Richmond Press, Inc.                          Richmond, VA                          1938

Gumboreezer, Brisky and Educated Hog

In the West End, from Third Street, say, to Sidney and Harvietown, there were three old colored men whom the boys delighted to tease. That was in 1879, 1880 and thereabout. These were Gumboreezer, Brisky and Educated Hog. The first possessed the high-sounding name of Montgomery Dandridge; hence the familiar short name of Gummy, expanded by boy wit into Gumboreezer. We had a rhyme which some genius had made up on him:

Gumboreezer, Sidney greaser,
Stole my Mammy's ice-cream freezer.

This, of course, rendered him furious and he would chase us, but vainly, for he had one bench leg and one good one, while we were fairly able sprinters.

He was a ragman, very black, with a Roman nose and a bad temper. He made an independent living and was honest, so the imputation was grievous to him. It is not on record that he ever caught a boy; but what he would have done to one, if he had caught him, might be judged from what he did when Polk Vashon, then nearly full grown, teased him at close quarters. He dealt Polk a sudden blow with his cudgel and cut his head open; whereupon Polk, who was of immense strength and vitality, knocked him down; and there is no telling how badly he would have hurt him had not Dabney Wilkinson and Steve Eddins held him and represented to him that Gummy was very old.

Another time, but before that, Jim Anderson tossed a rock in his direction, tossed it at an angle of forty-five degrees, or thereabouts, and it descended on his head and knocked him down; very nearly put him in Slumberland. Jim was very sorry for it, for he had not intended to hit him.

One Saturday night Sam Elliot and I were on the street near the corner of Belvidere and Cary Streets. There was a grocery store there that enjoyed a large trade with the country wagons that came to town. A wagon yard was part of the establishment and there was a little bar, where drinks--five-cent shorts, as they were called--were sold.

This little bar was thronged that night, principally by negroes; and after a little while, Gummy came out and took a short stroll down the sidewalk.

"It's a beau-u-utiful night!" he soliloquized, in a fine loud voice. "It's a beau-u-utiful night, by the moon and the starlight."

He walked back to the door and then, turning, took the short stroll again; and again apostrophized the lovely goddess of night, just as Lord Byron might have done, thereby showing that he had a poetic soul.

He lived to a great age; and there is something strange about the records, for the death lists show that a Montgomery Dandridge died years ago; yet this man was living in 1917 and was seen by several persons who knew him; and John Lyons, late the Governor's messenger, who had known him well, talked with him about old times. Whether it was another Montgomery Dandridge, who died, or whether the real Montgomery was thought to be dead and came to on the way to Potters field and was not buried; or whether he was buried alive--in a shallow grave, perhaps--and scratched out again, deepens the mystery. He was wicked enough to have done it and full of the determination to live, however meanly. He lived to be 120, or thereabout.

I met him one day in 1917 on Fifth Street between Grace and Broad. He had just set down the two large tin buckets he was carrying--lard cans--and stopped to rest. His appearance was striking. He wore an ancient black--now green-derby hat, the last sign of braid or binding of which had long since disappeared by wear. he had long curls, or strings of hair; scant, unkempt, untended curls, the size of a lead pencil, that hung down from under his hat. But there was still the bench leg, still the Roman nose, still the expression of hostility.

"Is this Montgomery Dandridge?" I inquired.

"Yas, sir," he replied, with fierce emphasis. Yas, sir; livin' still!"

I handed him a quarter (though he asked for nothing) in recompense for all the fun I had with him in days of yore.

Brisky was named Sam Woodson. He was a little short black man, at that time about sixty-five years old and was of a very good nature. He would chase us, it is true, when we vexed him; but had no intention of catching us. We had a rhyme on him, too:

Brisky-bottle-shoesole,
Stole my Mammy's charcoal.

Sometimes we called him by another name--Fadgy.

Of a different temper was the third and youngest. He called himself Mr. James Hogg. He was a mullato, about forty, and was thought to be a little unbalanced. At any rate, he was a dangerous man and would fly into a genuine fury when we paraphrazed his name and called him Educated Hog. When he started running after us, we had to do some real sprinting. He would remember a boy, too, after a month or so, and without warning throw a brick-bat, which might miss the boy and hit the fence--bang. It may be interesting to the alienist, or student of criminology, that his sister was Ann Deane, a notorious woman of those days.