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the state
looking for work. During the summer, though, he’d be sent to live with
grandparents Delona and Molly Patterson. That’s where he learned to
love the land and the people on it.
"Living
on a farm makes you understand people," he said. "If I hadn’t
been born and raised here and gotten to know folks the way I did,
especially country people, I’d probably never have been elected
governor."
Young
John spent his early morning hours doing the chores around the farm. His
grandfather was up at 3 a.m. and let his grandson sleep an extra hour
before waking him to help feed the chickens and pigs.
They
made some of their money selling eggs to rolling stores—businesses on
wheels that provided rural folks with their basic needs.
"We’d
have breakfast and go into the fields until about 10," Patterson
said. "In the heat of the day, we’d come back to the house, have
a light lunch and my grandfather would sit in his favorite rocker
reading the Bible."
The
two would go back out into the fields a little later and work until
sundown. They were very close. John learned a lot from his grandfather
who could sense that the boy was destined for greatness one day.
Patterson
joined the Army in 1939 and was assigned to a field artillery unit when
Pearl Harbor propelled the United States into World War II.
At
first, he was on Gen. Dwight Eisenhower’s staff in London as the
Supreme Allied Commander planned strategy for the inevitable invasion of
Europe.
Patterson
didn’t want to sit behind a desk. He wanted to see action and that led
to combat in North Africa and the European continent as his
unit fought its way into Germany.
He
began as a private and came home a major with a Bronze Star and a lot of
campaign medals.
After
World War II ended, he picked up a law degree at the University of
Alabama, but was called back into the Army when the Korean War began.
When
he came home again, Patterson joined his father, Albert, who had
switched from education to the law. Together, father and son established
a law firm in Phenix City.
The
little East Alabama town had gotten the title "Sin City" for
good reason. The mob had taken control of everything and attracted the
military trade from across the Chattahoochee River at Fort Benning in
Columbus, GA.
Slot
machines, drug dealings, prostitution, loan sharking and other illegal
activities had Phenix City in a vise of vice. Albert Patterson
vowed to clean up the town.
In
1954, Albert Patterson ran for attorney general on a platform of ridding
Phenix City of its sleazy reputation. He won the Democrat Party’s
nomination that year. It was tantamount to election since the Republican
Party was still years away from being a viable political force in
Alabama.
On
June 18, 1954—months before he would have taken office—Patterson was
gunned down in an alley outside his law office near the Russell County
Courthouse. He was shot three times at close range.
Patterson
had been preparing to go to Birmingham to testify against men he felt
had tried to rig the election in 1954 and defeat him in his bid to
become Alabama’s highest ranking law enforcement official.
Martial
law was declared in Phenix City; the Alabama National Guard was sent in
and the mobsters eventually were run out of town and out of business.
Alabama
Attorney General Silas Garrett, Russell County Prosecutor Arch Ferrell
and Deputy Sheriff Albert Fuller were all implicated in Patterson’s
murder. Fuller was sentenced to life in prison.
John
Patterson filled the void left by his father’s assassination and took
office as attorney general in 1955.
Not
long after he became attorney general, "The Phenix City
Story," starring noted actor Richard Kiley, was released
nationwide. Kiley played John Patterson as a two-fisted avenger out to
get those who played a part in the murder of his dad.
Three
years later, Patterson became governor in a heated, racially-tinged
campaign against George Wallace, who would eventually serve four terms
as governor.
Historians
are divided about just how good a governor Patterson was. Some say he
was a skilled administrator and helped make Alabama one of America’s
leading aerospace states.
Others
said racial violence in several cities derailed much of the good he
might have done for Alabama and that his legacy wasn’t what it could
have been.
Patterson
and Wallace eventually mended their political fences. In fact, Wallace
appointed Patterson to the State Court of Criminal Appeals—a position
he filled for nearly 20 years.
Many
historians wonder what might have happened had Wallace, and not
Patterson, won in 1958.
If
Wallace had won, it’s likely he would not have stood in the
schoolhouse door at the University of Alabama in 1963 in an effort
to keep two black students from enrolling.
In
1962, Alabama had a law that prohibited constitutional officers
from serving consecutive terms. That meant Wallace, if he had won in
1958, could not have succeeded himself as governor if he chose to run
again.
Winning
in 1962 gave Wallace a racially-divisive political platform to
eventually launch several presidential bids in the mid-60s and early
70s. His bid to become president ended when a would-be assassin shot him
in Laurel, MD.
In
1966, when Wallace wanted to run for a second consecutive term, he knew
the state law had to be changed, but he couldn’t persuade the State
Senate to change the existing law.
That’s
when Wallace ran his wife, Lurleen, as a stand-in candidate. She handily
defeated a big field of male opponents.
The
succession law eventually was changed. Governors and other
constitutional officers can now serve a second consecutive term—if
they convince voters to support them.
Now
in his twilight years, Patterson is aware he doesn’t have much time
left, but isn’t all that worried. He knows he’s had an event-filled
life most people can only dream of having.
The
walls of his house are covered with photographs and awards. There are
pictures of him with Presidents Kennedy and Truman, plaques from
numerous groups honoring him for something he’s done to please them
and photos of family members.
Patterson,
who remains active in civic endeavors, recently joined other area
leaders in helping to obtain a one-year extension for Lyman Ward
Military School in nearby Camp Hill.
The
school had announced earlier that it might have to close at the end of
May due to declining enrollment and revenue.
Patterson’s
telephone rings constantly and he monitors it to see which ones to
answer or call back.
"This
public service has got to end," he said, only half-seriously.
"It’s going to get the best of me if it doesn’t. When you get
to be my age, in the mornings it’s hard to get up."
Patterson
has no doubts about where he’ll be buried—a family cemetery not far
from the Patterson Farm. That’s where he’ll join his parents,
grandparents and other relatives.
He
said he used to get calls from someone in Montgomery asking him to be
buried in an area set aside for deceased governors.
"I
kept telling him I wanted to be buried in New Site with my relatives and
friends," he said. "I told him that on Judgment Day when I
come out of the ground, I don’t want to be down there with a bunch of
politicians. He never called me back."
Until
that day comes, Patterson will continue roaming his farm with Tina,
stopping to pet some of their cattle and admiring the graceful flights
of herons circling over their lake.
Now
and then he’ll walk over to a fence on his property where tiny roses
have been growing since the 1930s when they were planted as part of a
Depression-era improvement project.
At
the end of his tour, he snipped off a little rose and took it over to
Tina, who sat in the four-wheeler watching him. The love in her eyes was
evident.
When
he gave it to her, they exchanged smiles. No words were needed.
Alvin Benn is a
freelance writer from Selma. |
