My Grandparents' Home at 58 Lemoyne Place, Mobile, Alabama Part III

My Grandparents’ Home

58 Lemoyne Place

Mobile, Alabama

Part III

My grandfather was a pharmacist and at one time he owned drug stores in the Mobile area. He was, of course, a compounding pharmacist which meant he mixed the pharmaceuticals to the specifications of the prescribing physician. He didn’t count pills and scrape them into a bottle or reach on the shelf for an already prepared prescription. All prescriptions would be customized for each patient. Thankfully, in the U.S. today, there is a resurgence of compounding pharmacies. Most people who hear of these pharmacies look upon them with suspect eyes as though there is something improper being mixed behind the counter. It is the same way with organic farming. Organic farming is NOT some new twist to a New Age religion. It is farming the way it was done 100 years ago. I remember when Big Daddy (my grandfather was so named to distinguish him from (Little) Daddy, my father whose physical stature was that of the Cronins and not of the Davises) complained in his latter years of work that pharmacists had been relegated to counting pills instead of making them.

My grandmother (Ellie) had a sister named Bess. She had been married to Dr. Carl Thuringer, and they had lived in St. Cloud, Minnesota where Uncle Carl had a medical practice. After Bess and Carl divorced, Aunt Bess moved back to the Mobile area. Her brother-in-law (my grandfather) encouraged her to pursue her training to become a pharmacist herself. Eventually, Aunt Bess became the first female registered pharmacist in Alabama. Bess was quite a character and is worthy of her own separate story of which I may be unqualified to write. If some of you out there have remembrances of Aunt Bess, feel free to use the comment feature of this blog or e-mail me and I’ll place them on the blog.

A picture of Andrew Russell Davis, MD, the father of my grandfather Isaac Luther Davis

As children we loved visiting our grandparents’ home at LeMoyne Place. The attic alone was enough to keep one busy. We were allowed to play in the attic and explore all the nooks and crannies except for the area where our Uncle I.L. (Isaac Luther) had his living space. The attic had that typical “attical” ambience with the subdued lighting. The filtered light from the few windows gave a shadowed hue which made the space rather mysterious and magical. It invited exploration. Album after album of family pictures were stored in the attic Ancestors who had long been forgotten paraded themselves on page after page. Former high school sweethearts and crushes had verses written to them as though these puppy romances were made in heaven and would be eternal. I found an autograph book that belonged to my dad’s older sister, Mary Lucille. Years later when it came into my parents’ possession, we enjoyed reading the comments from the days of the flappers of the 1920’s. It was a chronicle of the social events of 1926 as well as who was ogling whom in those high school days before the Market Crash of 1929.

There was a regulator clock that hung from one of the square pillars that held up the roof. It long since had done its final ticking and was awaiting “the resurrection of the dead” which finally happened when my parents rescued all of the Lemoyne Place contents in a mad dash to save family heirlooms and pictures when the house was going to be sold (contents and all) following my grandmother Irene’s death in 1966. The clock had been in a drug store that my grandfather had owned, and it had faithfully ticked and watched over the countless customers who enjoyed a cherry coke at the soda fountain that was part of every drugstore in those days. The wrought iron, marbled-topped tables and matching wrought iron chairs with wooden bottoms were the mainstay at the soda fountain. The chairs were never comfortable to sit in due to the filigree, wrought-iron backs that only seemed to be a branding iron to one’s back instead of much needed comfort.

In our own town back in Tuscaloosa, Alabama there was another drug store next to the Bama Theater that had an identical look as the one in Mobile. In fact, it was owned by another Luther Davis who was a first or second cousin of my grandfather Luther Davis. The Tuscaloosa Luther somehow recognized us as being related to his cousin in Mobile. I thought it was interesting that somebody that I didn’t know was aware of who I was without us being introduced. Whenever it was time to pay for a fountain drink, he said not to worry since someone had already paid for our refreshment. He even gave us free coupons to come back and enjoy a cherry coke. As I learned later, it was an easy thing to spot a “Davis” boy since there were six of us, and we did favor each other as well as our parents. Out of the blue someone would come up to one of us and say, “You are Cronin and Evelyn’s boy, aren’t you?” I didn’t see the resemblance at the time, but now for the past many years since my own father’s death (1985), I have the same dragging-of-the heels gait about the way I walk. It is most evident and confirming as I walk through snow. It wouldn’t take much to identify my tracks in the snow. My facial features are stamped with the Elliott stock that I inherited from my mother. Even as an adult, when we returned to Alabama for vacations, my mother’s sisters (my aunts) would say, “Yep, he sure looks like Uncle Hunter.” I never met Uncle Hunter Elliott who happened to be my mother’s uncle and my great uncle, but when I was shown a picture of Uncle Hunter, I had to agree that I did favor him. Consequently, with this easy recognition, not much could be done in secret since everyone seemed to know you even if you didn’t know them. Oh, the woes of growing up in a small town even though Tuscaloosa was not a small town.

Incidentally, the regulator clock was fixed by my parents and graced their den for many years. It was a 31-day clock and even to this day keeps excellent time. My youngest brother inherited the clock in the “luck” of the draw at the time of the dispersing of our parents’ estate. (To be continued in the next entry that will be entitled, “The Bells of St. Mary.”)