LIBERTY — You don’t have to go far in Liberty to hear stories about the late Amite County hermit Babe Griffin.
I was sitting at a local eatery with Babe’s great-nephew Andy Griffin of Atlanta recently when local resident Freddie Cook walked by.
“Hey, Freddie,” I said. “This is Babe Griffin’s great-nephew.”
Freddie stopped in his tracks. “I’ve got something for you,” he said to Griffin, whom he had never met.
Turns out Freddie had a 1925 license plate he found in the woods on Griffin property west of Liberty when he was a boy. Freddie had cleaned it up and painted it but never did anything with it. Now he was offering it to Babe’s relative.
Come on by the house this afternoon and pick it up, he told us.
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Andy Griffin, 69, had emailed me earlier this year seeking information about Babe, who died in 1970 and was well-known for his eccentric ways.
I located a series of articles I wrote on Babe in 1980, sent them to Andy and even republished them in the Enterprise-Journal this past summer.
Last month Andy — a retired professor of chemistry and polymer science — came to Amite County looking for more information on Babe and other Griffin ancestors.
We met for lunch at Ward’s. Andy planned to spend the afternoon at the courthouse in research.
Then Freddie stopped by. He sat down and recalled childhood memories of Babe, who lived in a falling-in shack in the woods, cooked over a fire, hung his kettle from a tree limb, cut his sleeves off in the summer and sewed them back on in the winter.
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After Freddie left, I suggested Andy postpone his courthouse research and visit some other folks who knew Babe firsthand.
First stop: Jerry Toler, 72, who grew up on property between Babe and his brother Charles.
“They never did cut nothing,” Toler said. “It was virgin pines over there. They was this thick (3 feet) and 100 feet tall.”
He recalled Babe as an old bachelor who made the rounds of neighbors at suppertime, nailing tin can lids to trees to find his way home in the dark.
Toler showed us an old car grille he found in the woods on Griffin property, possibly from the same vehicle where Freddie Cook got his license plate.
Andy told us that Babe, Charles and three other brothers — B.F. Jr., Lewis and Clyde (Andy’s grandfather) — were born to Benjamin F. and Zelia C. Griffin. Only Babe and Charles remained in the county, but they weren’t on speaking terms, apparently because of a dispute over their inheritance.
“When I was about 4 or 5 my father brought me down here to meet Babe,” said Andy, who grew up in Leland. “There was a pole across the driveway. We had to park and walk around.”
When they found Babe, “he said, ‘What is your name, son?’ I said, ‘Anselm Clyde Griffin III.’ He said, ‘That’s not a name, that’s a handicap.’”
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After stopping at Cook’s house to pick up the license plate, we headed over to the home of Joyce and Bernal Bacon. Joyce grew up in Baton Rouge but spent her summers in her ancestral Amite County homeplace, built in 1860, where she and Bernal now live.
Joyce’s mother, Gladys Mae Drummond, had been engaged to Babe Griffin but wound up marrying Willie Ray Wilkinson instead.
“Babe Griffin and my mom were sweethearts,” Joyce said. “Mom ended up marrying my dad. But everybody said, ‘Gladys, don’t leave Babe. He loves you so much.’
“Mama was supposedly in love with Babe. Daddy came home from wherever he was and he flat swept her off her feet.”
Wilkinson reportedly told Gladys that if she married Babe she could expect to spend her life living in a shack, working hard and drinking goat milk.
“I think that’s when he became a hermit,” Joyce said. “I don’t know if he had another girlfriend.”
Babe had his own version of events, Joyce said.
“Babe said, ‘I can’t believe she went off and married that old reprobate Willie Ray!’ ”
