Annie Sutton
Welcome, welcome. My name is Annie Sutton. I was born on May 13, 1857, and grew up in these parts. I am the daughter of the first ordinary of Habersham County – my father, Judge Cicero Sutton, and my mother, Eliza Byrd Sutton. Many of our family members sleep together in this prominent family plot. Anyway, my baby sister Tattie and I – she was born Feb. 10, 1861 – her given name was Martha Eliza Sutton; we were of a certain level of society. We had good work to do, and we loved this community. This community was everything to us. You could say we were married to the community as we lived long and prosperous lives as single women. I did have a special suitor – we became engaged but alas didn’t marry. Some might call my sister and me “Old Maids” or “Spinster Sisters” – lots of communities had sisters like us who lived in the family home together for the entirety of their lives. In Clarkesville, there were two other well-known unmarried sisters – Gladys and Willene Holcomb – they were educators and fine women from one of the original families of Habersham County. Everyone knew Gladys and Willene. They would walk to church from their home on Washington Street, and they would wear hats; a different hat every Sunday. But enough about family lineage – let’s get down to business. When the good people of the Historic Clarkesville Cemetery Preservation, Inc. started working in this cemetery, they started talking about Mrs. J.T. Pittard. Now Mrs. Pittard wrote a newspaper article about Who’s Who in the Old Clarkesville Cemetery. Yes, she indeed did.But what these people with the HCCP, Inc. didn't realize was that Mrs. J.T. Pittard was writing that article because I had inspired her. I loved this place and I wanted to draw attention to it, because somebody – I got wind that somebody – wanted to cut down the trees. I couldn’t let that happen. So I went to my friend Mr. Graves at the Tri-County Advertiser and I said we have to do something. So we began a campaign in the newspaper – drawing attention to the cemetery. I drew inspiration from a long ago book that had a character called Old Mortality. Now Old Mortality lived in 1600s Scotland; he would travel around to old cemeteries and clean off the graves just like these good people are doing. And he would make sure that the people who had come before were remembered. And honored.Just like you are doing by coming to visit me. Honoring the past. Honoring those who have come before. Those who have created this community. So that today, you can savor their legacy. Living here. Living this lifestyle. So Old Mortality was the name of my column in the newspaper. Back in 1927, women didn’t have a voice like they do today. So it was a big deal; it was a big deal for me to have a column in the newspaper. So I wanted these cemetery people to get the message correctly. They kept talking about Mrs. J.T. Pittard and Who’s Who in the Old Clarkesville Cemetery.But they were missing something really important. They were missing what had come before. And that Lane Gresham, she’s a former newspaper editor and she’s curious, she used to write a column. She and mayor Barrie Aycock came to the library. They found the Who’s Who article certainly. But they didn’t find anything else!I knew it was time to get in touch from beyond the grave. So I reached out to a medium in Demorest. I sent the message through her that I was UNHAPPY. Now we Suttons, now you don’t want to see us be unhappy. So the medium got in touch with the mayor to let her know that a message had come through from beyond. And Mayor Aycock passed that along to Mrs. Gresham and she went back to the library and found my newspaper columns. And she connected the dots and she made it possible for you people to understand what my role was in the community. All the way back to 1927, I was doing exactly what is happening today – drawing attention to this cemetery and to the people who lived in this place all those years ago. The Suttons, certainly. Willis Millican. CP Wyly.Frederick Eugene Durbec. All those people who were the fabric, the tapestry of this community. I can’t tell you how important it is for you to learn their stories and remember the sweetness of this place.
Frederick Eugene Durbec
I, Frederick Eugene Durbec, was quite famous in my lifetime and my friends described me as being of lively and jovial disposition. But now I sleep quietly in this tumbled down brick ruin that is all that is left of my family plot. But let me tell you a little bit about how I ended up here in this place you all call home. How many of you know that Clarkesville has long attracted tourists? Before my wife and I moved here in 1889 to open a hotel, the indigenous people traded here as the pathways and crossroads naturally occurred along the river corridors. And I can imagine visitors have long admired the mountain views and cool breezes that attracted Manuela and our young family. The Eureka Hotel, located at the corner of Bridge and Grant Streets, was just off the square. We were eager to play a role in this city, known far and wide as a hub for hospitality. We were a small operation, truly looking to engage in the community.My life story is colorful as I packed a lot in the decades before arriving in Clarkesville. I was a photographer of note. With my photography partner, James Osborn, I made some of the first images of plantation life in South Carolina. The King Street building in Charleston where we had our studio still stands, but it is now occupied by something you people seem to crave more than original studio photography – Starbucks Coffee. Our fame really exploded when James and I made some of the first images of the Civil War when the Confederates fired on Ft. Sumpter in the early days of the conflict. That battle moved me to enlist in the Confederate Army in 1861. After the war, I launched two newspapers in Charleston. I later moved to Savannah, where I continued to make a mark on the business and social scene, joining the horticultural society and purchasing partial ownership in an opera house. But the society people of Savannah kept talking about the mountains. While we had high hopes for our life in Northeast Georgia, we faced tragedy upon tragedy after we arrived. Our first child, Claire, born in 1887, died at 18 months on July 23, 1889.Her little brother Francis Joseph was only two months old when his sister perished. Little Joseph only lived to be three, passing from this world on Oct. 10, 1892. There’s also an infant, unformed and unnamed that we lost to miscarrage, buried here. We had a third daughter Marie Catherine who was born in August of the 1890. Just as we were opening the inn, she was a bright spot. Ultimately, she would be my only child to live to adulthood. Sudden death was all too common in those days, especially among infants and young children. But losing three children was more than my constitution and heart could take. An early ailment manifested itself and my doctors recommended that we move back to Florida for the climate and to be closer to my wife’s family. Although the records might reflect I was ill, I died of a broken heart. The dream of raising our family here in Habersham did not come to pass and I never regained my strength and will to go on.My life, although full and successful, truly meant nothing without my children. We buried them one by one, in a grand way, in this unique and unusual plot. Then, my dear Manuela had my grave built to mimic the shape of my son’s tomb. Claire’s box tomb in the middle was once intact and lovely, especially with the wildflowers draped over it. This monument to my life and that of my children evokes the style of the low country where I spent most of my life. And while it is in ruins now, I have faith that with the support of you good people, the funds will be raised to reconstruct it to honor my life and that of my family.
Willis B. Milican
I was just shy of my 14th birthday when I died. 13 years, 11 months and 13 days. Willis Brown Millican is my name. I am honored to be the first documented grave in the quaint village of Clarkesville. But it wasn’t my home. I was here to earn extra money for my family back in Cherokee County. My parents – James and Mary Millican – hired me out for the harvest season. Back in 1832, it wasn’t unusual for families to send us off to help on faraway farms. It was hard being away from family, especially my twin brother, Charles. Willie and Charlie – that’s what my family called us.We were two peas in a pod but Charlie had to stay back to help our parents. We couldn't both be spared. He was my best friend – when we weren’t working, we loved to steal away to go fishing in the creek. We dreamed about how life might be if our family wasn’t so poor. So it came to be in the summer of 1832, I came to Habersham to help get in the corn. It was so hot and we worked long days. I don’t even know how the accident happened because it was so quick. A bunch of us were gathering up piles and piles of corn shucks and stuffing what was left into the pen. Shucks fed the livestock through the winter, you know. I had my legs wrapped around the top rails of the rickety structure. I was sweating so much that I lost my grip on the pitchfork. I tried to catch it but instead I tumbled into the pen. I don’t know if I hit my head or if I landed on the tines and bled out before anyone really knew what happened. The light came for me. Brighter and brighter until it just swallowed me up. I was no longer hungry. Or hot. I can’t even describe the peace I felt. It took a few days for word to get to my parents. They were devastated by what happened and because they couldn’t be here to see me buried. The family I worked for gave them the money I earned to buy this marker stone. They poured out their grief in the carving of the massive stone you see here….Sacred to the memory of Willis B. Millican – 13 years. 11 months. 13 Days. Sadly, this story is not unusual for the time. Accidents happen to young people. Did you see the movie filmed in these parts, “I’d Climb the Highest Mountain?” You remember the little boy that died in the mill pond? Just like the movie, there’s a little boy buried right over there who died the same way – drowned in a pond at a Sunday school picnic. His name was Charlie, too, just like my brother. As I said, too much sadness scarred the lives of families in those days. But you know what, just like in 1832, I see some leftover sadness in your faces over being unable to gather during the pandemic. To truly connect. Oh, you whined and carried on about wearing masks and not being able to do all the things that you think are important. Ball games. Concerts.Church.Weddings.Funerals. But really you people are more connected than ever, but it’s through a tiny screen. I see your faces lit up with this artificial light and it makes me sad. Even though I couldn’t be with my family, I was outside. Working with my hands. Helping in a small way to keep my family going. I was ready when the light came for me.I hope you won’t be too distracted by the tiny light in front of you that you miss the light that can save you from yourselves. Will you be ready?
Amanda Deas [Mrs. J.T. Pittard]
My name is Mrs. J.T. Pittard. When I was married, we females lost our identity in formal references. But I was born Georgia Erwin McMillan. My family is buried here. But I’m going to save their story for another day. I’m going to share a story of a woman whose life story was remarkable for the time period in which she lived. I grew up roaming the streets of Clarkesville back when children and chickens were both free-range. You’ve all seen the bank building stamped 1907? Just up there, you know? Well, Aunt Mandy’s house was on that same spot in the late 1800s. She was a pioneer for the period. A black businesswoman who ran a restaurant on the square. As a small girl, I scurried down the street and around to the back door to beg a morsel from Aunt Mandy. It was the aroma of the gingerbread that drew me in. I remember her old-fashioned fireplace – she baked loaves and loaves of gingerbread in a big pan all divided up. It stood on a frame in front of the fireplace. It was a great treat to go see Aunt Mandy. When she saw me, her capacious arms would open to receive me in a warm embrace and then a gingerbread treat was always forthcoming. And how good they were with their beautiful features made of cloves!”What about that?I wrote down my memories in 1927. This cemetery holds secrets that we will never know, but the deed records don’t lie. It’s all there in fancy script. Amand Deas owned more than 100 acres, which in 1888 was about one-third of all the land owned by free people of color. And she loved this community. She and her husband Charles – we called him Uncle Charley – are buried just over there. Unmarked graves were customary for the black community. It was post-Civil War in Northeast Georgia. Uncle Charley married Aunt Mandy later in his life. He was much older but provided well for her and her son, Joseph.Charles Deas was a merchant before the Civil War and was a registrar for the county during Reconstruction. During Reconstruction, many freedmen and formerly enslaved people continued to work for the wealthy families in the area. The Stanfords were among the first families to live in grand style here in Clarkesville. They are also buried here in a much fancier fashion than our friends, the Deas. Do you know where Wildwood Circle is? Over there behind that too-modern drug store with the too-bright sign. I sure do miss Turpen’s Drugs on the Square….I digress. On Wildwood Circle, the Stanfords built a BIG house. You can still see the rock walls trailing all over what used to be Mr. Stanford’s land. Uncle Charley fathered three children by one of Mr. Stanford’s house servants, Lucy. But back to Amanda Deas. She was a generous woman. More than simple samples of spice cake, her legacy is still visible just down Washington Street. Do you know where Sam Pitts Park is?Deas Chapel is next to the park, serving as the final artifact for the African-American community in Clarkesville. This simple white structure served as the worship space for the AME church for many years. It’s stood the test of time through the years with the help of caretakers. The good people of the First United Methodist Church of Clarkesville played a role in maintaining and overseeing repairs. It was purchased and renovated several years ago, hoping it could serve as a community gathering spot. The city purchased the chapel and we can keep it intact to honor Amanda’s legacy to the community she loved. Aunt Mandy and Uncle Charley loved this community – borne out by their generosity in leaving the land and the church. What will your legacy be?
Calvin Hanks
My name is Calvin Hanks. But how I came to be buried here is a sordid tale of greed and murder the likes of which the town of Clarkesville has rarely seen.So let me take you to a summer day of August 15, 1834. On that fateful day I was a distinguished lawyer in Clarkesville. But you must realize that in those years in north Georgia gold had been discovered in nearby Dukes Creek in 1828, over near Helen. This area became crazed by the lust for gold. All manner of business was conducted to satisfy man's craven desire to get rich quick! Some of this business was honest, but much of it was corrupt. Unfortunately, my father-in-law was accused of being a corrupt part of the gold business. Picture how Clarkesville might have been with the influx of 10,000 miners intent on getting rich quick. The town swelled with folks. There were lots of disagreements over land. Lots of work for us lawyer-types. Records that survived the period show that a crime wave ensued. In place of charges of "trespass' and "pig stealing" the docket records an increase in assaults, battery, murder and even "riot" and "mayhem."On a hot day in August of 1834, in the middle of the town square of Clarkesville, I was assaulted and brutally murdered in cold blood by four men who believed I had swindled them over a gold claim. All four suspects were prominent citizens:Former Habersham County Sheriff William Hamilton.His son-in-law, Dr. Elbridge G. Harris. Cuthbert Word, the son of Revolutionary War hero Thomas A. Word.John Wesley Thompson, a teacher who later became a Mississippi judge. John Wesley Thompson, who was tried and acquitted of my murder, eventually wound up in Mississippi, where he became a successful lawyer and judge. Indeed, it appears that John Thompson is a great grandfather by adoption of the illustrious Mississippi writer William Faulkner. A modern-day writer, David Price, dug deep into the history of this crime more recently to tell us that Faulkner knew of the murder from prison letters exchanged between Thompson and his bride of only three weeks that still survive among the writer's papers at the University of Virginia. In the letter, Thompson encouraged his 19-year-old wife, Justiania, in truly Faulknerian prose: "In the midst of darkness light springs up, the virulent edge of tyranny and oppression is fast becoming blunted and soon the muddy stream of public opinion will regain its purity and the facts will place the present disastrous circumstances in a proper light.” The jury acquitted John Thompson of this crime! Some think that the real killer was Elbridge Harris, who made his way to Texas and died at a young age. There’s much speculation with threads tied to gold, land ownership and the removal of the Cherokees from the region. We’ll truly never know the truth but you can wonder until you, too, pass over to the other side.… Remember the words of William Faulkner as you live out your own life: ...and then all of a sudden, it's all over, and all you have left is a block of stone with scratches on it provided there was someone to remember to have the marble scratched and set up or had time to, and it rains on it, and the sun shines on it, and after awhile they don’t even remember the name and what the scratches were trying to tell, and it doesn't matter."
Rev. Hugh Hawthorne
That Tuesday morning dawned hot. Humid.Still. As if the day held a dark promise. It was July 11, 1837.The day I would lose myself and return to the Lord. I am introducing myself as Rev. Benjamin Hugh Hawthorne born in Donegal, Ireland.I sailed to the new land at age 26, arriving in New York in 1831.I preached for a while in the Dutch Reformed Church in Albany, NY and New York City, before venturing south to serve as a professor and chaplain in Dr. Elias’ Marks’ seminary for females in South Carolina.You see, back then, ladies of a certain level of society were enrolled in particular institutions so they could become well-rounded individuals who could carry out the duties of the Southern belle.Qualified to be an educator and preacher, but I was also known to be quite the writer. Ironically, one of my essays was entitled “On the Pleasure of Sorrow.” But let’s go back to my story of that fateful July day. I delivered the sermon on July 9 at the Methodist Chapel shared among the denominations in the bustling village of Clarkesville. I believe the Presbyterians had the chapel earmarked for the second Sunday of each month. Before I went home, my hosts had made plans for us to travel by wagon to Tallulah Gorge – what folks were calling the Niagara Falls of the South. I was ready to cool off as I had sweated through my suit during the Sunday sermon. We met early to travel by horse-drawn wagon the 13 miles along a rutted dirt road to the gorge's edge. Hiking 400 feet deep into the rugged chasm was quite the challenge, but the reward of a dip in the icy water made it worth the effort. We were a delightful party, cheerful and eager to reach the gorge floor.Somehow, we made it to the bottom, and boy, did we have a fine repast. Fried chicken. Biscuits w/ hand-churned butter. Fresh preservesRipe peaches. Pound cake. After lunch, it was time for that swim. While my friends tidied up from the picnic, I needed a bit of solitude. Begging the pardon of my friends, I made my way to the edge of a dark green pool. I couldn’t wait to feel the water on my hot skin. Leaving my britches, shirt, vest, jacket, and suspenders on a tree branch, I slipped into the water, We Presbyterians don’t baptize by immersion, but that’s the feeling I had. Reborn. Revived. Recharged. The heat had been nigh unbearable that summer. I paddled to the center of the moss-colored pool, gazing up at the thundering falls – a distraction from my cares. I felt a change in the current. What was gentle at first became insistent. A tug. A force. A pulling of sorts. Cast underneath the water into a boiling vortex and tossed about, my strength faded quickly.I fought as long as I could before surrendering to its power. I was no match for the force of the water pushing me over the next precipice – Tempesta Falls. My friends discovered my cast-off clothing, but no sign of me existed. Attempts to locate me that day failed.On July 12, the search party tried again. And failed again.On the third day, I finally arose from the depths. This was only after word went out that a reward would be offered for my return. A blacksmith named Alley responded, fashioning a four-pronged hook to bring me up and out of my watery tomb. Charged with the macabre task, Mr. Alley collected a $25 reward. That was a goodly sum in those days.My horrified and devastated hosts carted my battered and bloated body back to Clarkesville. The grieving community buried me in a beautiful box tomb topped with a tablet featuring the elegant script you see today. It was a fitting tribute, I guess, but I wonder at what my life would have been like had I scrambled back up the trail and returned to the village of Clarkesville. Would I have fallen in love with Northeast Georgia and made my home here among the gentle and friendly folk? We’ll never know, now will we?
Nancy England Harshaw [Moses]
I’m Nancy England and I married Moses Harshaw in 1814. In 1822, I followed that man to the Sautee Valley. We came here to start a new life, but it wasn’t long before Moses’ reputation for cruelty began to get around.You see, I was married to the meanest man in Georgia. We built a home there – and it still stands today. But it’s sure not called the Harshaw House – you might know it as The Stovall House. I divorced Moses in 1850! I treasure these papers – proof that I no longer have to live with the horrr!Moses practiced law in downtown Clarkesville – the valley was part of Habersham County then. Sometimes, he stayed in Clarkesville, and that was just fine with us. It was a respite from his incessant meanness. We worked our land and our gold mines with about 20 slaves. Moses didn’t see them as humans – he saw them as property!Sometimes, he would take one of the men to town to help load the heavy supplies. For the long ride trip back home, he would tie the man to the back of the wagon and make them run to keep up with the horse and wagon back from Clarkesville. He was so cruel that when our people got too old and sick to work, he carted them to the top of Lynch Mountain and pushed them off the edge.His reputation only got worse with time. There are so many stories about his treatment of our slaves and me and he was the subject of many, many lawsuits alleging land and gold deals gone bad. Oh, he was a clever one, all right, but he used his smarts to his own advantage, no matter what the consequences to others. Moses Harshaw defended himself seven times on charges of "assault and battery" in the Superior Court of Habersham. He was found guilty on six of the seven charges, and one trial for assault with an attempt to murder was not prosecuted. People were terrified of my husband, and the good people of the valley tolerated him for much longer than he deserved. He sealed his fate when a beloved slave child passed. Back then, when the sickness came, it was hard to keep our little ones from crossing through death’s dark portal. There are many lambs here sleeping in this sweet cemetery. Moses was away when that girl died. I wanted her to be buried in something nice and bought a dress for her to be buried in. When Moses arrived home, he exploded with rage! He had one of our slaves dig up that precious angel, and he took the dress back to the store to get his money back. That was it for me. Anything I felt for that man died at that moment. 1850 was the first year that divorce was made legal in Georgia, and I was first in line!I filed for divorce from Moses, and the community turned their back on him. I was awarded a divorce on Oct. 7, 1850. This was ground-breaking for the time – women didn’t have much legal stature then. The record from the court provides simply a glimpse of the horror I lived with ...uncongeniality of temper and disagreement of pursuits and bickering, heart-burnings and strife. Those are some fancy words that mask what was truly unbearable.When he died in 1858, I got the last word, leaving a parting message for all to see: Moses has –– “DIED AND GONE TO HELL!”And I finally found peace.
Camillus Parks Wyly
My name is Mary Parks Wyly. I am a member of an influential family, one of the founding families of the village of Clarkesville. My father-in-law, General James Rutherford Wyly, was known for serving in the War of 1812. My mother-in-law, Sarah Hawkins Clark Wyly, was the granddaughter of the first governor of Tennessee. They were married in the governor’s mansion in Knoxville.They moved to Northeast Georgia, settling onto the property now known as historic Traveler’s Rest over in Stephens County. They lived there while he built a little road called the Unicoi Turnpike. General Wyly purchased many of the original lots when this town was founded in 1823. He made a fortune in land speculation. But none of that matters to the story I will share with you.It’s the story of the most profound sorrow I can imagine.It’s the story of a mother’s broken heart. And it’s the story played over and over more than 700,000 times during the Civil War. War is a dreadful business. Freedom vs. Slavery.Union vs. States Rights.None of that matters to a mother sending two sons to war – Camillus, we called him CP – was just 16 and his older brother Levi was 19 when they left Clarkesville to fight for the Confederacy. They mustered in with the Phillips Legion, Company C, with a group of Habersham boys. They were with Col. Robert McMillan of the 24th Georgia Infantry at the Battle of Fredericksburg, where 200,000 Americans clashed for a cause that provokes high emotion still today. Col. McMillan – who’s buried just over there with his family – was a larger-than-life military leader. My sons worshipped him and believed in his mastery of military strategy and his “take no prisoners” battle stance. The southern press called Fredericksburg Col. McMillan’s “finest hour.” But it was anything but the finest hour on Dec. 13 when CP fell, likely following the cry from the Colonel to “Give it to them now, boys!”Nearly 2,000 died that day, my precious son among them. My beautiful boy died on the ramparts, shot to death by someone else's son. Because we were affluent, we had the means to get his body to the train station and back home. His brother made sure of it. Did you know the Civil war changed how we viewed and handled death? Do you know why? It’s because the sheer number of lives lost overshadowed any other war before or after. The Civil War birthed modern day cemetery and funeral practices. That’s no consolation to me or the countless other mothers, fathers, wives, sweethearts, sisters, brothers and children whose lives were devastated by the magnitude of the losses. My husband filed the death claim and we tried to move forward. We couldn’t live in Clarkesville anymore – there were too many memories of CP’s childhood and that marker at the cemetery towered over my grief. I had plenty to keep my mind occupied – I was 40 when my boy died and in the middle of my childbearing years. I birthed nine children, but you never get over the one who dies young. 17 years 9 months 22 days.I read to you these words carved in stone: A sacrifice to the cause of constitutional liberty and equality….Beloved son to JH and MP Wyly affectionate parents, brothers and sisters will not cease to mourn for him as long as memory shall last.
Joseph Parker
My name is Joseph Parker. I was born enslaved in 1858. After the war ended, Mitchell and Susan Parker raised my sister Faire and me. We grew up helping them tend the store on the square where Blake Rainwater and Zack Phillips do business today. My wife, Sadie, and I sleep at the Clarkesville Memorial Cemetery. You can find us there with two of our babies – Beulah Parker, born March 16, 1905, and died too soon on Aug. 10. Another child, Cora, lived. So why am I here in this cemetery talking to you? Our first-born children, Ella, born Aug. 1, 1876, and Ollie, on July 14, 1878, delivered on God’s call to go forth and multiply. They sleep here at my feet. Like many young people of that period, we lost them before they could realize their potential. Ollie passed on May 12, 1898, and Ella followed Dec. 30, 1899. But back to my life story, it’s a good distraction from the sadness I feel when I visit this quiet place. Mr. Parker set an example of working hard and serving the community. He even served as a member of the town’s council. He gave me my stake to get started in business.I followed his example and became an entrepreneur, making money from the mineral-infused water that flowed from the creek that irrigated Stanford’s crops. You might find it unusual, but I built a bathhouse on Lot. No. 22, at the bottom of Stanford’s hill. This made it possible for locals and visitors to wash clean the dusty red dirt that seemed to permeate the air during a season of rapid growth in the area. Brick by brick, layer by layer, I built a life from the humblest of starts.One of my regular customers, Judge Whipple, used to come from South Georgia with his family to spend the summers here. His granddaughter remembered my bathhouses and wrote about them in her book, Reflections of North Georgia.“𝘏𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 – 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.”I hear my bathhouse lot is now occupied by a home renovated by Stacy and Ivy Hall, who are helping to revive this town by bringing old properties to life. Ms. Ivy also discovered the remnants of another one of my business endeavors buried on the back side of the property. I left there pieces of bricks used for projects around the city. The good people restoring this cemetery brought back some of my handiwork and fittingly added them to my children’s graves. With so much sorrow, my faith walk was essential; I wanted to give back because I had been so blessed. I deeded to the Black Baptist Church Lot No. 35 on Sept. 29, 1893, so the congregation could build a worship home.Church organizers had three years to construct a sanctuary, which they did by raising money through the “Nickel Club No. 2 Society.” Today, that church is thriving as nearby Mt. Zion Baptist Church. The site of the original church, fronting Madison Street, is now occupied by Dr. Cary Miller and the Clarkesville Baptist Church annex building. So, the site is still being used for outreach – for people who need their teeth tended to and for the Baptists to tend to the community. Remember me and the contributions of the Black community here in Northeast Georgia. We were small in number but mighty in our love for this place.
Infant daughter of George + Susan Kollock
Welcome to Clarkesville, the place my family has loved so dearly for generations.I am Susan. Marion. Johnston. Kollock.Born in Savannah, I was 24 when I married George Jones Kollock on Nov. 25, 1840.My sweet George called me ‘wifey.’He had a 4-year-old daughter from his first marriage. His young wife, Augusta, died just four days after giving birth.My husband practiced law in Savannah from 1832-1836 and then became a planter on a vast scale — cotton, mostly.We have expansive land holdings in South Georgia, but the mountains are where we can catch our breath. We built Woodlands, contracting with the brilliant Jarvis Van Buren.You’ll meet him a little later this evening.Mr. Van Buren created our home with an air of whimsy and a nod to our wish to gather with our beloved family.Woodlands holds the treasures we so value – books…. botanical elements…portraits of our ancestors, and the remnants of a life now past.We Kollocks never, ever threw anything away!Our letters to each other through the generations are available through the magic of what you call the World Wide Web.We lived a high society life in Savannah, but here, we felt freer to enjoy what we crave and value – connection to community.Our family met the Stanfords; they live just off the square on a massive estate Mr. John R. Stanford modeled after his ancestral home in England.Pomona Hall cried out for guests.Cordelia Stanford sent word when they were ready for company.They had only been in the house 10 days when I took a buggy to pay a first call to their newly constructed home, soon to be a hub of hospitality for our town.She carried me into every corner of her house and entertained us very handsomely.Here in this place, everybody lived much slower than today. Savoring sunsets on the veranda, the juice of a still-warm tomato on our supper plates.When the summer-heated air cooled in the gloaming, our conversations were muffled by the wisteria that overtakes the porch in the warmer months.Those shadows on that porch evoke my lowest moment as I am reminded of the loss of my first child – a stillborn daughter, born in 1841 and buried here beneath the shelter of these Hemlock trees.I knew I was doing too much to get ready for birth, and clumsy with pregnancy, I took a tumble on that fateful day.I share this deep sorrow with Cordelia Stanford. Her little Mary, only two, and my sweet girl, too tiny to name.I did heal in this place, albeit we were strangers of a sort, having not been born and raised here.My sister-in-law wrote to dear George about my season of grief.“Susan’s experience has shown her how friends can be raised up to a sufferer even in a land of strangers.”And isn’t that what we all want to say about our community?That we can love our neighbors as ourselves?That we can comfort each other during times of pain?Our faith guides us in this.It is a gift to simply exist. With existence comes great suffering – like the loss of a child.You can’t have love without loss.That is our shared human experience.George and I went on to have six more children. Because of that early loss, I could love my children more deeply. More fiercely.So now I send you to call on sweet Cordelia.Deliver to her this prayer of solidarity for the losses we share.Won’t you join me?Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Jarvis Van Buren
My name is Jarvis Van Buren, and my name is still known today, as is that of my cousin.You may have heard of Martin Van Buren, the 8th president of the United States. His term spanned the years I was launching my life here in Clarkesville.I was born in 1801 in Kinderhook, New York.As for my personal life, I married Nancy Sanford, and we had a son, David Halsey. She passed too young, and I then married Margaret Adair, who also gave me a son, James. She, too, died young, and then I married her sister Eliza, who came south with me to build a new life.You could say, ‘the third time is the charm.”And while we may sleep here peacefully, my life was anything but restful.I was a come here, not a been here.But aren’t we all since we simply followed the lead of the indigenous people who first fell in love with the natural beauty of this land?Before I came south, I built railroads and was lured here to manage theStroup Iron Works on the site of the former Habersham Mill property. You folks like to go to parties there these days.After I got here, it wasn’t long before realized there was a much larger opportunity for a man of my talents to make a fortune.I am an architect, builder, and horticulturist and simply followed in my father’s stead – he was a carpenter and owned a sawmill. I replicated his business plan to great success here in Habersham.The difference is that Andrew Jackson Downing, a landscape architect of some renown, greatly influenced me.AJ, as I like to call him, introduced the natural style of landscape gardening and Gothic, Italianate, and Tudor styles of architecture. If you’ve been to the Hudson River Valley region of New York, you’ve seen our inspiration in the historic structures there.I built my home, Gloaming Cottage, just over the rise there.I built Grace-Calvary Church, First Presbyterian Church, and several homes for the gentle and friendly Kollock family members, who started as summer people. Still, I later put down full-time roots here on their family land.The beauty I created stands today as a reminder of a lifestyle long gone.Beyond this structural legacy, I made an early impact in the apple industry here in North Georgia. After the forced removal of the Native Americans, I discovered their abandoned apple orchards. I began to collect seedlings, eventually developing more than 40 varieties of apples, putting the south on the apple map.Here’s a word for you to learn:Pomology, which is the study of fruit trees. That makes me a pomologist!Say it with me:[POMOLOGIST]I named my nursery the same as my home after the lovely light at the end of the day – GLOAMING.As you savor the beauty of this sacred space, know that I dreamed of this day when generations after me would visit my grave and realize that the rural garden cemetery movement was worth nurturing and maintaining.Look around you at the trees and native plants.The majority of these are grave markers.Look at the fencing on my grave enclosure.It evokes the style of Gloaming Cottage with these diamond-shaped openings.Look down the street at Lew Oliver’s new Boxwood Cottages.My influence is alive and well, both in vintage and new construction.I leave you with a quote from the ancient Greeks:A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”
Cordelia Stanford
Well, hello there, and welcome! I am Cordelia Isabella St. Leger Charlton Stanford, originally from Wilkes County, Georgia. I was born in 1821 and grew up in a well-to-do family as the daughter of John K.M. Charlton, who owned and published the Washington News. It was a community newspaper, like the one you have here – The Northeast Georgian, but it’s only been here since 1892. My family was related to Francis Scott Key, who wrote our national anthem. He was a cousin on my father’s side.I married the love of my life, John Russell Stanford, and moved to Habersham County to live in what John called Pomona Hall, after this ancestor’s estate in England. My husband was an important man, an attorney by profession; he served on staff for Georgia Governor Charles James McDonald from 1839-1943.Originally from Pennsylvania by way of England, he made his bachelor home in Augusta, where he was a freemason. It was written that his name and honor were synonymous.John moved to Clarkesville first to trade with the Native Americans. He bought up parcels of land just off the square, spanning acres and acres from what is now Madison Street to the Soquee River and beyond. We lived large here in Clarkesville, socializing with many good families or long-term residents during the hot summer months. Families like the Kollocks were among the first to visit us at our new home in 1848.We raised our family, including eight children – Helen, Rosa, Zoe, Clara, Clifford, Mary C, John, Jr., Minnie, and Estelle. We educated them at home with the help of a governess, Harriett Law, of Connecticut. You folks call it homeschooling, but it was common practice in the era before widespread public schools were available. Our children grew up here, roaming the expansive virgin land now dotted with towns, farms, businesses, and homes. Like so many here in the cemetery, we lost our Mary at age 2, in 1848, our sweet Zoe at 19, in 1862, and Clara, who was only 21 when she died in 1870. My little grandson, Harry, Helen’s son, is here with his grandfather and aunts.They rest beneath these majestic trees. I lived a life of service to my family, community, and country. Our family participated in civic projects, and I was known for my fine needlework. I made blanket shawls woven from wool, which I carded and spun by hand. I made enough to warm an entire company of Georgia volunteers in service in Virginia. I often wonder if one of my shawls ended up with poor CP Wyly, only 17, who took his final breath on the bloody battlefield at Fredericksburg. He sleeps just up the hill beneath that massive marker. After the Civil War, my husband took the reconstruction oath, registering to vote here in Habersham just before he died in 1867. John fell into despair over our finances. Parcel by parcel, the dream disappeared as the echoes of the auctioneer’s voice rang from the courthouse steps. Like so many families of means, the winds of fortune blew in a harsh direction. After his death, I sold off the land holdings he took pride in.I left the area after 1880, spending time with my children as they married and started their own families. My children did well – John Jr. was a global manager for Remington Typewriters – serving in Argentina, England, Holland, and Belgium. My other children also spread out across this country, living in Washington, Illinois, Texas, and Georgia in Atlanta, Augusta, and Darien.Yes, they made their mark, all right. From right here in the village of Clarkesville, the Stanford Family is to be remembered. Just like my husband’s name on the top of this wall [TOUCHES NAME ON TOP OF WALL]– only recently uprighted so you can be reminded of our family’s contributions to this community. I was visiting my daughter in Texas when I passed over to join my beloved John. My earthly remains were brought back to August. My obituary summed up my life like this:“She was a pious Christian woman, dear to her family and cherished by her friends. After a long life of usefulness and womanly duty well performed, she has gone to her reward."I don’t think anyone could ask for a more honorable remembrance. Can you?
