Chapter
4
MAY LEARN
(From the time I enter the 1st
grade of Vernon Elementary School at the beginning of September 1952 up to
Mother’s death just over 1 year and 7 months later in March 1954.)
Early
on (from age 4 or 5), I was made to do old-fashion farm work (to the extent of
my ability) and thereby readily perceived the God-ordained cause-and-effect
of farming. As a family, we labored together on the family farm to personally
produce our life’s necessities; food and firewood for us, food for farm
animals that pull the plows or give us eggs, milk and meat, and money from
selling them. We sold all the cotton we grew, and some of the
corn, vegetables and fruit to gain financial income. Experiencing my family
producing its own livelihood (by God’s ordained method given to mankind in
Genesis chapters 2 and 3) was a most valuable start to me in
life.
The
two summers before I started school, I was given the chores of helping Mother
pick peas, butter beans and such from our vegetable garden (in addition to farm
chores I’ve already listed). I also sat and shelled those peas and butterbeans.
When school let out for summer vacation at the end of May 1952, I thrilled to
think that when school started again this September, I would then get on that
large yellow bus and go with the other school kids to spend each day at school
with lots of kids. That naturally sounded like fun to me.
When
that long awaited day finally arrived the first week in September, I was
assigned to Mrs. Freeman’s 1st grade class. I was glad to be in her
class because I already knew (from listening to my upper class siblings) that
she was more kind and gentle than the one other 1st grade teacher.
There
was a kindergarten in Vernon then, but poor parents like mine did not send
their children there. (This was years before government began paying most all
education expense for school children.) Also, my parents gave me practically no
“book learning” before I started school. (They gave me much farm learning
instead.) I could count numbers just a short ways up and could quote the entire
alphabet before I started school. I don’t think I had yet been taught to write
numbers or letters. Such was typical then. So one of the 1st things
teacher taught 1st graders like me, was how to write each letter in
the alphabet and how to write our names. I enjoyed my studies plenty. It felt
good to become literate, learning to read and write and to do the basic math.
It
was fun to now be out in society daily mingling with a mass of humans, much
more fun than being at home on the farm with family only. I met many children
for the 1st time. I soon claimed a cute girl classmate as my
sweetheart. I was glad that she was pleased with my claims on her. Among the
many kids richer than I, several often bestowed kindness upon me (by giving me
some of their recess snack they had brought from home or other such kind
deeds). Many days I came to school bringing no snack for recess.
The
school lunchroom cooked and served hot nutritious lunches to us. Though the
government subsidized those lunches, each student still had to pay a small
amount for each lunch. I think that cost was 20 cents per meal when I entered 1st
grade and 25 cents when I graduated from the 12th grade.
When
I started school, a good number of poor children brought a sack lunch from
home. Most days, Mother sent us to school with sack lunches that often included
a little something for recess also. On rare occasions, she gave us money to buy
the school lunch instead. What I brought from home was always basic, simple
country food (and cold by lunchtime); biscuits or cornbread with possibly a
piece of pork meat sandwiched into the bread with a sweet potato or such. All
my class sat together in the lunchroom to eat our lunches, the mouths of us
poor brown baggers drooling over the savory hot foods on the plates of the rich
kids around us, and occasionally receiving from them some food from their
plates that they didn’t want to eat.
I
eagerly applied myself to my studies, enjoyed them and did well with them,
thank God. Daily we had a play period outside (except when it was raining).
With my active nature, I immensely enjoyed playing with lots of kids. In December,
each class had a Christmas party in the afternoon on the last day of school
before Christmas and New Year’s vacation started. Students in each class drew
names and bought a gift for the classmate whose name they drew. At Easter, the
lower grades had an egg hunt and party. I enjoyed the delicious sweets we had
at these 2 annual parties at school.
Daily,
my time spent at school (including the 30 minute bus ride each way) was a most
bright “spot” in my life. Tho I was not actually consciously depressed at
home by our poverty, (looking back now at age 70) I can see that it unconsciously
lifted my spirit to be around the many children at school who were not poor and also unconsciously instilled within me a belief and hope
that one day, I too could become as well off as they were. All such helped
brighten my outlook on life. Early on, I just naturally began to dream
of becoming rich and well off in life, of escaping from a farming life of drab
hard toil and poverty.
I
think those brief details of my first year in school should suffice. In those
days, from grade one thru grade twelve, the school “failed” children who failed
to “make the grade” and those kids had to repeat the same grade the following
school year. I do not recall if any kid in my 1st grade class
failed. Thankfully, I passed with “flying colors”.
(Back
to home life on the farm.) Along with school starting in September, so did
cotton picking time. I was now required to pick cotton more earnestly. After
all, a little farm hand, that can turn a horse-drawn heavy drag over onto
himself 4 months before starting school, can certainly now
pick cotton like a grownup. I was happy to now get my own short cotton sack,
hang its strap over my left shoulder with the sack hanging under my right arm
and see how quickly I could snatch enough cotton out of the bolls to fill my
sack, have Daddy weigh it and announce to me how many pounds I had picked.
Returning
home in mid-afternoon on the school bus, we 3 kids quickly changed into our
work clothes. Some days, Mother (watching Joe) was in the field picking cotton
with Daddy. We 3 school kids hurried to the field to also snatch that cotton.
On days when Mother was at the house, Janiece might stay there to help Mother.
Sidney and I would go pick cotton with Daddy till sunset or so and come home to
feed horses, cows and hogs before our family ate supper together.
I
especially liked pleasant autumn time when those hot, humid Alabama
summers had given way to comfortable temperatures. I enjoyed working with the
fluffy white cotton and hurrying to finish picking it before the weather got
very cold. And, excited that Christmas time was drawing near, I looked forward
to fun Christmas events, especially the delicious food and getting a few
presents.
Mother
did her best to save a little of her scarce egg and butter money to buy each of
us kids one thing we wanted for Christmas. Likely it was when I was in the 1st
grade, that Daddy and Mother bought me the toy “steam shovel” for Christmas
that I wanted so badly. I was thrilled to get it and then enjoy playing with it
inside the house and out in the yard.
On
a Sunday afternoon (1 or 2 Sundays before Christmas Day) Daddy’s family met at
his parents’ house for Yerby family Christmas. After our church service ended
that morning, my family would drive to Papa and Mama Yerby’s near Belk, Alabama
for a most delicious Christmas lunch. Typically all 9 of Papa and Mama Yerby’s
children (now grown, married, and most with kids) came with their families. I
had much fun that afternoon playing with many first cousins. Sometimes, each
child who came got a Christmas present. This extended family Christmas gathering
was a great joy to me each year, a highlight that I looked forward to
all year.
The Mother’s
Day when I was in the 1st grade, was the last Mother’s Day that my
Mother was with us on this earth. I think it was this Mother’s Day that Daddy
bought a pair of stockings for Mother and had us 4 kids hand over that present
to her. Daddy kept that present a secret from Mother. Just as we 6 had all
gotten ready to leave the house for church on Mother’s Day morning; Mother was
busy in the living room or kitchen. Daddy quietly motioned us 4 kids into their
bedroom without Mother noticing it. He brought out the packet of a pair of
plain stockings (void of any gift wrapping), had each child hold one corner of
that packet that was about 10 inches square and walk out of their bedroom into
the living room in that 4 child formation to present to Mother her pair of
stockings from the five of us on Mother’s Day. She smiled and thanked us for
the present.
During
my several years in the Navy and Marines, I participated in many grand military
formations (both on the ground and high up in the skies) and witnessed many
more (some of them most precise, elite and dazzling). But not one of them means as much to me as this 4-child formation
presenting our young Mother a simple pair of plain stockings on her last Mother’s
Day on earth.
For
2 years or so, Clyde’s family lived in the next house on past ours headed away
from town, over 300 yards away, I guess. They had 3 or 4 children and were a
musical family. I recall their family walking to our house one evening
(bringing 2 guitars). We brought out “straight chairs” and all sat in the front
yard and sang Gospel songs as 2 of them picked and strummed guitars, the 1
light bulb on the front porch giving us a little light in the night.
We
were so richly blessed by not being “glued” to a TV, because we didn’t
have one. On warm and hot evenings, after supper we often sat on the front
porch or in the front yard listening to nature’s lovely music; the call of the Whippoorwill
bird, the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the song of a locust in
the yard’s tree, and the annoying drone of mosquitoes as we swatted them for
our evening’s activity.
Speaking
of Clyde’s family, one morning as my family sat at the breakfast table, Mother
looked out the kitchen window and saw Clyde’s son, Jack, walking on the road
toward our house. “Here comes Jack. I know he wants to borrow some coffee and
likely they won’t pay it back. So I’m not gonna let him have any.” With that,
she folded down the top of the small bag of coffee that was in sight and hid
that sack on a high shelf behind some other things.
When
Jack soon knocked on the door, he was invited in and came all way to the
kitchen. “Mother sent me to ask if we could borrow some coffee for breakfast.”
Mother
chose to be our spokesperson. “I’m sorry; Jack, but we don’t have any now.”
We 3
older children understood the situation and why Mother hid the bag of coffee,
but little Joe did not. At this point, Joe elected himself as a family
spokesperson also. Sitting in his improvised high chair, he pointed straight
toward the hidden treasure. “There’s some up there!”
“O
yeah, I forgot about that.” Mother “fessed” up with a white lie and loaned Jack
some of her small store of precious coffee. (I don’t recall if they later
repaid it.) Daddy didn’t drink coffee. Mother liked one cup a day with her
breakfast, but at times she had no coffee due to our poverty.
Rural
people didn’t go to town often. It was a custom to borrow from neighbors
(coffee, sugar, tea, flour and such) and to return to them the same measure
after the next trip to town. Some people were upstanding enough to never
borrow such commodities from neighbors. Some who borrowed when necessary always
repaid what they borrowed. Some people borrowed often and seldom or never
returned. Tho customs change, people remain the same thru out all generations,
do they not?
Likely
it was summer after 1st grade that Daddy made me start chopping and
hoeing cotton, with a hoe, chopping down the grass and weeds and thinning out
the small cotton plants in places where it had been planted too thickly. We
started this job when the cotton plants were quite small. I enjoyed picking the
white fluffy cotton, but detested hoeing the grass in mid-summer hot sun. I
also started helping hoe the grass in our vegetable garden.
The
boll weevil was the cotton farmers’ destructive enemy, its life mission being
that of puncturing a cotton boll as the boll grew and thereby ruining the
cotton that grew inside the boll (similar to a round pod). Each year, the
farmers had to poison their cotton several times as the bolls were forming in
an effort to kill the boll weevils. (The strong poison killed many other living
creatures also, nice lovely butterflies and such.)
Along
about this time, Daddy offered me a bounty of a penny for each boll weevil I
could present to him alive. (He would then crush it to death, of course.) That
generous financial incentive inspired me to diligently search for the weevils
in our fields. Likely it was late this summer after 1st grade,
shortly before I started 2nd grade, that I found 1 boll weevil in a cotton
field near the house. ‘A Penny!’
I
don’t know why I didn’t go into the house and ask Mother for something to put
my captive into. But I held it in one hand as I played outside. Doing so, I
dropped it once and had to search in the dirt a long time before I found that
little critter (my penny). When Daddy got home, my “pet” was still alive. I
happily turned it over to Daddy for a penny and he happily exterminated it. “One
more down” in a never ending battle.
“Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child.”
One
day while playing alone, I took corncobs from the barn, went to our 1935 Dodge
car setting in the front yard, unscrewed the cap to its gas tank and stuffed
several corncobs down into the gas tank. To this day, I have no idea why I did
that terrible deed, except for the Truth of the above Scripture. In a few days
the car’s engine ceased to run. I tearfully and fearfully “fessed” up. Daddy
disconnected the tank from the car and shook out all the cobs, rinsing the
inside of the tank with a little gas. He cleaned out the carburetor and the gas
line between it and the tank and then put everything back together. That
foolishness of mine cost busy Dad much valuable time.
(Another
foolish and dangerous stunt, some time apart.) One Sunday afternoon, we had
company. Adults were inside the living room talking and we several children
were playing on the front porch and in the yard. I walked up to the electric
meter mounted on the outside wall of the house, and took hold of the “ground”
wire extending from the bottom of the meter down the wall into the ground.
Grasping that wire with both hands, I began jabbing it upward further into the
guts of the meter than it was ordained to be. Dangerous! Soon
there was a slight electrical popping sound and some smoke boiled up inside the
glass meter.
Likely
it was a miracle that I didn’t get electrocuted at that point. That sound and
sight scared me. So I immediately got away from that meter and went somewhere
else to play, simply thinking (and hoping), ‘No harm done’. Unknown to
me, the electricity in the house went off at the time of those small fireworks
inside the meter. The adults inside the house thought nothing of it, as power
outages were common. But soon an adult smelled or saw smoke coming out of the
meter, causing great human commotion, causing me to start bawling in terrible
fright and to “fess” up to my foolish deed.
‘Is
our house going to catch fire and burn down?’ In my bawling fright, I pictured
the worse.
We
had no phone. One man guest in the house hurriedly drove to Vernon, told a “power
company” worker that we had a dangerous problem, and the worker rushed to our
house, climbed the power pole nearby, shut off the transformer on the pole to
cut power from it to the meter and readjusted the meter’s ground wire.
Neither
Daddy nor Mother whipped me for stuffing corncobs into the car’s gas tank or
dangerously tinkering with the electric meter. So, I feel duty bound to tell of
one of the several times my foolishness earned me a painful whipping.
Our
front yard was dirt instead of grass (as was common in those days). People
would make “yard brooms” by tying several small tree branches together, or by
tying broom sage together, and periodically sweep their yards with those
homemade brooms.
One
afternoon, Mother and Janiece were busily sweeping our front yard. At that
time, I had a foolish (and dangerous) habit of throwing rocks. Standing in the
gravel drive next to the road I began picking up pebbles and flinging them at
Janiece as she worked. One after another throw missed. Too bad neither Janiece
nor Mother noticed the small rocks flying past near Janiece. Had they noticed
what I was doing, Mother would have saved all 3 of us much pain by stopping me
before my aim improved enough to finally land a rock upside Janiece’s head.
My
dear sister commenced howling and crying in pain. Mother’s angry countenance
and strong words instantly revealed the Wrath of God unto me. Both of their
reactions brought me to the awareness (too late) that it is a foolish thing to
chunk rocks at Sis (or anyone). I began crying, over both Janiece’s pain and
the pain I knew would soon be inflicted upon my body. Mother hurriedly took
Janiece into the house to “doctor” her to alleviate her pain. Then she put
Janiece out of the house, took me into the house, locked the front door, and
applied the pain to me. My howling outdid Janiece’s previous howling.
“Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it
far from him.”
Wounded
but compassionate Janiece (bless her heart) stood on the front porch at the
locked door peering thru its glass pane at Mother’s administration of justice
as she cried and begged Mother to cease inflicting pain upon little ol’ me. I
voted with Janiece. But Mother isn’t running a democracy and counting underage
kids’ votes. Instead, she just stayed true to her God-given duty of Minister of
Justice and Minister of Pain and kept administering the pain and justice to me.
I can personally testify that the rod of correction drove my heart’s
foolishness far from me, because I am now a kind old man who never chunks rocks
at anyone. J
On a
different day, I hung a hoe up by its crook, stood nearby and began throwing
rocks at its handle. When my aim improved enough to score a hit, the impact
knocked the hoe down causing its blade to strike my forehead and cut it. Mother
“doctored” the cut and stopped the bleeding.
“Shall come down on his own pate.”
“For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”
In a
day or so, Daddy took me to Dr. Box’s country store where Dr. Box opened up his
black doctor’s box and gave me a tetanus shot right there in the store. Daddy
had told me that the shot would hurt, but not to cry. It did and I didn’t.
The souls in the store all marveled that this brave little boy didn’t cry.
Daddy
then bought me a small cup of black walnut ice cream (as a reward, I guess). It
was most delicious old fashioned ice cream, not with black walnut flavoring but
with chopped up black walnuts in it. I stood near the wood burning stove in the
middle of that country store eating that treat. But I considered those bits of
walnuts to be foreign and spit each one out at the stove. Nowadays, when I rarely
get a chance to bite into bits of delicious black walnuts (usually mixed into
some dessert) I am reminded of my child’s foolish heart spitting out and
wasting those most delicious, healthy nuts.
I am
surprised that Daddy didn’t reprimand me for wasting those delicious and nutritious
black walnuts. If only he had coaxed me into biting into them while
explaining that they are delicious with ice cream, likely I would have learned
to relish them on the spot. But, being true to his silent nature, he said nothing
regarding that waste of a wonderful food.
“But when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
My
dear Reader Friend, isn’t it such a great blessing that one does not
remain a child forever? Rather, one matures into an adult and puts away that much
foolishness bound up in a child’s heart, along with the much pain that
foolishness brings upon everyone’s pate. You parents well know from your own
(plus your children’s) childhood dangerous foolishness that it is nothing less
than God’s Miraculous Loving Protecting Care that brings any soul alive and
safe into adulthood. Let’s be most prone to give God much thanks for that
Loving Protecting Care while daily calling upon Almighty God for it.
(Next
adventure) I watched in awe as man’s progress turned the dirt and gravel road
in front of our house into a paved highway. As I stood outside watching those
workers, one day one of the men told me they were going to move our hog pen
fence back a short distance to make room for the wider highway. (This hog pen
was adjacent to our yard.) I ran into the house and warned Mother. ‘You are
going to hear those hogs and pigs squealing because the men are going to move
our fence back.’ Mother smiled. My unlearned mind pictured the men grabbing
each swine by one hind leg and dragging it backward the distance they moved the
fence. So it was a learning experience to see that they didn’t have to touch a
hog, just “shoo” them back as they took up the fence and re-set it inward.
One
day as Sidney and I watched the construction work, we witnessed with our own
bulging eyes a dump truck turn over onto its side as it went at an angle down
the opposite road bank from our house. The driver was unhurt and speedily came
climbing out the open window that now faced upward. That accident scared me
badly. I soon ran into the house and hid in the corner behind the kitchen
stove, choosing that as the safest place to distance myself from the dangerous
accident site.
Workers
attached chains to the truck lying on its side, attached the other ends of
those chains to one or more trucks to pull that truck upright. Their shouted
instructions and noise of several engines revving up was scarier to me than the
truck turning over. I huddled tightly in my corner, frightened over the
prospect of them causing a greater accident by trying to upright that truck.
Thankfully they uprighted it safely and went about their work. Then Sidney went
about his work of laughing at me and ribbing me for being so afraid. (Quite too
long did Sid faithfully go about that self-ordained work of his.)
Finally
the day came when they sprayed the first coat of hot black tar onto the section
of the packed roadway that ran thru our farm (likely one lane at a time). But
for a short time no one was allowed to cross that wet sticky tar on foot or in
a vehicle.
Daddy
was working with the horses in a field across the road from our house and barn.
“How will Daddy get home?” we pondered. Going toward Vernon from our house,
there is a ditch at the edge of our farm and the ditch crossed under the road.
The workers had replaced the old wooden bridge with a concrete culvert. Daddy
led the horses into that ditch right at the road and waded thru that shallow
water thru the culvert under the road to the other side of the road and led the
horses on home. I marveled at his great wisdom and pondered in my mind if I
would ever attain such.
The
finished highway was not smooth asphalt, but rather rough slag spread onto the
sticky tar. I went barefoot much of the time when the weather was warm enough.
The rough slag tortured the soles of my feet. It was much more blessed to walk
barefoot in God’s nature (on dirt) than in the devil’s world of much hardtop.
Likely
they blacktopped that road in the summer of 1953, just before I started 2nd
grade. Loud powerful motors and any machinery easily scared little me at that
age. In the high skies over our humble pore farm, planes from Columbus
Air Force Base practiced acrobatics, stalls and spins. I would watch the pilot
stall the plane, sending it into a downward spin (from which he would practice
spin recovery). That maneuver frightened me terribly; making me think the plane
would fall all way to the ground and likely right on top of my pate. When I saw
a plane go into a downward spin, often I would run into the house for the extra
protection the house afforded. At times, I stood still, gazing upward in
fright.
“Poor
little scared ragged farm boy, about 17 years from now you too will start
piloting military jets up into those high skies and practice that very same stall
and spin recovery.” Had an angel of God appeared beside me and had spoken those
words unto little me, would I have had faith to believe that angel?? I doubt
it.
Along
about now (Summer 1953) my parents buy an old, used refrigerator and replace
our icebox. The fridge was plenty old and its motor was loud. I mean loud.
That noise was an awful intrusion into our quiet house. Visitors would ask what
was so noisy. They were shocked when we told them it was the fridge. Also, our
faithful old 1935 Dodge car completely died on us. Daddy searched for the
cheapest used car he could find and bought a 1937 car (Chevrolet, I think). It
was fairly well worn out when Daddy bought it (thus cheap). It gave us plenty
of trouble the 2 or 3 years Daddy tinkered with it much, endeavoring to keep it
running.
My
Dad was a “Jack of all trades”. I greatly admired that trait in him, which was
common of farmers at that time. In their poverty (if it lay within their
ability to do so) Daddy and Mother built or made any item we used in the house
or on the farm. If at all possible, they repaired any item in need of repair.
A
tinker’s amateur repair kit was available in the stores. My parents bought and
used the kit to plug holes in our metal pots and pans. The kit included a stick
of solder for “welding” holes shut. When heat was applied to the end of that
stick to melt a portion to daub onto the hole, the fumes it gave off (from the
lead or mercury or some such poison in it) smelled most deadly. Then we daubed
that goo onto the inside of a pot or pan (let it dry) and then cooked our food
in that vessel (applying heat by doing so). Truly it is only by the grace of
God that none of us received grave bodily harm from those metal poisons.
Likely
it was summer of 1953 when Pastor Cobb replaced Pastor Warren at our church. I
think elderly Pastor Warren announced to the church that he wanted to resign
and the church called Pastor Cobb to replace him.
Pastor
Warren’s preaching was Biblically sound, but bland with slow monotone delivery
of speech. Also, we only had half-time preaching under Pastor Warren (every
other Sunday). Half-time preaching was common then for 2 reasons. 1. One
preacher would pastor 2 area churches half-time. (Or) 2. The congregation
deemed half-time preaching to be enough preaching. (Half-time preaching
churches usually had Sunday School every Sunday.)
Anyway,
with the arrival of Pastor Cobb, our church went to full time preaching, every Sunday.
Pastor and Mrs. Cobb were young. Both were vivacious, talkative and cheerful; sparking
new life into the church. I liked being around them.
This
summer of 1953, I was made to do more farm work than last year (out in the hot
summer sun, hoeing and such), causing me to rejoice more when school started at
the beginning of September 1953. There were 2 classes of 2nd
graders. Fortunately I was assigned to Mrs. Duke’s class, she being the kinder
and gentler of the two lady 2nd grade teachers. Just as in the 1st
grade, I again have the nicer teacher. During play period, I climbed to the top
of the jungle gym from where I could see our dead Dodge car in the junkyard
across Hwy 18 from the school. I immensely enjoyed everything about school, it
being much more fun than being a farm slave at home.
Up
until about the time I entered school, I usually had only 1 pair of shoes at a
time. Now I usually have 2 pairs at a time, work shoes for the farm work and a
nicer pair for church and school.
During
this autumn after I entered the 2nd grade, a girl in my class was
scalded at home by hot water her mother accidently spilt on her. She missed
just a few days of school, recuperating at home. One day, all us 25 (or so)
kids in Mrs. Duke’s class walked behind our teacher in single file along the
streets to that classmate’s house on the side of Water Tank Hill to pay her a
visit. Somehow we all crowded into two rooms in her house to wish her well as
she lay in bed.
That
visit was a milestone in my old-fashion lifestyle because I saw a TV for the 1st
time in my life. That classmate’s
family had a TV. At this time, one by one the city families are getting TVs
into their homes. Practically all of us country kids are still without one. Her
TV set was turned off at the time, but still we kids stood gawking at it in
amazement. “There’s a TV!” was our amazed attitude.
“Would
you like to watch it?” the classmate’s mom asked the whole group.
“Yes!”
was our unanimous response. Likely a majority of us kids in this 2nd
grade class had not yet watched a TV (in action). The mother
turned on the TV and we stood gazing in awe at the crude, grainy, black and
white (but living) image of bald headed President Ike making a speech. Walking
in single file behind Teacher back to school, I was awed that I had watched TV
for the first time.
“Country
bumpkin little farmer boy, about 4 years from this time, you will appear on TV
yourself and cite a poem for all the viewers to hear. Many viewers will like
your speech better than President Ike’s speech this day. Do you believe me?”
‘That’s
most hard to believe, but you sound most sincere.’
In
the 2nd grade, our class took at least 2 “field trips” into town,
walking single file behind Teacher each time.
We
walked to the house of the local telephone operator who lived alongside Town
Branch (a small stream). A large switchboard had been installed in her living
room. A person made a phone call from their house or workplace by ringing the
operator. The operator picked up and asked for the number they wanted to call. “836.”
The operator would ring 836 and if the person answered, the operator plugged in
the 2 wires into the 2 appropriate receptacles to connect caller to the one
called, to enable them to talk to each other. When the call ended, the operator
would pull out wires, ending the connection. About suppertime each day, people
ceased making phone calls. If some emergency necessitated a call during
sleeping hours, the ringing would awaken the operator and she would get out of
bed to make the connection. Young guy or girl reading this, can you imagine
such a life??
On
a different day, we walked to the fire station in Vernon to view the 1 fire
truck, listen to its siren and to ask questions. Days before, each student
wrote his or her 1 question in class and rehearsed it before Mrs. Duke.
‘Do
you have an upstairs?’ The one fireman hosting us appeared somewhat puzzled by
my question but answered that they did not have an upstairs. Mrs. Duke politely
explained to him that I had seen pictures (in books) of firemen sliding down
the pole from their upstairs quarters as they rushed to climb aboard the truck
to answer a fire alarm. I hope that convinced the fireman that I wasn’t as dumb
as I looked and sounded.
We
didn’t take a field trip to the police station but Mr. Policeman came to our
classroom to talk to us and answer our questions. Mrs. Duke had us students
arrange our little wooden chairs in curved rows making a half-circle and put
her somewhat larger wooden chair in the center facing us for the policeman to
sit in. Fat Mr. Policeman stood hesitantly looking at that middle size chair,
doubting that it could endure his weight. Mrs. Duke then brought her metal
folding chair from behind her desk for him to use. It held up to the task of
seating the Heavy Law. Likely it’s a good thing that I don’t remember the
question I asked Mister Policeman.
As
in the 1st grade, this 2nd year also, I looked forward to
the fun of our class’s Christmas party. We drew names. I bought a present for
the classmate whose name I got, took it to school with me and put it under the
Christmas tree in our room. But I contracted the mumps a day or 2 before our
party. As much as I wanted to go on party day, I was not physically able.
Mother kept me home. Mrs. Duke sent the present given to me, home to me by
Sidney. But I missed the delicious food and fun. Very few annual bright spots
availed for me. I was most saddened to miss this one. (I did make it to Papa
and Mama Yerby’s family Christmas and the Christmas events at church.)
Upon
drawing names for exchanging Christmas presents, each year our teacher told us
the maximum amount of money we should spend on the present we bought. Rich kids
typically bought presents near the maximum amount. We poor kids bought presents
much further down the money scale. Each child hoped that a rich kid would draw
his or her name. But it just can’t be, for everyone.
This year, I drew Benny’s
name. I bought a very cheap toy jointed green snake for him, put it into an
empty matchbox at the house and gift wrapped with some cheap wrapping
available. A dime box of matches at that time was a larger box than you can
likely imagine. That year, unfortunate Benny may have gotten the most
undesirable gift of all our class.
TV
began invading rural homes one by one. Mother and Mrs. Stacy (a
neighbor) were quite good friends. Mother (with us kids in tow) would
occasionally walk to Mrs. Stacy’s house in the afternoon to visit with her
(about a 12 minute walk toward Vernon). In late autumn or early winter of 1953,
the Stacys got a TV. From then on, the TV was usually playing during our visit,
causing each soul in the room to keep his or her eyes glued to it in awe, no
matter what was showing.
But
as we walked backed home from the Stacy’s house, Mother preached to us kids
about how awful and bad were the scenes we had just watched on TV. But we would
soon go visit Mrs. Stacy again (sort of a Saturday afternoon ritual). On each
visit, Mother’s eyes stayed glued to the TV just as everyone else’s eyes did.
But walking home again and again, her sermons against TV stayed just as strong.
Thinking
back on that, I see the great captivating evil power that
moving pictures have over a person. The Holy Ghost firmly convinced
Mother that it wasn’t pleasing to God for us to watch TV. That Holy conviction tore
at her heart, causing her to strongly warn her children against the
evils of TV. But still, the powerful allurement of
those moving pictures drew her back to it each week.
Upon
the Stacys getting a TV, our Saturday afternoon visits to their house continued
only a few more weeks before Mother unexpectedly departed this life in
mid-March 1954. In January of that year, I turned 8 years old and felt like I
was getting
big!
The
warmth of spring arrives early in Alabama, causing many plants to burst forth
in lovely bloom and blossom. With the arrival of March, our family welcomed the
warmth and pretty yellow buttercup flowers that appeared out of the ground in
our yard. The new life of spring speaks of resurrection,
of resurrection power, of life out of
death, of new hope, of a new
beginning.
Mother
loved flowers, especially roses. She had several rose bushes in our yard and
nearby the house on our place. She had other flowers also. It brought her much
pleasure working with those beautiful, God-created flowers. Possibly that was
the brightest spot in her life of toil, drudgery, poverty and unfulfilled
hopes of Daddy and her doing better financially (for their sakes, but
especially for the sakes of their 4 children). All such “misfortune” brought
much sorrow to my dear Mother’s heart and many tears from her eyes.
Our
poor family did not possess a camera for taking photos. But a summer or two
ago, someone (likely Mrs. Parson) had taken a black and white photo of Mother
standing by one of her rose bushes showing many lovely roses in the picture.
Mrs. Parson gave that picture to Mother. Mother liked that picture much. After
Mother’s death, Daddy had it enlarged and made into Mother’s “portrait”.