My Father’s Father Part 8 – One More Time With Feeling

I’m wondering if this rabbit hole was too deep. My head whipped about like a windsock in a stiff breeze as I experienced it realtime. The thoughts came jumbled and in floods, often times needing weeks to put down. In my mind the narrative never unfolded sequentially and that’s why you’ve been tasked with following my tale and putting it back together in the proper order. But I care; to do it justice I’m going to give you a retelling in the order it most likely took place.

This is the life of Charles Francis Muller.

1922_1965_1935

In 1860, George Mueller immigrated with his parents from Bayern, Germany. He was just a young child. No doubt his family found it stressful, being wiser and more experienced. Stories of ill fortune in America were well known, but so were the successes. The promise of a new start proved too much for many Germans considering the quality of life back home. The chance to eat and thrive brought his family to Louisiana where they settled in what was known as Jefferson City.

There George lived and went to school and by 1880 he was butcher with his own shop, the primary profession for much of his life. In 1884 he married Honorine Moreau, the daughter of a local baker. How they met is a mystery, but he and her father both worked in shops less than a mile from each other. Being a merchant himself, George must have shown been a fine suitor. Fine enough that Honore and Elizabeth Moreau remained with them or near them the rest of their lives.

In 1889 he and his wife, along with her parents, moved to Bay St. Louis in Mississippi. Charles Moreau, Honorine’s younger brother, needed a healthier environment than the choking, often disease ridden atmosphere in New Orleans. There George opened Muller’s Meat Market right by the ocean with a large field to corral his animals. Apart from the natural disasters prone to the area they all thrived. It was here Charles was born.

For his first 7 years he knew only pristine sands, hot summer days, and small town streets. His Uncle Charles (Moreau) started the Sea Coast Echo, the local newspaper. It still stands there there today. Listening to his Uncle’s stories, visiting his father’s shop, and going to church shaped how he thought and what he expected out of life. Pillars of the community, the Mullers and the Moreaus started civic groups, opened schools, witnessed countless marriages and baptisms and by all accounts were well liked.

Honorine’s mother passed away in 1902 of a heart attack, followed by Honore in 1905. It was written he missed his wife sorely and I secretly wonder if he was ready to join her. She received an enormous write-up in the local paper upon her death and not simply due being the Editor’s mother. For her day she was a figure in the church and in the community, known simply as Mere to her family.

After their passing things began to change for the Mullers. For reasons unknown, possibly related to George’s health, the family returned to New Orleans in 1908. There George set up shop again, this time in the French Market. The family settled into their lives and things proceeded normally for the next decade. Siblings got married, some had kids, and Charles grew up.

Education being different back then, Charles entered a local business school in 1914. Enrolled at Soulé College he learns accounting and grammar from one of the best schools in the country. It was known for its attention to academic excellence and Soulé himself wrote many of the textbooks used for instruction. All in all it was the kind of training intended for someone with promise and means.

Over the next few years Charles flexed his business muscle, trying his hand at several ventures. The Roaring 20s were just ahead and New Orleans was a hot bed of corruption and capitalism. Charles, like many youths, made some mistakes. He got into trouble at 19 after he’s accused of stealing coffee from the docks and selling it to a local restaurant. He works for Cumberland Telephone and Telegraph for several years as a clerk, even moonlighting as a teacher at Soulé in 1921, before getting married to Mathilda Violet Mitchell in 1922.

Working for Cumberland they must have known each other, living in the same neighborhood mere blocks from each other. Whether they interacted socially or at work we don’t know, but they enjoyed enough of a relationship that eventually they were married. One of the few photographs of Charles at this time is printed in the newspaper as he stands with his new bride.

Over the next five years Charles tries out various business ideas. He’s indicted on lottery charges in 1923, but is not convicted. He starts his own realty business in 1925, with several entries in the local papers showing land deals. He and Mathilda are mentioned in the papers at various social events or attending weddings. In 1925 or 1926 Charles goes to work for Mortgage and Securities Company of New Orleans where he seems to hit his stride socially. He starts a baseball team made up of employees, heads up the company social committee, even introduces the new President in 1926 at an event written up in the paper. The 20s are truly roaring for young Charles, but trouble is brewing.

By July 1926 there’s a notice in the paper. A lawsuit is filed against Charles over a land deal. By August Charles is on the run, last seen headed north in his “personal automobile.” There’s a question as to why he’s quit his job and if he’s on his way to Chicago. By December he’s in jail, though it’s not known if he was captured or turned himself in. By January 8th 1927 he’s convicted of forgery to the tune of $39,000, nearly half a million in today’s money. Did he use this money to fund his lifestyle or to speculate on land? His sentence is 6-10 years in Baton Rouge at the Louisiana State Penitentiary.

His father George dies a month after Charles is sent to prison. The obituary is small, but mentions all his family, including the deceased daughter Blanche. Charles is listed even though he is in prison.

He’s considered a model prisoner and is moved into the Warden’s office to work on records management. Perhaps the family knew the Warden, or perhaps it was known he was a non-violent with skills valuable to the state. In any event he gains favor and an early parole, getting out in 18 months. He works hard to gets his rights back as a citizen, but the Attorney General of Louisiana wants to investigate the pardon. This, combined with more forgery transgressions, pushes Charles to do the unthinkable.

By April 1930 he’s living alone at the Hotel Istrouma in Baton Rouge but is listed as married. He’s not a boarder, but a guest. He’s listed as a salesman for the state, but nothing more. And by May he’s gone. No other word of him is found again in the public record.

In May of the same year Clyde Morgan appears for the first time in the public record. Sailing out of New Orleans on the S.S. Gatun, a fruit boat. He sails for many months, finally disembarking in New York in 1931.

Charles, now Clyde, is pretty silent during the next two years. To be fair the Great Depression is raging at this time and jobs were scarce. Clyde Morgan lives in Winston Salem, North Carolina in 1932. He’s listed as a tobacco worker in the directory, something he shares with his future wife. While there he was a pallbearer in a funeral for a family by the name of Cannady. The significance of this only comes to light when we learn his future father-in-law was married to a Cannady. It is unknown if this is how he meets the Cahal family and eventually Adele. Perhaps this funeral provided the chance meeting between Charles/Clyde and Charlie Cahal, father to Adele Cahal. Did she attend the funeral too? Or, as family lore contends, did Clyde drive moonshine for Charlie Cahal? His children cannot confirm this, but they have memories of delivering something out of the back of the car during trips in the country.

No matter how he meets them, Clyde ends up in Durham, NC in 1934 where he marries Adele Cahal at the Durham Salvation Army. Freshly minted as a husband and flush with money from his job, they start a family and the rest is, as they say, history.