Chapter 8

AND THE CHILD GREW.

(My 3 years of junior high school, grades 7 thru 9, starting at the beginning of September 1958 and ending at the end of May 1961, and the following summer of 1961.)

I thank God for making me a happy child amidst many troublesome circumstances throughout the first 12 years of my life. And I heartily thank God that during this calendar year of 1958, life’s circumstances greatly improved, making my life much brighter.

First of all, it is an immense relief to all 5 of us Yerbys to be living in a much better house. Daddy never talked to us concerning how he was personally faring in life. But he too perks up, now that he has a wife (and a better house). I am happy for him (and life under his rule becomes more pleasant).

Also, at home now, there is an increase in talking and interacting amongst the eight of us, dispelling the much silent gloom I have endured at home since Mother’s death. It wasn’t Daddy’s nature to talk much. Moreover, he was less interested in talking with his own four children than with other people (making me feel shortchanged). Now with three other people living in our house (who are good talkers), Daddy talks more with them, and we children join in also.

God ordained that humans be communicative creatures. We should take heed to the many Scriptures in the Bible that warn us against talking too much. But to be overly silent toward family is neither natural, nor is it appropriate in most cases. It is my belief that when parents are overly silent toward their children, that it is detrimental to the children (and I am speaking from experiencing such silence toward me from Daddy). (Are you parents taking notes?)

During her last year of high school, Janiece began dating her classmate, Jerry. To me, Jerry was a most likable guy. He was cheerful, plenty talkative, and his talk was interesting. Now, I talk to him as much as I can when he comes to the house. Also, when I talk with big sister Janiece now, I am talking to an adult. That tends to help also. This large increase in communication at home immensely brightens my daily life.

Also, I now get plenty of enjoyment from watching the devil’s TV in our home (all TV programming broadcast in black and white only, back in those ancient days). “Gunsmoke” with Matt Dillon. “Rawhide’s” adventurous cattle drives. “Wanted Dead or Alive”, with Steve McQueen hunting down those outlaws. “Have Gun Will Travel.” “Route 66.” The flying adventures of “Sky King” and “Whirlybirds”. Such shows topped the list of my favorites. I liked to laugh along with Lucy, Red Skelton, Jackie Gleason, and such comedians. Now, watching TV regularly adds fun (not true joy) to my life. More than enough said about the vanity of watching TV. (I am not condoning TV and movies. I’m simply writing my history.)

Autumn of 1958, we have no cotton crop of our own to pick, because we didn’t plant any cotton this year. I pick cotton for other farmers when Daddy allows, and earn a little money. We are still busy working on the house, and we have our corn crop to harvest. It was a most pleasant autumn for me. Enough said about this year’s harvest time. I want to talk about school.

When school reconvenes at the start of September, instead of 1 girl and 3 boys getting on the school bus at our house, now 4 boys hop onto the bus. Rayburn, our stepbrother, is a high school senior. This will be his last year of school.

With great anticipation, I have looked forward to entering the 7^th grade, junior high school, really growing up and moving up the ladder. Miss Strickland is my homeroom teacher. I am now back in the school building and classrooms I used in grades one thru five. Three or so rural elementary “feeder” schools surrounding Vernon “feed” their 6^th grade graduates into the 7^th grade classes at Vernon school. So, I get plenty of new classmates. With the increased numbers, I think there were 3 sections (classes) of us 7^th graders.

Old Maid Miss Strickland was a most godly, dedicated Christian woman. I was blessed to have her for my homeroom teacher. Also, she taught one or two of my subjects (English and Social Studies, I think). In grammar school, only one teacher taught me each year. Now about 5 teachers teach me daily, Mr. Livingston (math), Mrs. Rickman (science), Coach George Bell (PE), Miss Redus (study hall).

We soon elect class officials. I am elected as president of the 7^th grade.

Thru out grammar school, all my teachers were women. Now I have men teachers also. In grammar school, I stayed in one classroom all day all year (essentially). Now when the bell rings at the end of a period, I have 2 minutes to hoof it to my next class in a different room. “And you had better not be tardy, and you had better not run in the halls, boy! You want a paddling, boy??”

‘I can do without it. I don’t believe the fable that whippings make a boy grow, no matter who says so.’

In elementary school, students who didn’t handle book learning well, were “failed” and had to repeat that year of school. We took tests that teacher graded and showed us the grade scores. Students “passed” or “failed” each test. We received report cards in grammar school, but the report card did not list “letter” grades (A, or B, or C, or D, or F). Instead, at each reporting period, the teacher wrote a short report on each student’s study habits, learning ability, test results, classroom conduct, manners, and such. At the end of the year, if cumulative test scores totaled failure, she failed the student.

But from 7^th grade on, each six weeks when our report cards come out, I will receive “letter” grades for each of my 5 subjects (no grades given for study hall). I am determined to make Straight A’s every time thru out the 7^th grade. By God’s Grace, I come quite close to doing so, making Straight A’s the 1^st reporting period. I was elated!

Back in the summer, I started occasionally spending the night at Aunt Virgie’s house. At this time, Uncle Hershel is working (construction) quite far away, and comes home only on weekends. Aunt Virgie doesn’t like to be alone at nights. (Their only child, my cousin Betty, is already married and living elsewhere.) Some nights, both Janiece and I spend the night with Aunt Virgie. She also calls on other nephews to come stay nights with her. Thus, my turn comes occasionally.

Aunt Virgie is a good cook. Each time I spend the night there; I eat supper and then breakfast with her. How I delight to eat her delicious and filling breakfast, then walk out the dirt road from her house to Hwy 9 to wait with classmate Judy and her 2 younger brothers in front of their house to catch the school bus.

“School Days! School Days! How I love Golden Rule Days! Reading and riting and rithmatic, taught to the tune of a hickory stick!” That was the start of a song we learned at “music time” back in grammar school. School days were truly a joy to me, in a small-town school where most teachers were Christians, and fairly good conduct was enforced on the students. Life was much simpler and more natural before it became so modern and hi tech. I thank God that I was NOT born one day later than I was.

Janiece is employed now, giving me a weekly allowance to do chores for her, mainly keeping her closet stocked with firewood during the winter when she needs a fire in the fireplace, taking out the ashes, and sometimes building that fire. Most months, she gives each of us boys 75 cents to get a haircut at Jimmy’s Barber Shop in town. Thus, Daddy’s barbershop goes out of business. Somewhere along the way in time, Daddy quits his custom of swapping haircuts on our front porch with some neighbor man, and he even starts paying for a haircut in town. The poor Yerbys are going modern.

Janiece doesn’t have a car of her own. Most every Saturday afternoon, she calls a taxi from our new phone. (One or 2 taxi cabs park in front of the drug store in Vernon. People phone the drug store, give their name and tell where they want the taxi sent. The druggist hangs up the phone, opens the front door and hollers out that info to a taxi driver who then drives off to get his customer.) Janiece takes her basket of laundry in the taxi to the coin laundry in town, does her laundry and some shopping, and brings it all back home in a taxi.

When I need a haircut, I ride with her (if Daddy will let me off from work), and get my haircut at Jimmy’s. Sitting in Jimmy’s barber chair that swivels around and elevates up and down, was a great improvement over the nail keg on the rickety chair I sat on when Daddy cut my hair. I never took a tumble out of Jimmy’s barber chair.

Sidney and I are now of an age that Daddy will let us each walk to town alone. I walk that road to town and back many times during my six years of high school, three and half miles each way, dreading to go by the houses where large dogs always come running out to me, barking and growling, threatening to tear my leg off. They are more vicious at night.

During this autumn, an alert salesman driving by our house sees the black tarpaper tacked onto the outside walls of our new castle, and stops to show Daddy the nice siding that his company puts on exterior walls.

“Go ahead and get it, and I’ll help pay for it.” Likely it was on the salesman’s 2^nd or 3^rd persistent visit (as he kept stopping in occasionally urging Daddy to buy), that Lucille spoke up with that offer. (Lucille was presently getting a regular paycheck at the garment plant.) No doubt a broad smile spread widely across the salesman’s inner soul when he heard that. He clinched the sale that night. Daddy agreed (somewhat reluctantly), and it amazed me to see a “real” work crew (2 or 3 men) come do the job of nailing on nice looking siding over that drab black tarpaper.

Then Daddy and Lucille start making the monthly payments for that job. Had Lucille not urged Daddy, I wonder how many years he would have left those exterior walls in that “unfinished, black tarpaper style”. If only, a salesman driving by our castle could see the black tarpaper interior walls of the boys’ bedroom, then I might not have gazed on that unsightly scene for the next six years, till I move out of this house.

Each six weeks, I receive my report card at school. There are 3 such reporting periods before our Christmas vacation. I get straight A’s the first and second times I receive my report card. I am elated and proudly show it to fellow students and homefolks. Upon getting straight A’s the second time, Rayburn tells me that he will give me a present if I get straight A’s all this year. I am determined to get straight A’s all year! But on the 3^rd reporting period as we get out of school for Christmas break, I got one B. The rest of my grades were A’s. I was disappointed, but no need to despair. Just keep studying hard.

Just before Christmas, Lucille and Janiece each receive a large (refrigerated) Christmas turkey at work. “Let’s eat yours at Christmas and mine at New Year’s.” Janiece proposes that to Lucille, they agree to it, and we eight souls stuff ourselves with much delicious stuffed turkey that holiday season.

You know from experience how that it seems to take forever for your family to finish off that holiday turkey, and what a relief when you finally accomplish that. There was no such problem for us 8 hungry country folks. Five were males (4 growing boys and a hardworking Dad). The 3 ladies were also skilled at eating turkey. We all speedily inhaled those two big birds, and marveled at how quickly they flew out of sight.

(Apart from holiday eating, Janice now does her own grocery shopping in town, cooks it at suppertime and on weekends. I’m welcome to eat from it also, and I do.)

On Christmas morning 1958, Rayburn, Sidney and I go hunting together, each carrying his .22 rifle. For over 2 hours, we walk a large circuit thru forests and meadows, seeing little game, but target shooting at objects for fun. We time our arrival back home to be greeted by the delicious smell of Christmas dinner (lunch) being set onto the table. All eight of us enjoy that family Christmas meal, Janiece and I standing at the kitchen counter to eat. Never before in my lifetime, had I seen such a nice mealtime (or holiday time) in my own house. Likely Mother was looking down in amazement from the portals of Heaven, shaking her head, saying, “Amazing!”

During the calendar year 1958, several major improvements came into my life. I hope you can grasp the gist of them from my feeble attempts to briefly write of them in the latter part of the previous chapter and thus far in this chapter. I thank God for those betterments in life. Truly, every good thing comes from God in Heaven.

When this year (1958) ends, my 13^th birthday is only a few days away in the future. No longer am I a child. I am evolving into a youth, a teenager. Steadily with passing time, I feel less and less helpless. Less and less, I feel hopelessly trapped under the circumstances of poverty and strenuous farm labor with no better outlook in sight ahead. I am determined to grow up and make a better life for myself than the life I have experienced my first 13 years on earth. The hope (of better things to come) continually swells within my being as I steadily approach adulthood (when I then hope to start making those “better things” reality).

At this time, though I’m only a lad who had thus far only experienced a life of poverty-stricken hard farm labor, I’m already well aware of an important key to a better life on earth. ‘Study hard, Richard Boy! Make those straight A’s! Go on to college! Eat all you can possibly digest from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. That is the key to breaking the chains that bind and enslave you to the “pore” farm, and the key to enabling you to rise up and be great! Go for it, Boy, with all your might! Give it all you’ve got!!’

(Later on in this book, I will start numbering major changes that occur in my life. In an attempt to keep those numbers few, I am not numbering the year 1958 among them, though it was a year of significant changes, improvements.)

Let me write of church life at this time. Growing pains develop concerning our aging church building itself. Pastor Ritch is a carpenter (a builder), and likely he was the first to feel those growing pains, and then began to inject them into other members.

After plenty of discussion, voting, planning (and possibly fund raising) (and other such necessary evils), a concrete slab is poured behind the present two-story church building, and a two-story addition is built onto it. Three holes are knocked into the 2^nd floor back wall of the old building; doors are installed in 2 of them and a baptistery is built into the hole behind the pulpit area. No longer will we all have to troop to a creek to have a baptizing. Years later, I will be baptized here.

A stairway is built in the new addition next to the former outside back wall (that wall now inside the new addition). Three new (larger) classrooms make up the 2^nd floor of the new addition, and its first floor is made into a kitchen and dining area. Thus, we become modern Christians who no longer have to troop thru the rain to go to and from the auditorium to Sunday School classes. This indoor stairway leads down to the kitchen where a new door in the former back wall gives entrance to the narrow hallway to go into 1^st floor classrooms.

“What, have ye not houses to eat in?”

Yes, each of our church members was blessed with a house in which to eat, no homeless amongst us. But it is much more fun to eat together at church often, and just ignore such warnings in the Bible. So, the church starts eating and drinking together several times a year (inside) (so no need to worry about it raining on our eating, and so convenient to eat at night also). I especially liked the annual Christmas program a few nights before Christmas; singing Christmas carols, putting on a play and such. And then going down to the dining area for delicious cake, pie, fudge, cookies, and such. I particularly liked the hot chocolate with a marshmallow in it.

Classmate Jerry Ritch (Pastor’s son) and I have become good buddies and enjoy horsing around when we are together. Sunday School and League teen classes now plan more events at church, which include plenty of fun and eating. So church is evolving from a house strictly for worshiping our Lord into a place to come and have much fun also, and to go to the devil.

At school, Miss Strickland tells us about a speech contest and urges all who will do so, to enter it. Few enter it. Guess who one of the few was. You guessed “right” again. Contestants were to choose a famous American, write a speech on that person, memorize the speech, and on contest day, deliver that speech in the auditorium before teachers, principal, teacher judges, and the entire junior and senior high student body. I chose Robert E. Lee, wrote my speech about him, Miss Strickland rewrote it much better, I memorized it, and rehearsed it many times as each of the few contestants did.

On contest day, I had good, steady delivery, not once having to pause to recall my next line as the other contestants did on occasion. I was the best contestant with “speech delivery” except on one point. I would have won first place except I didn’t speak up hardly loud enough for that size of an audience. They could hear me, but still the judges “docked” me for insufficient volume. I didn’t place well in the final judging. So what! There were no monetary prizes given for these winners, just praise. Praise would not have helped my thin wallet, so I wasn’t upset about not placing well. And from now on, I’ll be sure to speak up.

(All these speeches I am volunteering to do as a boy, is an act of my Lord preparing me to “preach the word”! And now as I do that, I make it a point to ensure that the volume is plenty high, as the Judge of all the earth rates me each time and determines my eternal reward.)

I think it was at the start of my 7^th grade year that Lamar County bought a brand-new school bus and put it on my bus route for me to ride to school. It was rare for that poor county to get a new bus. This one was longer than the present buses in the county (with more seats). The county bought it to be used for some of the high school (day) trips. Each bus has a number. This bus is Number One. They chose to put it on my route because this route has a large number of students.

I enjoy riding the nice, new, long bus, but I enjoy something else more (I think). Several days each year, Number One is taken off its regular route for some class in the county to use for a school trip. Then an ancient rattletrap bus is pulled out of mothballs at the bus barn to substitute on our route. Sometimes we got an old bus that was in shambles, the seats falling apart and such. We boys enjoyed the adventure of riding it. Because the substitute bus would be smaller than Number One, we were packed into it like sardines before it reached the school. We boys liked to see how many boys we could pack onto one seat to see if we could finish collapsing the seat’s bottom “cushion” completely.

‘School Days! School Daze! How I loved mischief on School Days!”

“Mischievous School Boy Richard, did you ever get paddled at school?”

‘A few times!’

“Then…please give us the exciting torturous details?”

‘Such details are not appropriate content for this highly dignified, refined, cultured book.’

“You certainly have a way with words, Writer Boy!”

‘Thank you!’

“That was wasn’t exactly a compliment!”

When my 7^th grade studies end at the end of May 1959, I have a nice report card with many A’s on it to keep as a souvenir. I did not get any present from Rayburn because I did not make straight A’s. But I’m thankful to have made high grades in all subjects all year.

My stepbrother Rayburn graduates from high school now. I do not recall the details of him consulting with an Air Force recruiter, signing up to join the Air Force and such. But he planned all that well. Upon graduating at Vernon; he travels far away for Air Force basic training. After basic training ends, Rayburn comes back to our house on leave (autumn of 1959?).

He has no car. He left by bus and comes back here by bus. On Sunday morning, he rides to church with us in our old Nash, dressed in his Air Force Blues for everyone to see (just like I will later wear my Marine dress uniform to my home church for everyone to see). He stays 2 weeks or so, visiting with friends and buddies of his. Then he leaves Vernon to travel to the Air Force Base where he will go on duty. I think that base was in western U.S.A. I recall him bidding Farewell to us who were in the house when he left. And then Rayburn really leaves Vernon. He vanishes. I have not seen him since. If he came back to Vernon after that, I think it was only one time.

As I now switch to farming news, let me back up to late this past winter (of my 7^th grade). About one-third of a mile on down the road from our house, away from town, is the Thomas farm. They were one of the few households (possibly no children) within half a mile of us of whom I knew very little. (I think they kept pretty much to themselves.) Mr. Thomas died. (I never knew any details of his death, the time, or the cause.) Mrs. Thomas is left with his farm and equipment.

Now, before spring planting time, Daddy buys deceased Farmer Thomas’ tractor and all his farming equipment. Also, Daddy rents his farmland. (Other people are living in the Thomas farmhouse.) Daddy also rents the Lollar field at the lower end of the Thomas farm (going toward the creek bottom), and in that field we plant the cotton acreage allowed for the Lollar farm. So, this year (1959), Daddy greatly expands the amount of acreage he farms and cultivates, transitioning from farming with animal and human strength to mostly mechanical power. Along with the several major changes (advances) that occurred in our family life now, add this one to them.

In mid-summer, Daddy turns 42 years old. No doubt the strenuous task of cultivating the fields with horses was beginning to tax his physical strength. We boys do plenty of the “lighter” plowing and cultivating with the horses. But we boys don’t have the strength to help Daddy with the “heaviest” labor, or the skill to do, that which requires a lot of skill.

The 2 “plowings (by horse)” that were most physically demanding were the breaking of the fields with the breaking (turning) plow before planting, and “laying the crops by” in hot mid-summer with that heavy plow called the “middle buster”.

The “breaking plow” (a single wing plow used to “break” each field in the springtime) was not nearly as heavy as the “middle buster” plow (a double wing plow) that Daddy used to “lay by” the crops. Also, the weather was not hot at “breaking” time, like it was at “laying by” time in mid or late summer. Also, he used both horses to pull the breaking plow (which was a help to the skinny horses). So that springtime plowing was less demanding than “laying by” the crops in mid-summer.

Soon after planting (when the cotton or corn plants shoot up a few inches out of the ground) came the first plowing, running the light “top harrow” over each row, its small teeth, scratching, uprooting, and covering small grass (that is also springing up); and throwing a thin layer of soil against each side of the row of small plants to assist in their growth. The next plowing was with the “side harrow”, throwing a thin layer of soil against each side of the row of (now taller) plants (one side at a time because the plants are too high to “straddle” with a plow like the “top harrow” straddled over the small plants).

I think there was one more plowing before the final “laying by”, running the big “middle buster” plow down each furrow. This big, heavy plow plowed deep into each furrow for its large wings to throw up a thick layer of soil onto the (now large) plants, onto the rows to the left and right of each furrow.

Though this plowing requires the most “horsepower”, only one horse can be used at a time, it walking straight down the “middle” (furrow) with tall cotton (or corn) plants on both sides. Daddy would take both horses to the field and rotate them every 20 minutes or so; (one tired, sweat-soaked, panting horse resting, tied to something at the edge of the field. and one horse pulling that heavy plow). I watched those horses strain to pull that heavy plow (running deep), with sweat dropping off the horse and the horse panting (covered with sweat and white foam formed from the sweat). I would look at the tired horse presently at rest, and wonder if it was about to drop dead from fatigue.

But poor Daddy didn’t have a son with enough horsepower to take turns with him. He would take a break when absolutely necessary. I watched him (soaked with sweat and it dripping from him) becoming fatigued to the limit. Yet he would keep at it all day (and the next day), till all the crops were “laid by”. And he never complained. He readily accepted that lot in life and loved to farm. He certainly had a farmer’s heart! Observing his strength, ruggedness, hard labor, perseverance and good attitude, caused me to greatly admire that truly great man. Also, observing the excruciating toil of old fashion farming, my heart quickly evolved into a heart desirous to escape from the farm.

Thus, steadily aging at 42, Daddy could not continue to work that hard indefinitely. Also, steady modernization steadily made it more difficult for a family to make a living on a small farm, bringing on the necessity to switch to mechanical farming and to cultivate much more acreage. “For the times, they are a changing!” Those were the trends of the changing times around me in 1959, as I grew from a child into a youth.

My heart leaped with joy upon learning that Daddy is going to buy a tractor. That sounds exciting because it will diminish our toil, and I will get to drive that tractor. Exciting. When I became about 10 years old, Daddy decided that I was old enough to catch the horses out of the pasture early in the morning (not on school days), and harness them up for their day’s work. A big problem was involved with that chore. Those two tired, skinny horses objected to their daily toil. They had rather relax in the pasture all day eating the bitter weeds and what other scant grass they find in our poor pasture. They didn’t want to be caught, so they typically walked away from me, when they saw me coming for them with the bridles.

I wasn’t assigned the job of catching them out every time, and I so dreaded it when Daddy told me to go catch them. The most successful method my little brain devised was to get an ear of corn out of the crib. I would take one horse’s bridle in my left hand, hold it behind my back so the horse hopefully wouldn’t see it, hold out the enticing ear of corn in my right hand, and thus walk toward the first horse whistling the horse call. ‘Lookie here! Delicious ear of corn! Come get it, Horsey!’

With his large head full of horse sense, he knew that this little boy was trying to trap him into slaving away another day (as I had done many times). But the underfed horse wanted that ear of corn. So usually, he would let me bring it to him, take it in his mouth, and then try to walk away with it as I was trying to hold his muzzle with one hand (to prevent his escape) while bringing up the bridle with the other hand and fitting it onto his head. If I got the bridle on him, I had won that war. Sometimes he would break my grasp on his muzzle and run away with my ear of corn. I would try again or give up. When I gave up, Daddy would have to go catch the horses. For some reason, they submitted much more readily to a man master than to a little boy master. I wonder why?

“It’s because they have a lot of horse sense, Little Boy!”

But from now on, it will be much easier to just start up the tractor’s engine, put it in gear, and go! This tractor was a large; two row Farmall Super C that cultivated 2 rows at a time. Most farmers around had smaller “one-row” tractors, a Farmall Cub, or Super A, or a one-row John Deere tractor. We poor Yerbys were the last family in our area to farm with horses only, the last to obtain a tractor. But when we finally did, Daddy got a tractor that out-gunned most other tractors around. Also, the tractor and all its cultivating plows and equipment were quite new. Mr. Thomas had kept them in good condition. As I looked at that big powerful tractor and its complete set of equipment in fine condition, it just didn’t seem proper for it all to fall into our poor hands. Thank Thee, Lord Jesus!

So, this spring of my 7^th grade, Daddy soon lets us boys drive the tractor, and do some plowing (with the tractor) that we are able to do. Disking was easiest. Breaking was next easiest. I soon began doing both of those and enjoyed farming much more with the ease of this powerful machine.

Till now, we have kept a team of horses (two). When a horse got too old to work, we replaced it with a younger horse. Soon after buying the tractor, we come to keep only one horse for plowing the vegetable garden and such. Seldom did we ever need a pair of horses. When we did, Daddy would borrow Mr. Gary’s mule and team it up with our horse. Mr. Gary lived a quarter mile down the road. Sidney or I would walk to his house to “borrow” his mule, lead it to our house, and then lead it back to Mr. Gary’s house after we finished working with it.

Along about this time, Daddy replaces our aging horse, buying a white horse named Bob. Bob was more of a racehorse than a plow horse. For a few months, Daddy tried in vain to gear Bob down to the slow speed of a workhorse, but finally gave up and traded him for a good workhorse. The short time we had this white horse, I so thrilled to ride him. Joe obtained an old worn-out saddle (for free, I think) from a neighbor. We boys would saddle up Bob and ride him. He would run fast!

On the Thomas farm, a man & wife rent the house & live in it. We become friends. Daddy has the pasture, barn and separate crib. We keep cows and calves there at times. Daddy has the nice shop where orderly Farmer Thomas kept the tractor and all its equipment (all cleaned up, in order and array, which Daddy didn’t have such a knack for doing). Also, the 3 farm buildings I just listed are in much better condition than the ones on our own farm (that Mr. Otto built). ‘We have come into some nice things!’ That’s how I felt looking around on all that. Thus, I feel better about life.

So, we get busy planting and cultivating many more acres this spring and summer (especially of cotton, our money crop).

Also, we plant our largest watermelon crop ever (about 4 acres). Trucker Dennis Langley (in our church) agrees to take a semi-trailer load “up north” (to northern states) to sell them. We hire several boys from church and a quite large crew of us works hard one long day to take several hundred watermelons out of the field on the trailer and wagon, and load them onto the long trailer of that “big rig” parked on the Old Road beside the watermelon patch. It was a tiring workday, but fun with several boys and 3 or so adults joking and such as we worked. In a few more weeks (as more watermelons ripen), Daddy talks another trucker into buying a load to haul north, and we again have a similar workday.

Come autumn time, Daddy has to hire more people to help us pick our larger cotton crop. Several poor adults who live around us are willing to pick cotton for its low wage. We hire several young’uns from the neighborhood and from our church. Those church kids live further away and only come to pick cotton on Saturdays (not the short time after school, on school days). Thus, cotton-picking time (that I naturally like) becomes more fun, as I enjoy the company of other kids much of the “cotton picking time”.

Mr. Thomas had a large, good and sturdy trailer that we got in the package deal of buying all of his farm equipment. So now, instead of loading the cotton onto our horse-drawn wagon, we pull this trailer behind the tractor to the cotton patch at cotton-picking time and empty our sacks of cotton into it to make up a bale. Our car frequently has to give up its place in our new house’s carport so we can put the trailer of cotton under the carport out of the rain. Just a few times, Joe and I spent the night sleeping on that cotton in the trailer under the carport, digging down into the cotton for it to provide us sufficient warm bedding on a chilly night. (Pioneer adventure!)

(Enough said of this major change to a tractor and expanding our farming in the summer after my 7^th grade and before autumn of my 8^th grade. Let’s go back to school now.)

I start the 8^th grade in September 1959. I gain a new sweetheart for a few months, 7^th grader Joan from Crossville Elementary School. So, this is her 1^st year to attend Vernon School. I had never seen her before this year. We got to know each other in a combined study hall of 7^th and 8^th graders.

At the end of the school day, I often walk her to her school bus, carrying her books in my best chauvinistic effort. (Too bad there weren’t any dragons along the way for me to slay, to impress Joan in that manner.) She had an identical twin sister (Jane), and they dressed alike each day. It was most difficult to tell them apart. I think, only once did I mistake Jane as Joan when I approached the two of them together. They both got a good laugh out of that.

As best I remember, I was elected president of our 8^th grade class. Now, at this age, I’m getting a big head and even dreaming of becoming our nation’s president some day. (I haven’t yet completely dropped that idea.)

“Drop it, Old Man. By all means, drop it!”

I have little else to write to you of my 8^th grade of school. It was a most enjoyable school year. On my 8^th grade report card, I made 3 B’s, and all my other report card grades were A’s. Of my 6 years of junior high and high school, this year was my best report card. Only three B’s, and two of them should have been A’s.

Physical Education (PE) was a graded subject. But typically, we boys were just turned loose to do what we wanted to do on the “PE” ground (play football or softball, or to just stand around and talk). One of the two coaches at school was assigned as instructor to each PE class. We seldom saw our PE instructor at PE class time. He typically used that time catching up on other schoolwork of his. And it was typical for him to just assign an A for a PE grade, each six weeks to each boy.

Coach Bell typically graded that way. He was my PE instructor last year. I was hoping he would be my instructor this year. But I got stern Coach Jones instead. During the first semester, on the 2^nd six weeks reporting period, Coach Jones gave me a B, the only reason being that arbitrarily he did not give an A for PE to all boys each time. And though I was most active in playing sports during PE class time (not like the guys who hid behind the blenchers behind the wire screen behind the batters’ box to smoke and tell dirty jokes during PE); Coach Jones arbitrarily assigned me a B (for no other reason than “I don’t give A’s to everyone”).

So, for my first 3 reporting periods, I get A, B, A in PE. Next comes the first semester’s grade average. Common sense told me that those three grades would average out to an A. But stern Coach Jones didn’t use common sense. He assigns me a B for that semester’s average. Those 2 B’s (of the three B’s I got in the 8^th grade) were absolutely uncalled for.

Stern Coach Jones was scary to little boy me. He gave hard paddlings. I don’t think he had ever yet said anything personally to me and vice versa. I tried to avoid that scary man. But I muster up the nerve to approach him one day in the gym with my report card open in my hand.

‘I got two A’s and one B. Shouldn’t that average out to an A for the semester?’

“No! Two A’s and one B cannot possibly average out to an A average. That’s a B average.” In his slow Southern drawl, Jones was just as stern and as cold as he could be with that unreasonable arbitrary thinking of his.

So be it, Coach! You’re the boss. I’ll just keep pressing on with my primary goal in life of making Heaven my home. Perchance I meet you at the Judgment Bar; I just might bring up this subject when we are on that more level playing field!

That 8^th grade, First Semester report card came out at the end of the calendar year as we go on Christmas vacation. January brings in the new year of 1960 and my 14^th birthday.

I chose to be in the 4-H Club all 12 years I was in Vernon School. “Head, Hands, Health, Heart.” Those were the 4 H’s (I think), and we were taught to protect each of them and to use them for the good of mankind. Each year, club members chose a 4-H project from a list of “approved” projects. It was typical for the rural members to raise a calf or a pig as a project.

There were a number of 4-H Club activities in which members could choose to participate. One was the annual essay writing contest with 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd place winners chosen countywide from all four schools in the county. No monetary prizes were awarded, just a small trophy and the glory and fame of having won. Few 4-H Club members bothered to write an essay for this contest. No doubt you have already guessed who one of the few was this year!

During the 8^th grade, I wrote a 4-H Club essay on Firearm Safety (boys my age are already hunting). You have already guessed who won First Place essay in Lamar County this year.

‘Hey, Coach Jones, does that average out to an A in essay writing?!’

I submitted an essay four different years (I think). Firearm Safety was my favorite subject for that 4-H Club essay. I liked using firearms. Even more, I liked not accidently shooting a buddy or myself. Also, I liked not accidently getting shot by a buddy. Thus, I put my heart into the writing of my Firearm Safety essay. (I think it took First Place in the county one other year also. Even if I wrote on the same subject a second time, I wasn’t permitted to turn in the previous essay again. I had to write one anew, with somewhat different content.)

Each year on a Saturday in May (shortly before the school year ended), the 4-H Clubs of Lamar County held their annual combined rally in the Vernon School auditorium for club members who desired to attend. Awards were issued at that time. I highly desired to attend when I was to receive an award. This year I get a gold (color) trophy cup about 8 inches tall (for my First-Place essay), and cherish it for years to come.

A talent show was part of this annual 4-H Club countywide rally. I know you are surprised and disappointed to hear that I never entered it. I must use caution to avoid spreading my scant talent too thinly.

Such is enough to say of my 8^th grade of school that ended at the end of May 1960. However, shortly thereafter, I got to attend a most fun 4-H Club event during summer vacation (and am most desirous to tell you about it now).

Each summer, county junior high and high school 4-H Club chapters statewide in Alabama held a 4 or 5-day convention on the Auburn University campus. From each county, just a very few (7 or so) junior and senior high school 4-H student members were chosen to attend. And you were ever so speedy to guess who one of the very few was this summer.

Four delegates from each county attend to cast their votes on 4-H Club matters that are voted upon (including voting for statewide student officers). The winner of each county’s talent show goes, to compete on “state level”. Candidates for “state level” 4-H Club offices go to run a campaign during the convention (with the voting at the very end). This year, there is one candidate from Lamar County. Our talent show winner is one guy singer (as opposed to a small group). So that totals 6, plus one or 2 other girls went from Lamar County.

I think it was after school let out for summer vacation that I was notified that I had been chosen to go attend the convention as a voting delegate. Such delegates were chosen from amongst the most active and achieving 4-H kids. I was elated over the prospect of spending 5 days on that university campus, as opposed to doing slave farm labor those 5 days. But my first thought was: ‘No way will Daddy let me go. He’ll make me stay here to work, as he needs my help so badly in the middle of busy summer farm work.’

I don’t recall if I got the “invitation” by a written letter, or a phone call, or if someone drove to the house and told me in person. But Daddy was not yet aware of the invitation. I so dreaded asking him if I could go, because I thought there was a good chance he would devastate me by refusing me, saying he needed me to work. I think we were busily working in the field when I told Daddy I was invited, and told him the time frame (when I would leave home and when I would return). He immediately said that I could go. I felt like I was back among the living, so excited over the upcoming excitement!

I quickly notified the 4-H Club official in Vernon that I could go, received instructions from him, and prepared accordingly. Packing up a few clothes and personal toilet items (enough for 5 days) was about the sum total of “preparing” for the trip. Before, I have told you of us Yerby kids “packing” such into paper sacks (large brown paper bags from the grocery store), when we went somewhere to spend one or more nights. At this time, there is not a suitcase (or similar bag) in the Yerby poor house. I sure don’t want to take my belongings to a university campus in a brown paper poke. (Why, they just might think that I’m a pore country hick.) I was able to borrow a canvas bag or an old suitcase from someone to use.

Vernon Hi School student Edward and I leave Vernon on Monday morning with Mr. Haskell in his car. I am excited. This is Big Time for an 8^th grade country hick. We stop between Kennedy and Millport to pick up boy Mac, and the boy singer who won the county talent show. We 5 head down Hwy 82 toward Montgomery, stopping at a café on that highway for lunch, and then on to Auburn, arriving in mid-afternoon. A lady worker in Vernon took the three or four 4-H girls (from our county) to Auburn in her car today, and got them settled into the assigned girls’ dorm. We boys were assigned 2 boys each to men’s dorm rooms in Magnolia Hall. Edward and I room together.

Four hundred or so 4-H kids were arriving from all over our fair state. So, I found myself amidst a bustle of activity. The university’s summer quarter is in session now, but fewer (than normal) university students attend the summer session. Thus, they have dorm space to house us pesky kids for 5 days.

My slow farm-paced mind tries to stay abreast of everything in the hustle and bustle of a large group of kids settling in. We are issued meal tickets for the dining hall here in this men’s dorm complex, and soon go there and eat supper. I stay close to Edward. He is 1 year older than I, has a level head, and can absorb this worldly hustle and bustle better than I can.

I have to pay very little money to enjoy this week on this nice campus. I had to pay for my meal ticket (and possibly a little for the dorm room). I think that was all I had to pay. And I brought a little spending money.

We have been issued our schedule and a simple map showing the locations of the dorms we lodge in and the campus buildings 4-H Club meetings are held in. After supper tonight, all 400 or so of us assemble in the main ball room of the Student Union Building for a “welcoming” meeting with speeches highly praising 4-H Club, and calling on us to be faithful to 4-H all our lives. (There is always volunteer work adults can do to help 4-H kids.) Anyway, this pep rally and praise meeting tonight was akin to idol worship of 4-H Club.

We had meetings most every morning, early afternoon, and at night (7 PM or so). Upstanding 4-H adults lectured us on becoming upstanding adults. The talent show contest was held one night. The guy singer (who won 1^st place back in Vernon) was far outclassed here, not placing among the winners. A band from a large school took 1^st place. Each county’s group of kids decides which candidates for state officer to campaign for, and writes posters to plaster everywhere allowed (in dorm halls and Student Union Building), that toot their candidate. The election was held toward the end; the results being announced in our final gathering that night. The one girl candidate from Lamar County lost badly (landslide fashion) in the election.

Briefly stated, this convention consisted of those things. After eating breakfast Saturday morning, we all soon vacate our dorm rooms; get back into our sponsors’ cars to head back home (back to the slave farm for me). We arrive on campus Monday afternoon and depart Saturday morning. This was a most fun week for me that went too fast and ended too soon, a most bright spot in my upbringing on the slave farm.

The 4 whole days of Tuesday thru Friday, from mid-afternoon to suppertime was free time. Some sponsors drove their kids out to lovely Lake Chewacla to swim. Upon dropping us off at the dorm Monday afternoon, my sponsor (Mr. Haskell) drove back to Vernon to work the next 4 days, driving back here early on Saturday morning to pick us kids up. Thus, he wasn’t here to chauffeur us kids and such. Too bad! I tried to catch a ride to the lake one afternoon, but failed. During free time on those 4 days, I walked around campus and the town of Auburn, just taking in everything. I spent some free time in the dorm where 4-H guys were horsing around plenty wildly.

I thoroughly enjoyed this stay on Auburn campus. Three times a day, I lined up with “men” university students in the dining hall, got my tray of food and sat at a table with 4-H kids to eat (in the same dining hall with university guys). The food was good. To me, the atmosphere was high class.

While living in my boyhood home (till I was almost 19-years-old) I had extremely few opportunities to take a shower at bath time. At home we had no running water or shower bath. Here in the dorm, I would get into the shower, turn the water up high pressure and just never wanted to turn it off. I felt like I could let it shower on me forever (it felt so good). I enjoyed a week of plush carefree life here. We 4-H boys horsed around together much in our dorm rooms and the dorm complex. I am most thankful I got to come here this week. I plenty regretted having to load up into Mr. Haskell’s car and leave Auburn U.

Heading back to Lamar County, we stop for lunch at a café on the highway. I think it was after mid-afternoon Saturday when Mr. Haskell dropped me off at Daddy’s house. I change from my ballroom Cinderella outfit to my rough “slave rags”, and work in the field the rest of that afternoon.

Upon graduating from high school 2 years ago, Janiece’s boyfriend (Jerry) entered Auburn University that September. Jerry now has 2 years of university study behind him. This summer, he is here in Vernon working to make money. He comes to our house 2 times or more each weekend. Back when I first got invited to go to Auburn (and got Dad’s permission), I excitedly told Jerry about it. He rejoiced with me. Now, upon returning home, I talk Jerry’s ears off about how much I enjoyed my trip and of the places I now know, on campus and in town. Truly, it was a rich and happy experience for me!

Now parents, bring your chairs up close for a most important lesson on parenting. You might even want to drag your kids in also.

“Here’s a new pair of shoes for you to wear on your trip.”

A few days before I was to leave for Auburn, Daddy came back from town and handed me a shoebox as he bluntly said that. I opened it up and liked the looks of those bright, shiny black shoes. I soon tried them on.

‘They’re too small! They hurt my feet!’

“That’s probably just because they are new and stiff. When you wear them a little and break them in, maybe they’ll be OK.” (They were not OK.)

I soon wore them to church. ‘They hurt! They aren’t big enough!’

“We’ll take them by the shoe shop (repair shop) in town and let Mr. Faulkner stretch them. That should do it.”

So, I went to the shoe repair shop with Daddy. And Mr. Faulkner (our neighbor) inserted a “stretcher” into each shoe and ratcheted on each “stretcher”, spreading the interior of each shoe somewhat. He let them set a few minutes in that “stretched” state as he and Daddy chatted, and then Mr. Faulkner had me to try them on.

‘That feels better’, I reluctantly confessed (because I knew this growing boy needed a larger size shoe). Those shoes were at least a half size too small for me at that time, and I was a growing boy! Parent, what do you think of that?

“When you get them broken in good, they should be just right.” I think one of those 2 adults proclaimed something to that effect (words in which this little boy had absolutely no faith, but I had to accept what adults dished out).

All down thru the long ages of time on this earth, cruel men have devised unnumbered torture devices to render the most exquisite pain upon a human body, and have purposely used those devices to torture people they hated. But I think this shiny new pair of shoes outdid all such devices of all ages. The pain my feet endured that week at Auburn was most exquisite!

“Writer Boy, do you ever exaggerate any?”

‘Never enough for anyone to ever detect it.’

I saved this tragic news till after telling how greatly I enjoyed that trip. But Mr. and Mrs. Parent, it was most regrettable that I had to needlessly suffer such great pain all the time I was wearing those shoes, marring my time at Auburn. I did not take an extra pair of shoes. I didn’t have enough money to buy a larger pair at Auburn. As I tried to enjoy the daily activities, one thought continuously throbbed thru my brain. ‘I’ll be so glad to get back to the dorm room tonight and take off my shoes.’ This trip was the one and only such chance for me during my boyhood. I think it most regrettable that for hours each day I had to endure such exquisite pain that could have easily been prevented, by simple, better parenting.

Firstly: At the start, the wise thing would have been for Daddy to have taken me with him when he bought the shoes, let shoe store Mr. King measure my feet and let Mr. King pull out the size shoe he thinks best (considering my age and how fast I am growing). Then I’d try on that shoe to make sure it was somewhat loose, because my feet will grow as I wear these shoes. Daddy did not take me for such a fitting because it was his nature to do such things alone (and also, because he wanted me slaving away on the farm while he was in town buying the shoes). Thus, I suffered.

Secondly: When I first tried on the shoes at the house and told Daddy they were too small, he should have diligently felt the toe end of the shoes to see that my toes were crammed in tightly (and considered that my feet are steadily growing longer). We should have gone right back to Mr. King’s store and exchanged the shoes for a larger size. But NO. I was fated to suffer so, SOLEY in order to now urge you parents to do better.

Parents, you are doing a lot better than that, aren’t you? Please tell this story to every parent you know. Spread it all around the world. When I get to Heaven, may I meet a multitude of little China girls who were made so happy on earth when their painfully bound feet were loosed from their bounds when their parents heard this story!

Daddy’s nature of a quiet loner resulted in insufficient communication and interaction with his children, which resulted in more than sufficient pain for me during the week I wanted to enjoy being at Auburn, and more than sufficient unpleasant memories on other occasions.

Please don’t go to sleep on me now, parents. I have one more valuable lesson while we are in parenting class.

‘Here’s my report card. I need you to sign it.’

During each of my six years in junior hi and senior hi school, six times each year I said that to Daddy as I handed my report card over to him. Each time, Daddy took my report card, opened it up and looked at the grades I had received on that most recent reporting period, closed the report card, signed it in the designated place on the back of it, and handed it back to me. That was a grand total of 36 times in six years, that my Dad looked at my grades and signed my report card in my presence.

I made straight A’s a vast majority of those 36 times. I don’t recall Daddy ever commenting to me on such a report. I do well recall that he was usually silent about my straight A’s. Time and again, this little boy stood before Daddy with great anticipation as he viewed my straight A’s report, so hoping for a short word of compliment, only to receive total silence. The one or two times I do recall him speaking up was when I had all A’s except for one B, possibly 2 B’s.

“Well, you didn’t make all A’s this time.” (Short, and not sweet at all.)

Daddy’s silence and sternness toward me as a child resulted in me naturally not trying to talk much with him. Each reporting period, I had good grades. Never had a D or F. Almost never had a C. Had few B’s. Had straight A’s many times and mostly A’s the other times. Thus, I would stand before Daddy in silence, hoping to hear “That’s a good report card” or “I’m proud of you”, especially the many times I got straight A’s. But no such compliment came forth.

I only recall him speaking out when…“Well, you didn’t make all A’s this time.”

“I’m proud of you!” Daddy spoke that to me once when I was 31 years old. I am quite sure that was the very first time he ever said that to me. As a 31-year-old adult, upon hearing that, I smiled, said ‘Thank you’, soon finished bidding him Farewell, and turned to board the airplane to head back to my mission field in Japan (from whence I had recently come).

But as I smiled and thanked him, the Little Boy inside me screamed out (silently), ‘Too late! Way too late! Twenty-five years ago, you should have started saying such from time to time! Plenty of times I gave you good enough reason to say such to me when I was a boy! Such a compliment would have meant so much to a little boy. It’s just too late of a start now, to mean much to me! It’s like an insult coming this late. If I didn’t deserve to hear it one single time between the ages of 5 and 18, I just don’t want to hear it now!’ That is what naturally exploded in my heart, tho I had no desire for it to do so.

So, Mr. and Mrs. Parent, that’s your valuable lessons in parenting for today. And it didn’t cost you anything. Aren’t you so blessed? So, now please listen carefully to what God’s Holy Spirit is saying to you regarding these two lessons, and obey what God teaches you to do in order to receive a “Well Done” on parenting from your Creator! Then when I meet you and your children in Heaven, all of you will have wonderfully good news to share with me regarding those lessons. (Even while we are still journeying on earth, you might want to “make my day” by writing to me of such.)

(Next subject) This year, “Powers to be” in agriculture, government, and business built a pickle plant in Fayette, and urged farmers to grow cucumbers to supply to the factory. They tooted the cucumbers as a good money crop. This spring I was in the 8^th grade, Daddy planted 2 acres of cucumbers. As our cucumber vines started bearing in early summer, light rains came often (above normal for the summer). The frequent rains kept the cucumber vines green and bearing cucumbers for a long time (just about all summer). Dad sold many cucumbers!

We worked hard to keep up with harvesting what the vines just kept on producing. We hired my cousins, Bill and Fred, to help us pick them. About every other day, Daddy would hitch that sturdy trailer (filled with baskets and buckets of cucumbers) behind the car and tow it to Fayette where a grading machine divided our cucumbers into 4 grades according to size. The smaller ones brought the best price per pound. The largest of the 4 sizes was rejected as culls (too large for their use). We hauled the culls back home and did our best to entice our chickens, hogs, and cows to eat them.

A body has to stoop low to pick cucumbers, the vines being on the ground. (No way could we have staked such a large field of them.) Picking them was truly a pain in the back. The afternoon I returned from Auburn, I quickly rejoined a few others in the cucumber field and busily picked them for the remainder of the day (and for day after day following).

When school starts back in September 1960, I start the 9^th grade, and it seemed great to gain the title of freshman. Throughout this school year, I again study hard to make mostly A’s and enjoy school immensely. No major school events occur this year with which to bore you. So, for brevity’s sake, that’s all I’ll say about my freshman year of high school. I do not think I was elected to class president this year. I may have been elected to vice-president.

Speaking of presidents, John F. Kennedy shocked a lot of citizens, winning the presidential election in November 1960, by an ever so tiny margin. That was a somewhat stunning election that stunned our nation’s populace with great joy among many, and deep regret among the many others. You can read about this monumental election in the history books. The U.S. of A. is arriving on the threshold of the space age with a new, young president full of charisma (with a famous family name). “Great and glorious advances are ahead!” was the bright outlook of many vain souls.

Our nation is also arriving at the stage where a large majority of its populace daily stares at a TV, far too much. Young and handsome actor-like JFK looked far more appealing than bald headed ancient President Ike whom he replaced. Experts say this “arrival of the TV spotlight age” gave little-known John F. Kennedy the edge over better-known (but dour) Vice-President Richard Nixon, and resulted in Kennedy’s ever so narrow victory over Nixon in the election.

In January 1961, I turn 15 years old the month President Kennedy is inaugurated as our nation’s youngest president ever thus far. ‘Why, he’s only 28 years older than I. Am I actually getting that close to becoming President of the U.S.?’

“Drop it, Little Farm Boy! Just drop it completely!”

Throughout each school year, I keep doing the routine seasonal farm labor each season, and keep enjoying the holidays that I’ve repeatedly described thus far. So, I will abruptly end my talk of my 9^th grade of school that ended at the end of May 1961. At the Vernon School, there was no junior high school graduation ceremony at the end of grade 9. Seventh thru 12^th grade was considered as all being “high school”, with a graduation service for 12^th graders only.

Summer of 1961 after my 9^th grade, Daddy planted only one acre of cucumbers. Last summer, we learned from experience that 2 acres of them just took too much of our time to harvest, when there was much other summer farm work that had to be done.

“Variety is the spice of life.” It is most rewarding and fulfilling to do the work God ordained for mankind in Genesis chapters 2 and 3, that of tilling the soil to gain one’s necessary food. I enjoyed growing a great variety of crops, especially the cotton, and the “food crops” we ate and sold.

Daddy would take the backseat out of that large old Nash and fill that area and the trunk with watermelons, cantaloupes, tomatoes (and peas at times), and drive to the nearby larger city of Columbus, Mississippi and drive around to cafés and grocery stores, trying to sell all the load (with quite good success). Often one or two of us boys got to ride along in the front seat. I enjoyed those trips to Columbus.

We set watermelons and cantaloupes on the front edge of our front porch. Even without a “For Sale” sign, the souls in the slow moving, passing vehicles (who took in all the scenery) knew they were for sale. People would stop and buy. When we had much such produce in season, we would take it to Vernon on Friday afternoons (payday), park under a shade near the Post Office and hope people would buy much of what they saw on display. It was a most blessed boyhood for me.

“Reading of all that selling makes me think your family was getting rich, especially using much slave labor for free!”

‘In addition to selling produce listed above, yearly we took hogs to the market and also sold the cotton crop.’

“Wow! Super Rich!”

‘Regretfully, No. Somehow, we managed to stay in the poor house. That is one of the great mysteries in the universe.’

Getting serious now, much of the time the profit margin was ever so thin. Ever since borrowing the money to buy this farm back in autumn of 1946, every month Daddy has to make a loan payment at the bank. When he built our house, and later when he bought the tractor and equipment, no doubt each time he borrowed money for those expenses at the bank, the bank mortgaging all of it, and Daddy faithfully making the monthly payments to the bank. We easily managed to remain poor.

The one true joy and hope for us lay in the fact that the Yerby adults were Christians and by the grace of God we children were becoming Christians, daily journeying toward the eternal bliss of that Celestial City. “Come thou with us, and we will do thee good!” For those souls who put their faith and trust in the Saviour of the World, all life’s toils and troubles will soon be past. Whatever you do on your brief earthly journey, don’t refuse Jesus Christ as your Saviour.

I’ll close this chapter with an important Spiritual lesson, so wake up now please. On a warm spring day, I was cutting bushes, and digging out their small roots with a grubbing hoe (tiring, loathsome, boring work to me). I was working with Daddy clearing off a narrow gentle sloping terrace area on the Thomas place that wasn’t under cultivation. “We’ll plant turnip greens here”, Daddy told me.

Seeing the area presently overgrown with bushes and such, in my ignorance, I remarked to Daddy that it wouldn’t make good farmland.

“Oh yes it will. This soil is rich from years of leaves falling and rotting into the dirt.” My remark showed Daddy how ignorant I was of such, causing him to add an important comment. “You’d better learn how to do this (clear growth for planting new ground), so you can do it when you get grown.”

I silently continued diligently digging out roots with that grubbing hoe, not making any verbal reply to Daddy. But deep inside me, my little ol’ heart was screaming out to me. ‘No way will I choose a life of farming! I will seek the best paying job with a steady paycheck every week or two, and thus have enough money to live in comfort without having to toil so hard! I’ll even strive for greatness, fame, and fortune!’

My eyes and ears were wide open to (and keenly observant of) what the populace around me was doing. Most of my many uncles were not farmers. I saw the comfortable life their steady wages or salaries gave them. Some of Mother’s brothers started out as farmers. Some of Mother’s sisters married men who started out as farmers. Over a period of a few years, this little boy observed each of those several uncles of mine (one by one) cease farming, to take on steady employment with steady salary or wages instead (construction, building, factory work, maintenance work, etc.). I saw the “better” life that resulted.

In my local town of Vernon, I saw how nice a living the merchants and office workers had. And though they possibly had many “business headaches” (problems), they didn’t have to physically toil and sweat as we had to on the farm. Thus, my little heart was going away from the farm. It would gladly accept most any available course and direction (job), any job but farming.

Three goals stirred in my heart.

1. To have good, regular income in order to live comfortably.

2. To experience great adventure. I dreamed of various types of great adventure, one of them being a military jet pilot.

3. And to become great in some area: rich, famous, etc.

I knew that The Key to gaining any one of those goals (to any degree) lay in becoming as highly educated as possible. Thus, I doggedly determined to study hard and make all the A’s I possibly could the entire time I attend any school.

With the arrival of 1960, the winds of change are fiercely blowing in the farming areas of our nation. A spirit (both spoken and unspoken) was strongly stirring (especially in local rural schools). Set this generation of poor “small family farm” kids free from that poverty and life style! Get as many of them as possible into colleges and universities. As for the ones who lack the book sense to handle that higher education, let’s bring into our farmland regions enough small factories and such to give every one of them the chance of fulltime employment.

This Little Farm Boy Writer was purposely created at the exact crucial time of major change (I change not.) on a “pore” farm to observe all this, and then to pen these words of wisdom just to you.

“Thank you, Little Farm Boy! How blessed we all are!”

‘You’re most welcome!’

Heavenly Father, much sinful selfishness, sinful vanity, and sinful worldly pride were mixed into those three boyhood goals of mine stated above. Thank Thee for thoroughly teaching that truth to me in my 78 years (thus far) on earth. Please work within me a heart that is truly repentant of all sins that were mixed into those motives.

I have learned how exceedingly gracious Thou art, in that Thou gavest me a comfortable living upon leaving my boyhood farm. Later, Thou didst allow me to enjoy many thrilling adventures, parachuting, piloting an aircraft, and such. And most important, in the end, Thou didst elevate me to the highest rank on this earth that a human soul can achieve: that of being the lowliest servant of all, to High and Mighty God in Heaven (my Creator), and a servant to all mankind also.

Truly, Thou hast blessed me more than any other human soul that has ever walked on earth. Now please bless all souls presently on earth in this like manner, in accordance to Thy Divine Will for each of them, I plead. Amen and Amen!

The End of Chapter 8

On to Chapter 9

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