The Egg Men
In my continuing search through the old newspapers of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, my attention was heightened considerably when I came across a brief item in the December 22, 1898, issue of the Biloxi-Gulfport Daily Herald. This 125-year-old newspaper account stated: “John L. Bond, the notorious chicken and egg peddler, has gone to Biloxi with a load of produce. If Biloxi folks fail to have eggnog and turkey for Christmas it will not be John's fault.”
This statement captured my attention for two reasons. For one, John Lampkin Bond (1862-1938) was the man who homesteaded the 160 acres in upper Big Level from which was taken the 40-acre parcel my parents purchased in 1953, the farm where I was raised. This John Bond—my 3rd cousin twice removed—not only homesteaded the land I grew up on, he built the house I lived in for the first 19 years of my life. I have always been curious about the remnants of some old structures around the barns and outbuildings surrounding our/his old house. With this discovery, I have no doubt that some of them were used for raising chickens. Apparently, it seems now, a lot of chickens.
The other reason I was so enthralled by this item—the main reason, really—is that my granddaddy, Dolphus Absalom "Dolph" Lott (1897-1976), my father’s father, was also a noted egg man. He, too, owned and operated a thriving egg farm, and he also had a regular egg route to Biloxi and Gulfport., though he traveled it in a pickup truck, rather than a horse- or mule-drawn wagon. And no one who knew my granddaddy would describe him as “notorious,” not even jokingly.
From my reading and research, I have discovered that the farmers in Big Level, as well as those in the surrounding areas, had a long history of peddling farm products to the businesses and people in the towns down on the coast. It pleases me greatly when I learn any new detail relating to the agriculturally-rich heritage of my family and their neighbors and of the part they played in those endeavors.
Granddaddy started in the egg business big time in the late 1940s, after moving his family back from Moss Point and Pascagoula where he had spent the war years doing carpentry work. Coming back to the farm in upper Big Level upon which he was born and that he inherited from his father, he chose to invest in some laying hens. By the time I came along in the early ’50s, he had three chicken houses filled with 3,000 layers, along with all the necessary appurtenances, including an egg washer, candler, and sorter, as well as a refrigerated storage room and incubators for raising baby chicks.
Our house was only a mile from Granddaddy’s and Grandma’s—less, as the crow flies—and my brothers and I spent a lot of our spare time over there helping Granddaddy and working and playing with our first cousins—Uncle ’Nell’s boys—who lived even closer. There were always things to be done, whether it was gathering eggs or putting out shells and feed for the chickens or the not-so-pleasant task of shoveling out the buildup of manure in the chicken houses. Gathering the eggs and doing other work in the chicken houses was okay but, given my druthers, I preferred working in the egg room. Not only was it air-conditioned, it had the coolest equipment, particularly the egg candling and sorting unit.
Candling is the age-old method of looking inside an egg without breaking it open. With Granddaddy’s unit, the washed eggs were placed on a ramp that allowed each egg to be examined as it rolled over the candling light, the goal being to find eggs that were not cracked, rotten, or with a developing embryo. After their freshness and viability for sale were determined, the eggs then rolled through a sorter, with each gently dropping into lanes according to their proper size (small, medium, large, and extra-large). Whereupon, the eggs were gathered by hand and placed in cartons or flats to be packed into larger crates for delivery.
Granddaddy delivered eggs to customers in Wiggins once or twice a week. It pleases me even now to know that there were always cartons of eggs on the local grocery store shelves at Hall’s, Yeager’s, and Jitney Jungle stamped with “Grade A Eggs fresh from Lott Egg Farm.” However, Granddaddy did the bulk of his business on his weekly trips to the coast. Every Wednesday afternoon he would load up his old International Harvester pickup outfitted with a handmade plywood cover for the truck bed. That cover, with a door in the back, was about the size of a small camper; he could haul 15 or 16 crates inside it. Lastly, he would cover the crates with insulated blankets in preparation for his Thursday all-day run. The route included several grocery stores and restaurants and a few other businesses. His biggest customer was the large restaurant at the Broadwater Beach Hotel in Biloxi. They would get at least four or five cases of eggs a week and even more during their busiest months.
A green 1952 International Harvester pickup much like the one Granddaddy Lott owned.
Some of my fondest memories are from those rare occasions I was privileged to make that trip with him. I particularly remember once being allowed to go when I was 9 or 10. It was in the early spring around Easter break. That Wednesday, after school let out, Mama and I stopped by Granddaddy’s and Grandma’s for a brief visit, probably to pick up a dozen eggs to carry home. I immediately headed out to the egg houses to see what Granddaddy was doing. I remember that I had my BB gun with me, the Daisy Red Ryder I’d gotten for Christmas a few weeks earlier. It was still virtually new as it had stayed on the top shelf of Mama’s and Daddy’s bedroom closet most of that time. I’d been most recently grounded from it for accidently shooting my younger brother, John, in the leg. (For the record, it was his fault as much as mine, but that’s another story.) Anyway, when Granddaddy found out that I was out of school, he said it would be okay for me to spend the night and accompany him on the next day’s trip. All excited, I laid the gun down and lit out for the house to beg Mama to let me go with him to Biloxi. With Grandma’s blessing, Mama said I could, but that we would first have to go home and get some shoes and a clean set of clothes.
The next morning, we were up before daylight. While Granddaddy and I finished our breakfast, Grandma packed two lunch pails for our trip, sandwiches and pie for us both and my thermos filled with sweet tea, granddaddy’s with coffee. And, then we climbed in that old green pickup and were off. As the sun peeked over the horizon, we left Big Level for the coast.
By 7:00 am, we were on Pass Road calling on our first customer. Throughout the morning I followed Granddaddy’s every step into the back doors of small groceries and restaurants. We made deliveries to a couple of bars. We even stopped at the kitchen door of a residence and left five dozen eggs—that must’ve been a large family. We made our way around his route through Gulfport and Biloxi and by 11:00 or so we stopped near the Back Bay Bridge and had our lunch. It was a welcome respite, sitting on the tailgate of the pickup, looking out over the bay, and watching the boats go by and the seagulls flit about. After a few more deliveries back westward along the beach on Highway 90, we turned back north toward Stone County and Big Level. I must’ve napped the whole way back, as I don’t remember anything else until Granddaddy dropped me off at home.
It was not until the afternoon of the following day that I missed my BB gun and started looking for it. Mama said she didn’t have it and that it must still be at Granddaddy’s and Grandma’s. I decided that that was probably so. That’s when it hit me. I clearly remembered laying the gun on the running board on the passenger side of the truck before rushing in to get my permissions. Mama drove me back to Granddaddy’s where I first checked the truck and then searched all through the egg house. We all agreed that it probably fell off somewhere along Big Four Road as we started the egg route the morning before.
A Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun much like the one I briefly had.
I’m sure Mama figured I’d be better off without it, but to her credit, she rode slowly along in the car as I walked all the way from Granddaddy’s house to the Clayton place, scouring the roadside and ditches for any sign of that gun. There was no sign of it. It could’ve ridden on that running board for miles, maybe into Wiggins and on down Highway 49 before bouncing off.
Mama was most likely right, I probably was better off without it. The odds were, it was already found and in the hands of some little boy who would appreciate it more than I apparently did. Oh, well, coo coo ca choo.
Notes:
An item in the March 8, 1889, issue of the Pascagoula Democrat-Star reported that John L. Bond sold his former place in Big Level to Columbus Breland (another cousin of mine) and settled a few miles away on the homestead mentioned above. His land grant was issued when it was perfected five years later on Feb. 21, 1894. (Homestead Certif. #9353, Application #19409, MS Vol 249 Pg 288)
Without grit, chickens cannot effectively digest their food, and calcium-rich oyster-shell grit helps hens develop strong eggs.
TERMS TO PONDER
ped·dler (noun): One who travels about selling small wares which he carries with him. Originally, one who did so while traveling on foot. from late 14c., pedelere, altered from peoddere, peddere (c. 1200), which is from Medieval Latin pedarius “one who goes on foot,” from Latin pes (genitive pedis) “foot,” from the Proto-Indo-European root *ped- “foot.”
etymonline.com
coo coo ca choo (slang phrase): “Coo coo ca choo” was first used in the 1967 song “I Am the Walrus” by The Beatles and shortly afterwards by Simon & Garfunkel in their 1968 song “Mrs. Robinson.” The phrase has no definitive meaning and has been freely interpreted based on the surrounding context in which it has been used. In many cases it is presumed to be an expression reassuring goodness or a way of saying that the state of things is entirely fine.
urbandictionary.com
SONG OF THE DAY
“I Am The Walrus,” by The Beatles (Magical Mystery Tour, 1967)