Lost Treasure by Don Hughes
Hurricane Florence would hit the Carolinas any day. It was easy to cash in some frequent flyer miles on an almost empty flight headed into a hurricane.
Mom had called me to come to Brevard. I heard concern and exhaustion and a hint of fear in her voice.
So I was there when my Dad, Charles Ernest Hughes died. At eighty-eight, he had lived longer than his brothers and his own father
And he had been a secret writer.
Dad was on morphine and only awake when it was time for his medication. To give Mom a rest, I would sit with Dad.
I told him about my job, interesting politicians I had met with recently, sports and the next European adventure I planned.
I also sat and cried.
Two days later, Hurricane Florence lashed the Carolina coast with strong winds and heavy rain. To all our relief, in Brevard we received only a rain storm and some wind.
With every visit, the father I had known and loved had declined. He showed little interest in things that had thrilled him just the year before—rooting for the Green Bay Packers, fishing, Church and the garden.
And he had told no one that he had been writing.
It became harder to watch this once-vigorous, active man sit in his recliner, watching the world go by.
In the three years before he died, Dad started giving me a hug and saying, “I love you, Son” at the end of each visit. He must have known he was nearing the end and wanted to be sure I knew he loved me.
Signs of mental decline were subtle. His grandson Jason, an artist, had long dreadlocks until he turned forty and cut them off. Jason had sent pictures of his new look.
Dad showed them to me and asked, “Why do you think Jason cut his hair? He looks a lot better; don’t you think?”
“Maybe because he’s gotten older and needs a more professional look.”
Dad whispered, “I bet Ross had something to do with it.”
Ross, Jason’s other grandfather, had been dead for several years. I didn’t know how to respond, so I changed the subject.
His personality began to change at what turned out to be our last Christmas together. Christmas was always a major event, Mom and Dad loved having family together, and Dad liked to cook breakfast. He had been a cook in the Navy and grown up on a farm where breakfast was in fact the most important meal of the day. Sausage and eggs, sausage biscuits and sausage gravy were his specialties.
That Christmas, a neighbor brought over a plate of homemade baked treats.
“Hey Dad, would you like the orange muffin for breakfast?”
“I guess I can have sausage biscuits if I want sausage biscuits,” he growled.
I had never heard Dad use that harsh tone of voice before, not even when we were kids and had broken a lamp.
A fall left Dad badly bruised, scared and confused. He asked Mom,
“Why won’t God take me home? I’m ready.”
Mom replied with tears in her eyes. “Ernest, he’s not ready for you yet. There’s more for you to do here.”
* * * * *
Four years later, I would have a similar conversation with Mom as her physical and mental health declined.
“Don, why won’t Jesus take me home? I’m ready to be with Ernest again.”
“God is having supply chain issues, so your house isn’t ready yet, you’ll just have to wait a little longer.”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your Dad walked through the front door to take me home?”
A month later Mom passed. I am absolutely certain Dad came through that front door, reached out his hand and said, “Come on Lois, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Following Mom’s service, I returned to Phoenix. My brother Lee and his wife, Lisa, who lived in Florida, stayed behind to begin the process of closing the estate.
Before she passed, Mom showed me what bank, pension, life insurance and investment accounts she had and where she kept the paperwork. Our parents were old school, maintaining paper records rather than setting up online accounts.
I returned to Brevard to finish the paperwork required by the Probate Court and begin closing out Mom’s financial affairs. They had banked at First Citizens Bank for more than thirty years.
The morning I went to the bank, one of the bank officers introduced herself and took me back to her office.
“I didn’t realize how much I was going to be affected by this news,” she said with a catch in her voice and a hint of a tear.
Lee and I had the same reaction from everyone who had known them, from their minister to the guys at the Brevard town dump who helped Mom remove garbage bags and recycling from her trunk and put them into the right bins.
* * * * *
Our parents, Ernest and Lois Hughes, had been the magnet that drew our family together. I was concerned that the things of everyday life now would draw us all apart. Our family was spread throughout the country, Lee and Lisa in Florida, niece Shannon and friend Rob in Colorado, nephew Jason, wife Fran and daughters Mira and Zora in Connecticut.
Christmas had always been significant, the house decorated inside and out with a Christmas village Mom had crocheted years ago, wreaths and decorations accumulated over a lifetime, Christmas candy, and an avalanche of presents surrounding the tree.
Now that our parents were gone, I wanted to ensure we were all together at Christmas, especially this first Christmas. In early November I called Lee to float an idea on how we could make this first Christmas special.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
“I was thinking we could use some of the money from Mom to pay for everyone to stay at the Grove Park Inn.”
The Grove Park Inn, a four-star resort in Asheville, North Carolina, has a spacious lobby flanked with two huge fireplaces capable of burning twelve-foot logs. Presidents and entertainers and famous writers have stayed there.
At Christmas, the lobby has a massive Christmas tree with smaller trees spaced throughout the first floor. The Inn holds a gingerbread contest each year that draws entries from all over the world.
“Sounds like a great idea,” my brother said. “I think Mira and Zora will like seeing all the gingerbread houses in the big competition.”
When the entire family had gathered in Brevard at Christmas, Mom and Dad would treat us to the Grove’s fabulous brunch. The Grove Park Inn was a special place for all of us.
I booked the hotel rooms, the brunch reservations and a meeting room that would be decorated for Christmas where we could open presents. Everything came together like the beginning of a Hallmark Christmas movie.
Shannon was the first to cancel. She and Rob had booked a trip that required them to travel on Christmas Day. Next Jason and Fran canceled. Fran’s elderly father lived with them, and traveling during the holidays had become complicated and expensive.
A major winter storm front moved into the Southeast threatening to dump snow, ice and freezing temperatures right before Christmas. Lisa came down with a mild case of Covid. I cancelled everything.
It was the first Christmas I spent completely alone. I responded to text messages from Lee, Shannon and Jason. No calls from anyone. I spent the day in a foul mood, feeling sorry for myself. This is not how Hallmark Christmas movies were supposed to end.
* * * * *
Lee suggested we all get together at Jason and Fran’s home in Connecticut for a summer gathering.
Coordinating calendars was a challenge, but everyone was available the first weekend in August.
The weekend was filled with fun, excitement, laughter and catching up with news in our lives.
On our last afternoon, Lee handed out packets of old pictures he had found cleaning out Mom’s house—vacations, Christmases, birthdays, school plays. The room filled with giggles, shouts of who’s this? and when was this taken?
I handed the girls a picture of a very young Jason looking debonair in a black tuxedo, most likely a Prom picture. In my very best Sean Connery voice I said, “Hello, my name is Hughes, Jason Hughes.”
Then Lee handed me a notepad in Dad’s handwriting on what used to be called graph paper. Four pages, single-spaced, titled, “Remembrances of My Family & Childhood.”
Lee had found it in a desk with two written journals.
“I’ve been through that desk looking for financial papers,” I said, “I never saw this.”
Dad had graduated from Peabody High, a small, rural high school in Middle Tennessee that served the entire county. His high school yearbook reflected an average student at best. After reading the first three paragraphs, I said,
“Hey guys, listen to what Grandad wrote about growing up on the farm!”
In the early afternoon of March 6,1930 my older brothers & sisters were either in school or were sent to the closest neighbors to play. On their return later they were greeted by the screams of their youngest brother, me, Charles Ernest Hughes. This was the height of the great depression, banks closing, 25% unemployment and seven older brothers & sisters in the family. I don’t imagine my parents were overjoyed at my conception but after my birth I won everyone over and they decided to keep me. In fact, I believe my parents upon seeing me felt they had finally brought forth the perfect child and had no more.
When I paused, Jason asked hopefully. “Is there more?”
“Yes, four full pages and a fifth page, where it just stops.”
I asked my brother, “Did Dad say anything about this to you?”
“No, never. Did Mom ever mention it?”
“Mom never said anything to me about it. I wonder if she even knew he was writing.”
“He talks a lot about what life was like growing up on a farm during the Great Depression. Listen to this part,” I said.
I was born at home in the 17th civil district of Franklin County, Tennessee. Our mailing address for many years was simply Route #2 Winchester, Tennessee. Our farm originally consisted of approx 65 acres, a five-room house and various out buildings.
We did not have electricity until approx 1950, well after I was grown & had left the house. Neither did we have running water or indoor plumbing. Cooking was done over a wood burning stove as well as heat for rest of the house. Every fall the heating stove would be put in the sitting room and every spring we would take it down.
An extra bedroom was added to the house approximately 1946 and the kitchen enlarged. Before electricity we had coal oil lamps for light, we drew water from a cistern and food that had to be kept cool was lowered into the cistern just above the water.
We raised most of the food we ate which was common in the South for most farm families. There was not a surplus of money during the 1930s for anyone. Our cash crop was cotton & potatoes, plus the sale of hogs and cows and chickens and eggs. I believe my parents paid $3,000 for the farm in 1925-26 and did not get it paid for until the mid-1940s. Hired help could be obtained for .75 per day in the 1930s. And my first job paid that amount. Later in the early 1940s, wages crept up to $1.00, $1.25, $1.50, $2.00, $3.00 and once I made $4.00 helping a neighbor make molasses. The hours were usually a ten-hour day or longer.
Chuckling, Lee said “And now I know why my allowance was only two dollars growing up and I had to do chores for it.”
We always butchered our own pork but I don’t remember us killing a beef animal until the mid-forties. Only then because we could rent a freezer in Winchester to keep the meat. Pork was always salt cured and kept indefinitely without refrigeration. We usually killed at least 3 or 4 hogs which would weigh 300-400 lbs. each. This was usually done in November or Dec when you would have a cold enough temperature to chill the meat but not freeze it. Chickens were killed as needed for the table. Rabbits, squirrels, quail, fish & opossum was also a source of fresh meat.
“Grandad never talked much about his life on the farm, did he?” Jason asked.
“No, but I remember Mom talking about the farm not having indoor plumbing when they lived there after Dad got out of the Navy.”
Mom had said while Dad was still in the Navy, there had been a family meeting without him where his siblings had decided that when he returned, he would take over running the family farm. She said that as the youngest, Dad knew how to do his chores, but knew nothing about running the farm.
“Remember how Grandad loved making jam—strawberry, peach, raspberry and blackberry—and canning salsa, pickles tomatoes and beans? Listen to this.”
Canning fruits & vegetables was also very necessary. Everything canned on a hot stove in the middle of summer without the benefit of even an electric fan. We were tough in those days. I don’t remember how many cans we would preserve a year but it was a lot and consisted of: Peas, beans, tomatoes, kraut, pickles, beets, jam, jelly, Peaches, black berries. Potatoes were home grown, sweet & Irish. We usually had our own corn meal and flour ground at a local mill. Apples were dried and honey from our bees
“Well, I guess you can take the boy off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy,” Shannon laughed.
Dad always had a vegetable garden. He helped Mom with her flower garden. Each year, the vegetable garden seemed to take over more and more of the backyard. He would tell everyone tomatoes would be ready by the Fourth of July. And no matter when he planted, no matter the weather, no matter what new tomato growing trick he tried, tomatoes always ripened in August.
When Lee and I were old enough to be out of the house for good, he went to the car dealership and traded in one of the family cars for a pickup truck. He had a truck for the rest of his life, and no one else was allowed to drive it. Farm boys and pickup trucks go together like peanut butter and jelly.
“In this next section, Dad describes what life was like on the farm,” I continued.
Not much was purchased from the store and not much was needed. Sugar, salt, coffee, Peppers, vanilla extract and a few other items that we couldn’t grow. It is amazing today to think of the things we consider necessary that I never had in the 1930s when things were bad. We never in the 30s had fresh lettuce, celery & etc. in the winter, never any orange juice, Cake, cookies, chips, ice cream.
Toilet paper was not always available either but we used an old Sears Roebuck catalog. Our fortunes did improve in the early 40s and toilet paper was then available as well as other things.
In spite of all of the so-called hardships I am truly thankful for the era that I was born and raised. I never felt insecure, depressed, unloved, or impoverished. We always had a warm house in the winter and plenty of good wholesome food on the table three times a day.
At the time I never really like to do the farm work, but there were no choices. To a child or young man any form of work seems uninteresting, unending and unrewarding. I was too young to realize that if you didn’t work, you didn’t eat. However, I learned to work and sometime in my later life I learned that work is necessary & rewarding and I am today thankful of those long hot days spent behind a plow or hoe or pitchfork.
No job I ever had in my adult life was as hard as that early farm work but those early days were the best.
Pausing, I said, “A year before he died, Dad had asked if I would help him fill the pickup truck with the yard waste that had accumulated since my last visit and go with him to the county landfill. I agreed as I knew he would use the time to update me on what was going on with Mom’s health. Mom would wait until Dad had gone to bed to tell me about Dad’s latest health issues.”
This landfill trip, Dad had said, “You know Son, your mom and I never had a lot of money. We couldn’t give you and Lee all the things we wanted to. We struggled just to make ends meet for a long while.”
“Dad, I had a great childhood, filled with happy memories of fun vacations, playing sports in the backyard and a roomful of presents around the Christmas tree.”
“Son, we did our best.”
I got to tell him that I’ve had the career and the life I’ve always wanted. Senior policy advisor to two governors, successful lobby practice and respected expert on state health policy. “The big reason for my success is the lessons you taught me growing up, especially the importance of hard work. I work harder than most people, thanks to you. “
Our family was not big on sharing these kinds of feelings. But I could tell it was important for him to tell me that he and Mom had done their best. It was equally as important for me to tell him how much he had helped shape the man I’ve become.
“If anyone in the family asks if you want to take a ride to the landfill, say yes. That’s when you find out the good stuff. Now back to life on the farm,” I said.
All was not work, we did find time to play, hunt, fish, roam the countryside, hang out at the local gas station & etc. We were very inventive. If we didn’t have a ball or bat or kite we made them. Maybe they weren’t as good as store bought but they worked.
We made a football out of a rolled-up burlap bag. A kite was made from brown paper grocery sacks & paste of flour and water. Country boys are sometimes a little rough at the edges and so were the games. We use to have corn cob fights and also at times just threw rocks at each other from behind trees. This improved your agility & reflexes very quickly. We would also build a dam in the small creeks and make boats out of corn stalks to race. Nearly all boys in my country school carried a pocket knife & we all made sling shots. I suppose sling shots and knives are unwelcome in schools today but we had them.
I was amazed by what Dad had written, No eloquent prose, just honest and clearly written from his heart. His love for his family shone through in every sentence and every word. With each paragraph I would stop, reread, and marvel at the insight I saw into Dad’s upbringing, personality and how it molded him into the man, the husband, the father, and grandfather he became.
He revealed details about his parents and grandparents that I had never heard before.
“It says here that Dad’s grandfather was the Winchester County Sheriff and his father was one of the deputies. From reading this, it sounds like they lived either in the jail or nearby.”
“Robert Taylor Hughes - Father
I never really knew him as a mature adult since I left home at eighteen & except for yearly visits I never had a chance to know him as an adult. He died prior to my release from the Navy and California. He had a great sense of humor and loved to tease. He was well loved & respected throughout the County. I remember after his death that the Funeral Director told my brother that his funeral was the third largest, he had ever conducted. I suppose it was based on visitors at the wake & funeral and the number of flowers sent by friends.
He was approximately 5 feet 11 inches and weighed approximately 170-175 lbs. His occupations were as a deputy sheriff for his father the County Sheriff, Grist Mill operator, farmer, supervisor for the County in the Highway Dept., labor foreman for the construction of Camp Forest during WWII and as a laborer at the Estill Springs Sand & Gravel Company. He was a muscular man due to all the physical labor he done.
I believed he enjoyed being a deputy sheriff. I remember tales he used to tell when we would have company that he knew during his young days. Most of the time he rode a horse while performing his duties but during part of the time he did own a T Model Ford but roads being what they were - a horse was probably better. During part of this time, he was also an agent for the US Government enforcing laws on illegal whiskey. Once when they had raided a still and confiscated the whiskey; they brought it back to Winchester. They were pouring it out at the curb & letting it run into the sewer. A smart alec in the crowd said, “bet that ain’t whiskey” and threw a lighted match into it. It exploded and burned my Dad quite seriously but left no scars. He also had to travel to Newport News, VA to testify for some trials.
Clara Belle Amacher Hughes
Born on Feb 9, 1892 in Franklin County. I believe she spent the first 18-19 years of her life on a small farm near the Belvidere community in Franklin County. The community was populated by many families & most were of Swiss descent. My grandfather, John Amacher came to the US when he was eight years old.
There were six children named in the order of their birth; Clara, Willard, Stella, Herman, Ernest and Ela. The order of birth may be reversed on Willard and Stella.
My mother told me that she married at 19 & due to the distance, she lived from my father (7-8 miles) I doubt if there was an extensive courtship. I remember that she told me that PaPa came to get her one morning in a horse & buggy. He asked her to marry him & she said yes, packed her belongings & rode back to Winchester, TN with him & got married. I don’t know where they lived or how they supported themselves but I think they lived with MA & PA Hughes (my grandparents). I remember that they did help operate a grist mill for a number of years & may have all lived in the same house.
In the later years my father was a deputy sheriff working for his father who was elected County Sheriff. During this period my parents & their children lived at the County jail with my grandparents & plus 5 or 6 of my brothers and sisters. The living quarters were not too big but there were probably sleeping rooms downstairs. The Prisoners were also housed in the same brick building & I believe that the sheriff was responsible for feeding of the prisoners. I remember my mother telling me they were paid so much per day per prisoner & the more prisoners the more money they could make. From this I presumed that my mother & grandmother cooked the food.”
I read the funny story about his brother, Buford.
“I remember that my brother Buford was 2-4 yrs old at the time & he would slip off from the jail area. When the prisoners on the second floor would spot him straying too far, they would alert Mama”
Dad goes on to write,
“Also during the day there were no male members around to control the prisoners. On one occasion the prisoners were all singing which was unusual. My grandmother investigated & found a hole had been knocked in the jail wall. She went and got a shot glass & made the prisoners stay in jail until the men folk came home. She was probably 5 feet 2 or 3 inches tall & weighted maybe 110 pounds. Her husband was 6 feet and four inches tall. “
“Why did he write this? What did he plan to do with it?” Jason wondered.
“Why did he stop there, without any stories about his other siblings?”
“I would love to know more about his oldest brother, Luther.”
I knew nothing more about him than he had served on a submarine during World War II that was lost at sea. Maybe there would be more information about Luther and the rest of the family in Dad’s journals that Lee had found.
“Lee,” I said, “I’d like to keep this and figure out a way to preserve it, if that’s alright with everyone?”
“Sure,” he said. “We also found two journals of his and some genealogy research that Mom had done. Do you want those, too?”
“Yes! Send me everything! Looks like you found a lost family treasure.” I said.
During the drive to the airport, Lee and I agreed this had been such fun that we would do it again next year.
* * * * *
I settled into my favorite aisle seat in the exit row, the only place in economy that would allow me to stretch my long legs, I tried to focus on the new book I had brought along to help the four-and-a-half-hour flight back to Phoenix go faster. Despite being a best-seller by one of my favorite authors, I could not focus on it.
I would read a few paragraphs, pause as my mind drifted back to how much fun this visit had been and all the happy memories we made together as a family. It reminded me of the many fun vacations we had with Mom and Dad both growing up and later as adults. I had not realized until this trip just how much being with family actually meant to me.
I had often read of families finding some lost treasure like a valuable painting or vase when cleaning out their family home. Lee finding “Remembrances of my Childhood & Family” was our equivalent of finding that lost Rembrandt. But much more valuable for the insight it provided into who Dad had been, and why he did things the way he did.
From his writings, life on the farm had taught Dad the importance of hard work, self-reliance, family, the value of a dollar, and don’t forget to have some fun along the way. These were the lessons he tried to pass on to Lee and me.
Sadly, those lessons were not always happily or easily received. I remember quiet grumbling about having to spend all day Saturday and part of Sunday doing yardwork while my friends were playing baseball or basketball. To this day, I still hate yardwork. I gave up and put the book aside and took out the pad of graph paper. I read it again, and new questions and thoughts grew in my mind.
Dad, why did you not tell anyone about this? And why did you stop?
If Dad had talked about his writing project with me, I would have encouraged and supported him in all the ways he had supported me. I would have loved to have shared this project with him. I could have pushed him to reveal more about his upbringing, his siblings and life during the Depression and World War II, the way he pushed me to work hard and always do my best.
As the plane began its descent into Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport, I focused on the section on his parents. Almost all of what he had written about his parents was new information that was fascinating to learn. I wanted more.
I could feel tears well as I reread about growing up on the farm during the worse of the Great Depression. Behind my tears, I felt pride to learn what my father had overcome in his life to achieve his dreams of a good job, and provide for a wife and family. I had never told my father I was proud of him, and now I’ll never have the chance.
“Remembrances of My Family & Childhood” had brought back many happy memories and had given me new insight into my father—truly a lost treasure to cherish.
Dad had not just achieved the American dream. He had lived it.
