvous the following evening somewhere around the Aberdeen Lake.

      Did Chief Pringle discover the note by accident?  Did Peggy Ann voluntarily show it to him?   This was always a little hazy.  The official story was that Peggy Ann --appalled at the proposal-- turned it immediately over to her father.

      The rest was not pretty.  Cary was at the designated place, but instead of Peggy Ann, he was met by a contingent of local law enforcers.  He  was arrested and put in jail.  Even in those days when interracial courtship would have been more or less illegal, it was never clear precisely what law had been broken.  He appeared in the Aberdeen court where he was found guilty of whatever crime and incarcerated.  

      He was sent to prison, or more likely to some sort of work farm, for a sentence of a year or less, then released with the obligation to leave the area.   I never knew what kind of life he might have found elsewhere, though it takes little imagination to understand that his future would have been mightily compromised.

      I remember that a number of the kids, my age and a little older, were aware of and disturbed  by what we saw as such a blatant injustice; but no one to my knowledge went so far as to voice any kind of official protest.  

     Whatever one may have thought of Peggy Ann, she was almost certainly one of the victims here.   I cringe to imagine her relationship with her father, either before or after the incident.  The week Cary had been "banished" from Aberdeen, she came into Bryan's Drug Store where many of the young people congregated after school.  It was always noisy there, but a hush fell over the soda bar when she entered that afternoon.

     I remember her speaking, either to me or to someone right next to me:  "I know they are all saying that I led him on," she said.   That is all I remember.   

     Chief Pringle did find his comeuppance, of sorts.  I think he must have crossed the line once too often, because he was suddenly and somewhat mysteriously removed from office about a year later.  He left virtually overnight with his family.  They moved to South Carolina or Georgia, and as far as I know, none of them were ever heard from again.   

   

Your input is welcomed:  frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr