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George Washington Jones is a case study in the grandeur and flaws of the American dream. He was an orphan who rose from being a nobody without prospects to become a somebody: a man of influence, position, standing, and significance who acquired and left property, cash, investments, and prized possessions. He occupied important offices of power in a dramatic era. Who was he?
Why has history ignored him? It took wit, will, work, and more to live as he had. I hoped to learn the reason for his obscurity and lack of recognition in local, state, and national history. In the process, I wanted to tell the story of his life.
As a lifelong liberal, embittered nearly to the point of becoming a revolutionary, I was certain I would have to contend in this experience with a nineteenth-century, Southern white man of ill-gained wealth, wrong thinking, traitorous choices, and moral corruption. In short, I, as a modern person, could be in a position to judge a predecessor who, at a few points, from what I'd researched, seemed to possess the democratic populist values I cherish. He had lived a life intimately involved with some of the greatest historical icons of the American story. He knew them and they knew him. I envied that. He was a small player in a great drama, but he was there! Yet, at other places it appears he lived by choices and morals that ranged from wrong-headed to evil. Yet, I had been drawn to him. I carry the contradictions of envy and skepticism uneasily.
I had left the home of five generations of my family in 1973 to venture far and wide. The story of Fayetteville, Tennessee's Mr. Jones was part of my odyssey to a place and a people. It somehow provided a means of returning and reckoning with the brief, mortal experience and the things that occupied my mind and soul when facing the 'Great Mystery.' Mortality clarifies. It frees and commissions one, frees one from the artificial and the unnecessary. But commissions one to do what? Learn, confront, agitate…heal?
Mr. Jones needed a biography, and I was for some reason drawn to him. My interest in him had lingered on the edges of my awareness for many years. It was a way to occupy my time as I worked towards some ill-defined purpose having to do with my identity and placeness. My longings evoked a mission. And too, it was something that "kept me out of the brothels and sinful bars."
My extended visit with Mother, my host for this research tour, was pleasant and comfortable. She provided a bed, and my sister next door let me use her commodious shower. I slept from about ten at night until about five each morning then I hit the wandering trail for eight to ten hours. When I returned from exploring, I visited with Mother and prepared a comfort-food supper: a favorite was cheap, commercial pimento cheese and Miracle Whip sandwiches on soft white bread, one piece of bread folded over the orange and white goo. I'm good for three helpings, maybe four. Non-fat milk was the drink of choice, and dessert was a cookie or maybe one of Uncle Roy and Aunt Martha's crisp, Yellow Delicious apples. Autumn is apple season and their varied types are wonderful miracles created by nature and lots of hard work. I'm partial to the Yellow Delicious.