October 4, 1873 - December 13, 1925
By Charles Carroll Fishburne, Sr. (son)
© November, 2000

The fifth child born to Rev. and Mrs. Charles Carroll Fishburne of Timmonsville, South Carolina, was special by many standards. He was very considerate of others, especially those of his family, and those who were disadvantaged; he was dedicated to his career as a railroad man; he had the highest integrity; he did a marvelous job choosing a wife; and he was my father.

Insomuch as I had been around for only a bit over six years when cancer took him away from us, most of this record comes from others, primarily my mother. Several memories, however, do stand out: The dark conductors' uniform he so often wore; his conservative habit of shutting off the car engine two blocks from home and coasting on into the driveway; the night our train to Charlotte ran over a cow, and as our train moved away from the scene, Daddy called out to passers-by, "There's fresh meat on the track back there!"; between trains at Augusta he would play a checker game "blind" while in the barber chair getting a shave, and always beat his 'seeing' opponent; and letting me stand up on the front floor of our slope-nosed Franklin and stare out the front while he was driving.

Daddy was born into a family rich in devotion to God, and to family relations. His father was a preacher, at times a 'circuit rider' and thus spent many days away from home. His father died at age 42, leaving his mother to raise nine children. She was master of the situation, however, and did well in raising her brood. Two of my father's brothers died before age 20 - one from sickness while a student at the Citadel, and one drowned while trying to save another boy's life. Through the determination of his mother and the other children, two of them completed college: Caroline became a teacher, and Skottowe became a physician. I'm told that Daddy also wanted to be a doctor, but left school early to help support the family. I remember visiting my grandmother in the house Daddy had provided for her and his unmarried sister, Lalla, in Columbia, SC. It was standard procedure for my close brother, Francis, and I, when arriving at her house, to run down the hall, climb into a chair, and help ourselves to the contents of the cookie jar on the shelf.

Daddy began his long-time service with Southern Railroad as a 'call boy', which we would now refer to as an 'entry-level' job. The call boy was used before the advent of the telephone to ride his bicycle to the dwelling of each member of a train crew to tell them to report at a given time to handle an outgoing train. This 'boy's' responsibility was to see that each man was "awake and had his shoes on" before leaving the man's dwelling. Daddy had progressed through the ranks to senior conductor at his death.

The Fishburne and Bellinger families had many family ties. One branch of the latter had moved to Texas, but kept in touch with their South Carolina cousins. Daddy met Anita Legare Bellinger of San Antonio, either on a visit there or on her visit to SC. This relationship flourished until about 1901, when on a trip to Texas, he took her for a buggy ride, armed with a diamond ring, and told her that his mother would surely like for her to live in South Carolina. I'm not sure if she asked for a clarification of this invitation or not, but she ended up wearing the ring. I believe he realized, as I do, that he was marrying a gem of a lady. By the way, Virginia, my wife, who is also a gem, had the diamond from mother's engagement ring mounted in my wedding band several years ago.

Railroading was important to Daddy, and he tried to do a good job at his work. He was known in railroad circles as 'Cap'n Fishburne'. Memory was very important to the passenger conductor then. There were no destination slips such as conductors now use to clip above each seat to show a person's detraining city. This information had to be remembered by the conductor. Daddy told Mother that he had to be able to take up tickets from passengers through a ten-car train (500-600 persons) and remember the destination of every passenger on board. This development of memory was the key to his later skill as a checker player. He was a (or the) founder of the Southern Checker Association, and had the distinction of being the Champion Checker Player of the South nine times. A small gold checkerboard with several additions, which I have, testifies to this. He was skilled in playing 'blind', as mentioned before. In this method of play, a player does not see the board his opponent is playing on, but must remember the position of each checker on the board, as well as the moves which his opponent and he make. At one exhibition, Daddy played 12 games blind at one time, against formidable opponents. Five of the games he won, with the remainder all being 'draws' (ties). In another exhibition he played a 50-game match with the champion of the USA. His opponent won two of the games, he won one, and the remaining 47 were draws. His colleagues in the checker association wanted to send him to England to learn chess. He declined, however, not being willing to leave the family for an extended time.

Soon after marriage, Daddy thought it time to invest in an automobile, so he asked advice of his brother Skottowe, the physician, who had a car. He was advised to get a Ford. Daddy thought this was somewhat of a put-down, so he bought a Chalmers, which was 'up the line' a few notches.

Daddy's railroad experience did not involve any serious wrecks, fortunately. The worst such was a derailment in which the entire train was thrown over against an earth bank by a buckled rail caused by rail expansion on a very hot day. All aboard were able to leave the train by crawling along under the tilted cars, to the end of the train. In the worst disaster he witnessed, his brakeman was crushed to death between the couplers of two cars when they were moved together by mistake.

Inasmuch as tickets for the young were cheaper than for adults, parents would often have the children slouch down in the seat, posing as a younger child. Daddy said that after selling tickets to such a family, he would say to the sloucher, "OK son, you can straighten up now."

In those days, every passenger train had a 'news butch' on board. This was a young fellow who roamed the train selling drinks, snacks, and candy. Daddy said it was a status symbol for a young 'buck', especially if girls were around, to snap off the cap of a cold-drink bottle with his teeth. (I'm sure the local dentists reaped a profit from this trick in later years.)

There was no fear at that time of kids being molested or running into trouble, so when we were on a trip with Daddy, he would let us walk through all the cars. The diner was always of special interest. We thought those little blocks of sugar served at each table were super, and the diner crew always paid attention to 'Cap'n Fishburne's boy'. Once when our train arrived back in Columbia, I was caught by surprise several cars away from Daddy's work place. When I looked out and saw our station and him walking toward his locker room, I panicked and began madly trying to get those heavy coach doors open. At age five, tho', I was doing more crying than pushing, and I was sure I'd be on that train by myself all the way to Charlotte. Fortunately, a kind gentleman sensed the problem and opened the doors for me. When I caught up with Daddy, he told me that I should have known our train was pulling into Columbia. At age 5, however, I guess I didn't yet have that conductor smart.

Daddy tried to prevent sickness by an exercise which most of us would class as self-torture. Every morning he took a cold bath. Often, to save time getting to his train in the morning, he would put water into the tub the evening before. In winter this could result in a film of ice to break through in order to bathe. The house must have had no heat during the night for the bathroom temperature to be below 32 degrees.

He believed in sharing with those in need. My uncle Skottowe's brother-in-law was Mr. Mel Green, husband of mother's best friend. The Greens operated a one-man dairy farm, and at times weren't too well off. Daddy was concerned enough with their need to tell his banker to allow Mr. Green to draw on his account whenever he needed. He was also concerned about the underprivileged. After reading an account of a black boy being arrested for being up a utility pole to watch a ball game over the fence, he asked his friend, the newspaper editor, if he could write an editorial. The gist of his writing, which was published, was that if this had been a white boy there would have been no arrest. He got calls from people all over the state, telling him that he should back off, that he was stirring up trouble.

Daddy had mechanical ideas, evidently, which led him to design and have built an automatic transmission for his automobile. It worked fine in forward gear, but failed in reverse. He didn't live long enough, tho', to solve the problem.

In his late forties, he developed a tongue disorder, which proved to be cancer, resulting in several operations. After one of these surgeries in New York City, he and mother were walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Unable to talk, he was writing notes to mother on a pad. It being in the time of World War One, the bridge was heavily guarded. Seeing the note-writing going on, one of the guards challenged them for spying about the bridge details. It took some explaining before they were allowed to proceed.

My oldest brother, Bellinger, decided in his late teens that Florida was the place for the future. After a few months there, playing in a band, he wrote Daddy to come on down there because everything was booming and he could make a fortune. Daddy replied that he hadn't lost a thing in Florida.

He had insurance policies for life as well as hospital care. After his first cancer surgery, however, the insurance company paid the bills, then canceled the policy. This was before the days when such action was outlawed by legislation. Daddy was so infuriated by this underhanded way of doing business that he canceled all of his insurance policies. Consequently, Mother was left after his death with scant income by this action on his part.

At the time of my birth, 1919, my folks did not attend any church. My mother was familiar with much of the Bible, however, and spent many hours discussing spiritual matters with two of her close friends. I don't remember my father being interested in this way, though. Evidently mother was not sure of his spiritual standing before God, but she took comfort in his comments by letter while he was away on a trip. He wrote that as the train one day passed a clear stream, he thought of the request of the man to Philip as recorded in the book of Acts: "Here is water, what hindereth me to be baptized?"

I never inquired of mother why our family didn't attend church those years in Columbia which I remember. Oddly though, I found out 60 years after her death. Virginia and I were visiting cousins in South Carolina - Dr. and Mrs. Marion Davis - when we learned the reason. It seems that while my father and mother were attending a large church in Columbia, a need developed for additional Sunday School class rooms. My folks were active in contacting the members and in raising the required funds. Before construction began, however, a group of the church folks decided that a new organ should take priority over the class rooms, and that the money raised should be used to purchase the organ. My daddy took serious objection to this, explaining that the donors had all given money for the class rooms, and that they should not be betrayed in this way. As a result, my folks terminated their membership and ceased to attend any church.

Years later, another interesting chapter of the story developed. The organ which had been replaced by the 'shady' purchase at the Columbia church, was put in storage. After many years, it was decided that it should be sold, so advertisements were sent out and it was sold to the St. Matthias Episcopal Church in Summerton, SC. Oddly enough, this is the home church of my cousins - Marian and Del Davis, who gave me this account. Summerton, by the way, is the town where daddy's father pastored his last church and where he passed away.

My father invested in several ways - rent houses and enterprises. Soon after his death, however, the depression hit and these investments dried up, leaving mother with meager income. She had purchased a house in Asheville, NC, where we moved to be near her invalid sister. Had it not been for the federal government launching the Home Owners Loan Corporation, enabling her to pay off the mortgage at $8.30/month, we would have been out on the street.

Daddy passed away at our home, 2820 Blossom St. in Columbia. My only memory of this is being at the home of a neighbor while the rest of the family went to the funeral. This was my first brush with death, and for a long time I was sure that soon Daddy would be home again. Burial was in Elmwood Cemetery, Columbia. His death was, of course, a tremendous blow to my mother, after a marriage of just 24 short years.

CCF, November 2000