The Cook Spit in a Black Sold1er’s Food — Patton Made Him Eat It

The Cook Spit in a Black Sold1er’s Food — Patton Made Him Eat It

December 1944, France. The Third Army was pushing through the Ardennes. The weather was brut4l. The f1ghting was worse. In a rear area mess hall, sold1ers were lining up for hot food. It was one of the few comforts they had, a warm meal before heading back to the frozen h3ll of the front lines. The mess hall served everyone.

White sold1ers, black sold1ers, tankers, infantry, artillery crews. Everyone in the Third Army ate the same food in the same place. Staff Sergeant James Crawford was a tank commander, 761st Tank Battalion, an all black unit that had been f1ghting alongside Patton’s armor since November. They’d proven themselves in combat, earned respect from the white units they fought beside.

Crawford walked into the mess hall that morning, tired, cold, hungry. He’d been up all night repairing his Sherman after a firef1ght. He grabbed a tray, got in line, moved through the serving stations. Behind the counter was a cook, Private First Cla.ss Eugene Mitch3ll, white, from Georgia. He’d been a.ssigned to the mess hall because he’d failed infantry training, not because he could cook.

When Crawford reached Mitch3ll’s station, the cook looked at him, looked at the color of his skin, and then deliberately Mitch3ll spit into the food he was about to serve. Crawford saw it. The sold1ers behind him saw it. The other cooks saw it. What happened next would become one of the fastest courts martial in Third Army history.

Before we get into Patton’s response, if you want more untold stories from World W4r II, hit that subscribe button. Crawford stood there, tray in hand, looking at the food with spit in it. The mess hall went quiet. Everyone had seen what happened. White sold1ers, black sold1ers, everyone waiting to see what Crawford would do.

Mitch3ll stood behind the counter, smirking, like he’d just won something. Crawford set his tray down carefully, deliberately. “You just spit in my food.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, clear, precise. Mitch3ll shrugged. “Don’t like it, eat somewhere else. This is the only mess hall for 50 miles. Then I guess you’re not eating.

Crawford took a breath. He’d been in combat for weeks. He’d faced German tanks, German artillery. He’d watched friends d1e. And now he was standing in a mess hall being disrespected by a cook who’d never seen the front lines. He could have grabbed Mitch3ll, could have dr4gged him over the counter, could have made him regret that spit.

But Crawford was a sergeant, a tank commander, a leader. He knew how the army worked. I want to speak to your commanding officer. Mitch3ll laughed. Go ahead, see if he cares. Crawford turned, walked past the line of sold1ers, found the mess sergeant, Staff Sergeant Robert Hayes, also white, but professional. Sergeant Hayes, I need to report an incident.

Hayes looked up from his paperwork. What kind of incident? Private Mitch3ll just spit in my food in front of witnesses. Hayes’ expression changed. This wasn’t mess hall drama. This was a direct violation of military regulations, tampering with food, refusing to serve a sold1er, both court martial offenses. Show me. They walked back to the serving line.

Mitch3ll was still there, still smirking. Hayes looked at the tray, looked at Mitch3ll. Did you spit in this man’s food? Maybe. Maybe isn’t an answer, Private. Fine. Yes, I spit in it. And I’ll do it again if he comes through my line. Hayes turned to Crawford. Wait here. He went to the field telephone, made a call, came back 5 minutes later.

You’re both coming with me. Lieutenant Mason wants to see you. They walked to the orderly room. Lieutenant Philip Mason was the mess officer. West Point, career army. He’d been overseeing rear area food operations. Hayes explained what happened. Crawford gave his account. Mitch3ll stood there, arms crossed, defiant. Mason looked at Mitch3ll.

Private, did you spit in Sergeant Crawford’s food? Yes, sir. Why? He’s colored. I don’t serve coloreds. Mason’s jaw tightened. Private, this is the United States Army. We don’t have coloreds and whites. We have sold1ers. All sold1ers eat. All sold1ers are served. That’s not a suggestion. That’s an order from General Patton himself.

Mitch3ll scoffed. General Patton’s not here. No, said a voice from the doorway, but I am. Everyone turned. Patton stood in the entrance. Four stars on his helmet. Ivory handled revolvers at his hips. He’d been doing a surprise inspection of rear area facilities. Happened to be at this exact camp when the phone call went up the chain.

Lieutenant Mason snapped to attention. General, I didn’t Patton held up a hand, walked into the room, looked at Mitch3ll. You’re the cook who spit in a sold1er’s food. It wasn’t a question. Mitch3ll straightened slightly. Sir, I Answer the question. Did you or did you not spit in the sergeant’s food? Mitch3ll hesitated, then decided to double down.

Yes, sir, I did. Why? Because he’s a negro, sir. Where I’m from, we don’t serve I don’t care where you’re from, private. You’re in my army now. And in my army, every sold1er eats. Every sold1er is served with respect. That’s not negotiable. Patton turned to Crawford. Sergeant, you’re a tank commander? Yes, sir. 761st Tank Battalion.

I know the 761st. You boys took Tillat two weeks ago. Lost three tanks doing it. Yes, sir. Patton turned back to Mitch3ll. This sergeant has been f1ghting Germans while you’ve been serving food. He’s earned his meal. He’s earned basic respect. And you denied him both. Mitch3ll said nothing. Patton walked closer. Here’s what’s going to happen.

You’re going to remake that meal properly, and then you’re going to serve it to Sergeant Crawford with an apology. Mitch3ll’s face reddened. Sir, I’m not That wasn’t a request, Private. The room was silent. Mitch3ll looked around, saw no support, no escape. Yes, sir. They walked back to the mess hall. Patton, Mitch3ll, Crawford, Lieutenant Mason, Sergeant Hayes, and by this time word had spread. The mess hall was packed.

Sold1ers from every unit in the camp had found reasons to be there. Patton stood near the serving line. Private Mitch3ll, prepare a full meal, hot, fresh, everything a sold1er returning from combat deserves. Mitch3ll, hands shaking now, began to prepare the food. Potatoes, meat, vegetables, bread, coffee. It took 10 minutes.

The whole mess hall watched in silence. When the tray was ready, Patton looked at it, inspected it, then nodded. Now serve it to Sergeant Crawford. Mitch3ll picked up the tray, brought it around the counter, held it out to Crawford. Crawford reached for it, but Patton held up his hand again.

Wait, you forgot something, Private. Mitch3ll looked confused. The apology. Mitch3ll’s jaw clenched. He looked at Crawford, at the black sergeant who’d fought while he’d cooked, who’d earned respect while he’d earned cont3mpt. I apologize. For what? Patton’s voice was cold. For spitting in your food. Patton sh00k his head. Not good enough.

Try again, and this time mean it. Mitch3ll took a breath. Sergeant Crawford, I apologize for spitting in your food. It was wrong. It won’t happen again. Crawford nodded, took the tray, but Patton wasn’t done. Private Mitch3ll, you’re not dismissed. Mitch3ll froze. Sergeant Hayes, was the contaminated food disposed of? No, sir. It’s still on the serving line.

Bring it here. Hayes looked uncertain, but he retrieved the tray, the one with Mitch3ll’s spit in it, set it on the counter. Patton looked at it, then at Mitch3ll. You made this food, you contaminated it. You thought it was acceptable to serve to a sold1er. Now I want you to show everyone in this mess hall that you stand by your work.

The realization hit Mitch3ll’s face. Sir, I can’t. Eat it. General Patton, I That’s an order, Private. Eat the food you prepared for Sergeant Crawford. Mitch3ll stared at the tray, at the food he’d spit in. In front of 200 sold1ers, he’d have to eat his own cont3mpt. He picked up the fork. His hand was shaking.

All of it, Patton added, every bite. Because if it’s good enough for a sergeant who f1ghts for this country, it’s good enough for a private who cooks for it. Mitch3ll took a bite. Then another. The mess hall watched in complete silence. Every sold1er understanding what they were seeing. Justice, immediate, public, humiliating.

It took Mitch3ll 15 minutes to finish the tray. Every bite visible to everyone in the room. When he was done, Patton spoke again. Private Mitch3ll, as of this moment, you are removed from mess hall duty. You will be rea.ssigned to a combat infantry unit. You wanted to decide who deserves to eat? Fine. Go earn your meals on the front lines like Sergeant Crawford does.

Mitch3ll’s face went white. Lieutenant Mason, process the paperwork. I want him with a rifle company by tomorrow morning. Yes, sir. Patton turned to Crawford. Sergeant, enjoy your meal. You’ve earned it. Crawford saluted. Thank you, sir. Patton returned the salute, then addressed the entire mess hall.

Let me be clear to every sold1er in this camp. The Third Army does not tolerate racism. It does not tolerate disrespect. Every man who wears this uniform is a sold1er. Every sold1er will be treated with dignity. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me personally. He walked out. The mess hall erupted.

Not in conversation, in applause. White sold1ers, black sold1ers, officers, enlisted men, everyone understanding what had just happened. Mitch3ll was transferred the next day, a.ssigned to the 26th Infantry Division, spent the rest of the war in a rifle company, never made it past private first cla.ss. His experience on the front lines was brut4l.

Everything he’d avoided, the cold, the fear, the constant thre4t. The men he served alongside knew his story. The cook who’d spit in a black sergeant’s food, who’d been punished by Patton himself. They didn’t make it easy for him. Worst a.ssignments, most d4ngerous patrols, night watch in the coldest positions. Because he disrespected a sold1er.

He survived the war, barely. Took shrapnel in the leg during the push into Germany. Came home with a limp and nightmares. Never talked about his service. Just disappeared into civilian life, carrying the weight of his cont3mpt. Crawford finished the war as a tank commander, survived the Battle of the Bulge, received a Bronze Star for actions in Germany, came home a hero.

The 761st Tank Battalion was eventually recognized with a Presidential Unit Citation. They’d proven themselves in combat repeatedly, breaking through German lines, supporting infantry advances, taking casualties but never breaking. Crawford would always say that Patton’s policies made the difference. That being treated as equals, being respected as sold1ers, that’s what gave them the confidence to f1ght like they did.

Years later, Crawford would tell the story to his grandchildren. Not as a story about racism, but as a story about leadership, about a general who saw sold1ers, not colors. Who demanded respect for everyone who wore the uniform. He’d describe the moment. The mess hall packed with sold1ers, Patton standing there, Mitch3ll forced to eat his own spit.

The silence, then the applause. It wasn’t about humiliation, Crawford would explain, it was about accountability. The general made it clear, you disrespect a sold1er, you face consequences. Simple as that. Other 1ncidents of discrimination dropped dr4matically, not because racism disappeared, but because sold1ers knew the consequences. Patton would find out.

Patton would respond swiftly and memorably. Black sold1ers in the Third Army noticed the difference. They were still a minority, still faced prejudice, but it wasn’t institutional. It wasn’t tolerated by command, and when it happened, there was recourse. That mattered. In a war where black sold1ers were often relegated to support roles, often disrespected despite their service, Patton’s Third Army was different. Not perfect, but different.

Patton d1ed in December 1945, car accident, but his policies lived on. The integrated mess halls, the equal treatment, the zero tolerance for discrimination. The incident became part of Third Army lore, a reminder that Patton’s rules applied to everyone, that disrespect had consequences, that justice could be swift, public, and humiliating.

Mitch3ll never talked about what happened, came home after the war, disappeared from public record. No interviews, no memoirs, just silence. But Crawford talked about it, to his family, to other veterans, to anyone who asked what Patton was really like. “He made a man eat his own spit,” Crawford would say, “not because he h@ted the man, but because he respected the uniform and everyone who wore it.

” The story became a teaching moment. Military academies would later study it, not as a case of harsh punishment, but as a case of immediate moral leadership. A commander who didn’t wait for courts martial or paperwork, who saw injustice and corrected it on the spot. Some criticized Patton’s approach, called it theatrical, humiliating, unprofessional, but the sold1ers who were there understood.

They’d seen real leadership, a general who didn’t just give orders about respect, who enforced them, who made it clear that every sold1er mattered. Crawford lived until 1998, 82 years old. His grandson asked him once if he ever saw Mitch3ll again. “No,” Crawford said, “and I didn’t need to. Patton handled it, made sure it never happened again.

That’s all I wanted, just to be treated like a sold1er, like everyone else.” That’s what Patton gave him? Not revenge, not sympathy, just equality enforced with the same intensity he brought to everything else. What do you think? Was Patton’s punishment too harsh or exactly what the situation required? Let us know in the comments below.

Hey gang, we are in Los Angeles right now. And we’re on a street called Westlake, Northwestlake, this street that goes up this hill. And there would be a a horrendous double murd3r that would happen well, between the house that we’re going to check out up there, which is kind of the destination. But over that way where this father lived with his son.

Guy’s name was Henry Dufty. Lived with his son Fred. Henry was 59 years old. I think Fred was uh they say 24, the newspaper said 27, but he’s a young guy. And his sister lived her name was Ada. She lived up the road here. Let’s walk up that way. With her husband Ferdinand LaCombe. It was Ada and Ferdinand LaCombe.

And they called Ferdinand Ferd. And Ferd was a painter. Fred was a car mechanic, I believe. Mary Ann the mother was divorced from from old man Henry for like 9 years. Mary Ann was well, again she I think she was 48. She was in her upper 40s. And like I said, Henry was 59. So old much older than her and he was he was just like really strange.

So 9 years before she divorced. So Mary Ann was at the house here because Ada was just about to deliver her second child. She had a girl named Margaret. They had with Fred Ferdinand and Margaret was 6 years old and she’s up there and Mom had moved in, Maryanne, just for temporarily to help with the delivery and all the nursing and all that kind of stuff.

So, yeah, so they’re all up there, Maryanne and they’re getting ready for breakfast and Henry would come over with Fred all the time. You know, they’d have breakfast before like Fred would go to work and stuff. So, they were preparing breakfast. Now, Henry, really strange guy, he would walk down the street here and he would like be jittery and he’d have the stagger step and just really fr3aky kind of twitch.

And everybody in the neighborhood thought he was really strange, this this old man twitching and fumbling down the street. And he had gone out, literally, 2 months before. So, we’re going back to August 12th, 1908. This fateful day here, he had gone out about 2 months before and he purchased three gravestones over at Evergreen.

Evergreen Cemetery, big cemetery nearby, not too far. Purchased a stone for him, he purchased a stone for Fred, and he purchased a stone for Ada, his son and his daughter. And he was getting people in the neighborhood were like, he’s getting weirder and weirder. In fact, the kids used to call him Mountain View Happy because Mountain View was up the the next street over, two blocks away ish.

That’s where he and Fred lived. So, they would come and tease him and chase him, you know, the old man, and they’d say, “Be careful, the cops going to arr.est you. Haha.” And really make the old man mad. So, the old man was carrying a for several months an axe, big axe. And they just thought he was just a nut, you know, he just carried the axe wherever he went.

Like it was like a tool. Well, came that fateful day here where he came to breakfast at the house here, and Fred wasn’t with him. And Mary Ann was in the dining room. Ada was in the kitchen, I think, and and Mary Ann’s like, “Well, where’s Fred?” And he’s like, “Well, Fred’s at work.” “Fred’s at work.

” And she said, “Well, that’s kind of odd.” He said, “Well, he’s going to get his breakfast. He’s going to get his breakfast down there.” So, yeah. And he was just really calm about it. And Mary Ann just can’t figure it out, but she goes back in the kitchen, and she starts her preparation of the breakfast, like everything’s okay. Nobody’s thinking any And And he’s got his axe with him, but his axe today is in a g.unny sack.

He’s got his axe in a g.unny sack, and as as soon as everybody’s in the kitchen, he’s alone, he pulls the axe out. Now, what nobody knows here in this house, right across the street, they don’t know that old Henry has already k1lled Fred. Fred is already de@d. He has been axed to de4th. Two blows, pretty much decapitated. Fred is de@d.

And in this house, he is in there with the axe in the dining room getting ready to wreak carnage. He’s already bought the tombstones. He’s already got the He’s got everything ready and he goes berserk. So, we’re going to go to the cemetery and I’m going to tell you the story there what happened here at the house and and how it all unfolded cuz Fred was already de@d.

And it all you know, bad stuff really happened here. Now, one thing I will show you this house here is comes into play. We’re going to talk about it. This is the house that This is of course where would be the @ttack. And there would be people fleeing to Mrs. Lehman. Mrs. Lehman lived here. And that’s where they would hide.

So, some survived, some didn’t. It’s a whole story. So, we’re going to go to the cemetery and I’ll tell you the story there. Cuz that’s where they’re buried right now. All three of them. Downtown LA. We are at the Evergreen Cemetery. Been here before few times. And that is the chapel. Spooky place. Can’t get in. With those vines.

So, yeah, picking up the story. Old man Henry. Old man Henry Dufty. So, yeah, he he had k1lled his son and I forgot to mention he not only chopped his head off practically, bl00d all over, but he took a knife and gouged both of his eyes out. Sorry, but those are the facts. He he had like late stage syphilis. What I’m going to do is I pulled the newspaper articles.

It’s very graphic and detailed, so it’s going to it’s going to be a long walk. It’s going to be a long read, but I I have the newspaper article that I’m going to pull out and then I have screensh0ts that I’ll I’ll show you two of it as I read it line by line. Some of And it’s a graphic account of Mary Ann, the mother.

I mean, basically what happened and then I’ll we’re going to read the detail is that he came you know, he was in the dining room. He was alone. He got the ax out. He went after Mary Ann first and she was defending herself. Everyone scrambling out. So, we’ve got Ada. We’ve got she’s pregn4nt, almost two days before delivery. Little Margaret, 6 years old.

Grandma’s f1ghting, holding the ax and the right out the door they all run, but Ada didn’t make it. And then the little girl was picked up by by grandma, Grandma Mary Ann and they made it to across the street to Mrs. Leeman’s. So, pretty bad deal. Yeah, I guess what I’ll do is we’ll we’ll walk here.

We’ll We’ve got some really interesting stones to look at. I haven’t looked at this cem part of the cemetery yet. We’re going to we’re going to read out of the the newspaper. It’s very gruesome @ttack and I can’t believe that they they took it line by line the whole story. I’m reading here it was called locomotor ataxia which was a condition characterized by a loss of coordination and a staggering gait the cause being late stage complication of syphilis affecting the spinal cord.

So yeah, 9 years of being single he maybe had a a woman of the night, who knows what was going on there, but he caught the he caught the Al Capone disease, right? Remember Al Capone? Remember Al Capone was in pr1son in Alcatraz talking to the the adversary that was de@d or something. Like seeing the ghost, so yeah, it was bad. Mess your mind up totally.

We have a lot of porcelains here. I’m going to do a separate episode. We’ll pick up some of these some of these as we walk, but for now we’re going to focus on more of the older the older graves. So reading from the Los Angeles Evening Express newspaper it starts out says at first, yes, Mary Ann was holding her own, but old man Henry’s arms were firm and as desperation of madness increased his strength.

She was not able to hold him long, but long enough as she thought to give her daughter a chance for the life of herself and her child. The young wife tried to follow the direction because the mother said take Margaret and run. She and the old man fought for the w3apon and the young wife tried, that would be Ada, she pushed her daughter out of the kitchen into the small dining room and followed her.

As she went out of the room, the older woman, that would be Mary Ann, released her hold of the axe and fled through the dining room right behind her daughter practically running her daughter over I guess because in the outer room leading from the dining room to the front porch where the child was near the door when she entered the dining room she Mary Ann snatched up the youngest as she ran but she did not see behind her pa.ssing her daughter up I guess Ada had stumbled on account of her abnormal condition of course they’re talking

about being pregn4nt and and you could you could just imagine right? She had fallen on her hands in the corner of the dining room trapped. As Mary Ann and the child went out through the front door Ada was rising to her feet. She was rising to her feet with her back toward the kitchen door through which the ins@ne man was coming with ax uplifting.

Mary Ann on the front porch heard a suppressed scream which seemed to stop half uttered. Accompanying it was a strange muffled concussion followed by the crash of something falling. In her terror she fled across the street to the home of Mrs. Evelyn Lehman 452 West Lake and that’s the Mrs. Lehman the house I showed you.

Now Mrs. Lehman picks up the story and she’s quoted as saying to the newspaper I heard her screaming when she was still across the street. I went to the door and saw her running up to the house with her hands uplifted. She had put Margaret down little Margaret and I thought I don’t know why that the child had burned her hands.

She told me what happened. I took them both into the house as quickly as I could and try to stop their screaming. Don’t make so much noise I told them. “Avery will know where you went and follow you over here.” Well, they stopped their noise immediately and we remained quietly in the house for several minutes.

Then I saw that he was not coming over and pretty soon I went back to the house. And she’s pretty brave to have done that, guys. I found that he had gone out the back way and down the hill to the other house. Then other neighbors began to come in and in a few minutes there was a crowd. We did not hear until later how he had k1lled his son and tried to k1ll himself.

We did not follow him. Mrs. LeCann, Ada, the poor girl must have been k1lled instantly. She was de@d before anyone reached her. We found her lying on the floor in the front of the sideboard and opposite the kitchen door. She was on her face and her head was severed all but a little portion of skin at the throat.

She seemed to have been struck two blows from behind. The first one went into the skull in a line running from the top of one ear diagonally down to the middle of the back of the neck. And the other blow severed the head. The newspaper writer takes over. The dining room is small, only a dozen feet square, and the walls were splashed with bl00d.

The linoleum was covered with clotted bl00d an inch deep for several feet around where the body had lain. The rugs were soaked and the furniture was splashed. Half a dozen women worked for 2 hours to remove all traces. There was another pool of bl00d in the kitchen where Mrs. Dufty had been injured. The bl00dy axe was found in the backyard near the path where he had dropped it.

And near it were several pieces of paper on which he seemed to have wiped the bl00d stains from his hands. Look at that. John Shearer Orchard born July 30th, 1838, d1ed July 29th, 1927. So, now we go back to the house. And the cops are coming. And there’s a patrolman that comes and he’s the first one on the scene.

And he describes in detail what happened and some of the terminology is is really I don’t want to say it it’s kind of comical, but it’s just the sign of the times. You know, it’s just in the moment of what he said. It’s just really strange. So, the newspaper picks up and said the old man returned to his house and there he laid in his bed and tried to cut his own throat.

The furnishings inside the house were meager, crude and of the poverty stricken order. Henry’s bed was nothing but a set of springs resting directly upon the floor of the front room. And it was motorcycle policeman F. L. Coe who would be first on the scene and subdue Henry. And Coe, he said he ran up the hill from his motorcycle up the steps leading to the front door and went in.

And the old man was sitting on the bed slashing his throat with the butcher knife and he said, “What’s the matter, Cap?” Cap, c a p, like captain. “What’s the matter, Cap?” motorcycle patrolman asked, and Henry, the old man Henry, said, “I want to d1e.” “He said, ‘I want to d1e,’ he answered, and made another slash at his throat.

So, I drew my revolver. ‘Drop that knife,’ I commanded, ‘or I’ll shoot.'” “He replied, ‘Go ahead. That’s what I want you to do.'” The officer said, “I saw there was no use in trying to bluff a man with a revolver who wanted to d1e, so I tried to get the knife away from him, but every time I tried, he @ttacked me, slashing at me.

When I was not trying to take the w3apon away from him, started cutting his own throat again. I looked in the other side of the room, and I saw the boy lying there in his bl00d. A ghastly sight it was. The bedclothes about the boy, whose head was almost severed from his body. It seemed that the @ttack with the axe had been terrific.

Several blows, one of which cut off almost all of his face. Having been struck while the boy was asleep, as there was no evidence of a stru.ggle. After briefly taking in the horrors of the bedroom, I returned to the front room where the old man still was trying to k1ll himself. Seeing that I could not disarm him with my hands, I went hastily out into the yard and got a eucalyptus club about 3 ft long.

And with that, I returned to the house. I managed to knock the old man’s hand every time either at me, or he’s turning the knife on himself, and finally, Officer Boyd and Jones arrived, and together we overpowered the old man. He was taken away and once he healed up, he was put away. Yep, guys, straight to the Highland Insane Asylum in San Bernardino.

That’s where they put him. Back then, its official name was Southern California State Asylum for the Insane and Inebriates. Yes. The Inebriates. Pretty brut4l times, guys. So, So, what’s interesting, probably the the most interesting is the graves were bought ahead of time. We talked about that, right? And we have details from acquaintances and cemetery people here at this cemetery that came out and talked about to the newspaper about exactly what he did and how he did it.

So, we’ll get into that as we make our final approach to the graves here. So, Henry’s closest friend, a guy named Mr. T.P. Ferguson, who was the superintendent at Peniel Hall at the time here was a local Holiness Mission. He came forward to share some sh0cking thoughts. He said, “Several weeks ago, he told me, Henry, that he had purchased lots and tombstones for all three.

I asked him what he did that for.” He said that he expected to d1e soon. So, I questioned him if he expected his son and daughter to also d1e and he would not say anything about it. The daughter called me up last week and was speaking with me about her father. She remarked that it was rather gruesome to think that a grave had been prepared for her.

But, she said, “We thought it was just one of his peculiar traits.” He told me not long ago that he thought he was going cr4zy. I asked him why, and he said He said he had come several times lately and found himself standing up against moving streetcars. Moving streetcars. He also told me that he had been making negotiations with Bresee Brothers here for the purchase of a coffin.

Well, he had indeed bought these graves here and the markers, these three stones all exactly alike, standing at the head of the gravesite with the father in the center. Henry had paid for these three graves on June 15th. And the same day he closed the deal for the headstones with the Y.W. Teitzel Monument Works, First Street, Evergreen Avenue.

It’s right down the street here. And the headstones arrived within a week. They came fast. Not like today, guys. Takes a year or two. Goes on to say he called the graveyard not fewer than six times before stating his preferred location, which we’re getting very close to. One morning after the headstones had been uh set in place, he appeared here at the cemetery accompanied by his son.

And with morbid pride pointed out to the young man of his own flesh and bl00d, the preparations he had made for the suitable interment of the family when any of its members should be called by de4th. Now, this is what’s funny. The son the son, it was said, expressed And And I don’t mean funny, I just mean funny the way they wrote things.

You know, just the way they thought back then. It’s uh He said, “The son, it was said, expressed neither surprise, curiosity, nor suspicion, and contemplated the scene with as much cheerfulness as the average person exhibits when viewing the place of his future internment.” So, in other words, you’re viewing the place of your future internment with cheerfulness, as an average person would do.

I don’t I don’t know about that.   But, I found that funny. Mr. Own Mueller of the cemetery was quoted as saying that he was very particular about everything. There was just one peculiar thing about the man, and that was the frequent twitching of the muscles, which indicated that he was troubled with some nervous disorder.

But, my suspicions never were aroused in the slightest. You know, you think. Well, the stones are right over here, guys. Right across the little road here. There they are. And we actually have a picture from right about here from the day. You know, I don’t the stone the stone up here the stone here wasn’t that wasn’t here yet, but you can match it.

See the actual picture that the newspaper took from here when these stones were here. So we’ve got Fred on the left. Fred A. Duffty. That’s where Fred is and just simple just names. And there’s old man Henry. Henry J. Duffty. And then Zada. Ada. Of course the yellow rose. Interestingly as I look at this it looks like Ada’s stone is kicked forward.

All these stones align here and then hers is kicked forward. What’s going on? Maybe some restless spirits. Look at that the whole foundation. Whole foundation has come up. Yep, three simple stones. And that is from Minnesota. That’s Minnesota granite guys. I recognize that. As an architect years ago I specified this.

So what happened? Well what happened to those that survived? Well Mary Ann recovered from her wounds. It such depth did research and said she had a mental breakdown and a nervous breakdown. Understandable. She d1ed in Downey in Los Angeles County about 15 miles to the southeast of here. May 25th 1932. She was 71.

Henry d1ed just over 2 years later on September 4th, 1910 at that Southern California State Asylum for the Insane and Inebriates Highland, San Bernardino. It’s the main ward building there. Now it’s called Patton State Hospital. It’s like just a couple years later. He was 61. Interestingly, Ferd, Ada’s husband remarried in 1918 and he and his new wife Blanche had two sons.

He would go on to live to the r.i.pe old age of 72, d1ed in March of 1952, March 23rd. And little Margaret well little Margaret had quite a life. She not only survived but she you know, she went to live with her father’s mother, Katrine or Katherine. And we have a picture of Katherine, who I believe was Ferd’s mom. Mary Ann was probably unst4ble and who knows what she went through, if you can imagine.

And she went through a bunch of ins and outs that Deb did some research on. The 1910 census shows Margaret and her father living in the home of his mother, as I said, Katrine Louise. In August of that same year, Margaret married William Andrew Conners. They had a daughter, Mary Louise, in 1923, probably named after Mary Ann.

Sometime between then and 1930, Margaret and William divorced. Sadly. 1930 census shows Margaret divorced and Mary living with Margaret’s father and his new family, right? Later that same year, she married Clyde Bernie Hilton. They remained married until his de4th in 1979. They had no additional children from that marriage and Margaret d1ed in 1995.

Pretty late. Well, she was pretty young. In January. Now, we could not find really anything on Margaret or it’s really open. We find a picture of her. But they did her best. We did our best, but anybody can find a picture of Margaret looked to post it. Couldn’t even find her grave. So, that was really all we could find is census information.

So, that’s the story here from the long story from Evergreen Cemetery here in Los Angeles right downtown and you know, right on the a little to the north. You know, that’s where we were just uh 10 miles away or something like that up that way at the at that house. So, they were going back and forth here. So, yeah, there they are.

The three Dufftys and we know they’re here. And hopefully they uh rest in peace. See on the next one, guys. Stay safe.