Vardaman, Martha White, and Granddaddy Lecornu

How a small Mississippi town, sacks of Martha White flour, and a General Store connected my family to Johnny Cash and Bobbie Gentry

Martha White flour was the only flour or flour product allowed in our home. When pressed why, my mother always had the same answer:

It's what Daddy sold in the store.

My grandfather, Charlie Lecornu, held a variety of titles in his small hometown of Vardaman but was best known for owning the General Store. On a recent visit to Vardaman, a man remarked that every Christmas present he had as a child came from "Mr. Charlie's" store.

Vardaman is a small bump in the road along Highway 8 between Houston and Calhoun City. It is a long, low, and straight stretch through fields filled with sweet potatoes and was once an ideal track for late night drag racing among teenagers. Today, Vardaman is still known for sweet potatoes and still only has one light—a yellow one on the highway telling people to slow down. The town contains all the accoutrements one would expect from a small Southern town—a gas station, diner, a handful of churches, and some local businesses that help provide some ease and life to the town.

My grandfather's family had a long history in Vardaman, stretching back to when it was known as Timberville and his family owned a timber mill. The name changed in the early 20th century when it was decided to re-name the town in honor of a former governor of Mississippi, James K. Vardaman. This change was not popular among all parties involved, most notably the then President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt. Governor Vardaman was a virulent racist, standing out for his fervor even among his equally notable contemporaries and predecessors. Roosevelt hated him and refused to acknowledge the change in the name, ordering the Post Office to keep the name Timberville as the official postal designation. It would be some time before the issue was resolved.

A Quiet Life, Not an Idle One

This is the place my grandfather was raised and subsequently, my mother and uncle. My mother grew up in and around the store, often recalling the large sacks of flour stacked high on tables in the back of the store, duly delivered from the Martha White Flour Company and waiting for the local farmers to come and purchase. It was a relatively quiet life and simple, but certainly not idealistic.

Mississippi was segregated in those days with clear delineations among races. Vardaman was no different in that regard, but my grandfather held more progressive ideas than many of his neighbors. When he decided on lunch for he and his family working in the store, he would call the diner owned by a black man and send my mother on her bicycle to pick up the burgers. She would dutifully ride her bicycle to the other side of the tracks and return with a brown paper sack, grease stains from the burgers seeping through the brown paper.

The owner of the white diner, unhappy with this arrangement, protested good money being spent at the black diner. My grandfather simply responded:

He makes a better burger. If you made a good burger, I'd buy it.

The Untold Story in the Flour Sacks

But it was the flour and the staples for the farmers that made the store work. And none more so than Martha White flour. The large sacks of flour were contained in printed cloth bags which were often turned into clothing by the industrious wives and daughters of the farmers. There is nothing exciting about flour, at least not on the surface. But Martha White flour held an untold story from our family.

Untold until around 2005, when I was visiting my parents at their then home in Starkville, MS. It was the week of the Johnny Cash Flower Picking Festival, held annually in Starkville. It was the year following his death, and his daughter Rosanne was due to visit and perform. Starkville had been the site of Johnny's only night in jail after a drunken binge found him standing in flower beds on city property, happily picking flowers. I suppose in his state of mind at the time, it did not occur to him that picking flowers from public byways was against the law. To his misfortune, it was. The story was legendary around Starkville, and at some point, an enterprising person saw this as a good way to generate some tourism and publicity for Starkville. Thus the festival was born.

My sister and I were commenting on the festival and mentioned that we both loved Johnny Cash. I had largely grown up in Tupelo where Elvis was venerated, but I always preferred Johnny. It was in this moment of discussion that my mother piped up:

"You know I met him, don't you? He signed a picture for me."

A pall fell over the room and my sister and I stared at our mother.

"No, we did not know that" was said almost in tandem.

Mom smiled and then turned, walking back to her bedroom and her closet. A few minutes later she returned with a black and white glossy of a very young Johnny Cash. We stared at the picture with envy and then again, almost in tandem, said:

"How?"

And that's when we learned more of the story of Martha White flour.

I don't know how much Martha White flour my grandfather sold in that year, but it must have been a hefty amount. The leadership of the company contacted him and said that they appreciated how much of their product Granddaddy sold. As a thank you, they wanted to send a young musician they sponsored to Vardaman and put on a concert. Then, as now, the only place large enough in town was the high school gym. And so this young musician from Arkansas, Johnny Cash, came to Vardaman and gave a concert. He met my mother and the family backstage and gave them signed pictures. All because Granddaddy wouldn't sell anything other than Martha White.

The Second Most Famous Visitor

For a time, I thought that surely was the most famous person to have been to Vardaman. A couple of years later, I found out I was wrong. And again, it was connected to my grandfather.

We were at a family gathering and a cousin mentioned that it was the anniversary of the day that Billie Joe jumped off the Tallahatchie bridge, made famous in a song by Bobbie Gentry, the legendary and reclusive Southern singer. Ode to Billie Joe had become a worldwide hit, even surpassing the Beatles on the charts in England. Bobbie Gentry had subsequently become a star before retiring and leaving fame and publicity behind.

Mom piped in:

"You know I know her don't you?"

Much as it did when she mentioned Johnny Cash, a pall fell over the room and looks of incredulity were pitched in my mother's direction.

"She loved Mother and Daddy. Her grandmother lived up the street and whenever she came home to visit, she would come down and see Mother and Daddy. I've got her autograph."

While we were still trying to process this news, Mom disappeared for a moment and returned with my grandmother's old Social Security card. There, on the back, was the signature of Bobbie Gentry. My grandmother had asked for an autograph, and that being the only piece of blank paper she had, Bobbie signed the back of the card.

What's Left

My grandparents are long since gone. There are no Lecornus left in Vardaman and precious few who remember the name, not that there were ever many to begin with. But I still return there each year to drive by the old home place, visit the various cemeteries where my relatives are buried, and buy a sweet potato pie.

I walk by the old store, no longer in use, but I can still see the old shelves on the wall. The tables in the back are long gone, but if I stand still for a moment and close my eyes, I can see the stacks of flour. I can hear my grandfather's voice. And I can hear singing. Johnny and Bobbie telling stories of the South through their songs.

When the songs in my head are almost done, I open my eyes and hear my mother:

"You know I know them, don't you?"

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