The Picketts

Number 12 on the map is labeled "Picketts."

My grandfather shares his memories...

"Ah yes Picketts." To go to Picketts was an adventure in itself. It entailed going up the New Hope road, cross the first branch past the first curve, go right into the dense woods, crossing several foot logs that spanned Flint River and it's sloughs, finally crossing the old race dug by John Pryor in 1820 to feed his mill located near the bridge, on the Vantown road, passing the spring where Pickett got their water and where Mrs. Pickett kept her milk and butter, on a short distance to their old house that sat flat on the ground a short distance from the river. Edgar and Higby Pickett, who were first cousins, had five sons, Dan, S.T., Edgar (Pots), Charles (Morty) and Orville (Frog Eye).

Charles (Morty) and Orville Picketts were two of my best friends. They owned a couple of flat bottom boats that they kept on the river, or creek as we always called it, that they used to fish in, run trot lines, go frogging in and to play in. Most of my gang that I will call the Lincoln Mafia, for like of a better word, were the aforementioned Pickett brothers, Jack Simms, Buddy Shelton, Shirley Bain, Harold Stevenson, Clayton Rutledge who we called "Sugar," Charles Mills whom we called "Lardo," and myself that they all called "Governor." I was given the name by the Pickett brothers, as when a decision was to be made or activities coordinated, they would say ask the Governor - so the title just kind of stuck. When I had a mutual friend in Nashville call Morty Pickett recently (1993), to see if he was the right Pickett, so I could call and talk to him, the friend Wayne Stafford, who was raised at Lincoln, said to Morty on the phone, "I am inquiring about your welfare from an old friend of yours that was raised in Lincoln." Question by Pickett: "What is his name?" Answer by Stafford: "Timothy Marsh." Answer by Pickett: "Oh for God's sake you mean the Governor! Haven't seen him for forty years."

The Lincoln Mafia was on the river most of the weekends, swimming, fishing, frogging, boating or ginseng hunting. We would put the ginseng roots on an old tin roof, cure it and carry it to Fayetteville on Saturday and sell it to a fur dealer on West College Street. About this time we killed a big rattler while hunting ginseng in Teel Hollow between Kelso and Crystal Springs. We cut the 12 rattlers off, carried them to Fayetteville the next Saturday to the Fayetteville Observer Office and we got a write-up in the paper. [I tried to locate this article, but was not successful.]

The Picketts though poor, like most of us then during the Great Depression, were the most hospitable people I ever knew.

Blanche Marsh and Timothy R. Marsh at the house in Lincoln.