Chapter 9

GIVE ME NEITHER POVERTY NOR RICHES

(My 3 years of high school, grades 10 thru 12, graduating at the end of May 1964)

When school starts back the 1^st week of September, I’m most eager to get back to school. Many other students hate to see their summer playtime come to an end. But for me, summer is mostly hard farm labour in the hot sun. Returning to the classrooms with no fans (much less air conditioning), sweat from our hands and arms often soak the papers onto which we write. We long for the cool of October.

In September 1961, I start the 10^th grade. Senior High School. The Greek word “sophomore” sure sounds prestigious to this red neck farm boy. I am now in senior high school, steadily rising. I apply myself diligently to my studies, greatly enjoying the Physical Education hour, outside, playing football or softball or just horsing around with other boys.

When the last school bell sounds at 2:45 PM, we 3 Yerby boys soon get on the school bus that takes us home and quickly change into our farm work clothes to spend the last half of weekday afternoons (and all day on Saturdays) hand picking cotton. I diligently watch to see which farmers around us first start picking cotton, ask if they’ll hire me, and then beg Daddy to let me pick for them (for pay) as many days as he can permit. What a delight (and financial help) to earn that money.

Most farmers set a goal of finishing harvesting their cotton and then their corn by Thanksgiving. We were always far behind that goal, often trying to get all our cotton picked by Christmas and the corn harvest finished in January. That is way too tardy for each of those crops. Thus, undue exposure to rain and such reduced the quality of each crop, reducing their value.

At this age, I greatly enjoy the time from late September (when stifling summer heat abates) till the 1^st week in January when we go back to school after Christmas vacation. Mild autumn days followed by Thanksgiving Day and Christmas season bring such joy, nice large meals, Christmas presents, and days out of school. The few days Daddy doesn’t make us work, I often hunt.

In January 1962, I turn 16 years old, reaching a plateau that makes me think I’m definitely nearing adulthood. Several classmates get their drivers’ license immediately upon reaching this required age of 16. I’m not one of them. Several of them start driving to school themselves. The students’ parking lot is quite large. So the guys in my class are filled with talk of cars. I simply listen to them as I continue to walk to town and back and to other places up and down the road from our house. I study hard and made good grades, thank God.

I think it’s during the 10^th grade that I was chosen for the Key Club at school, a club for senior high male students with vague goals of doing good deeds for the community.

Spring finds me, brothers and Daddy breaking and disking the fields with the tractor (into the night on several nights) and doing much other field work, hurrying to get the crops into the ground (planted) on time. We never had to plow at night back when we plowed with horses and had no tractor. But with lights on the tractor, we can see well enough to do the breaking and disking at night. Other farmers also did this plowing at night when necessary.

One spring afternoon when I arrived home from school, Daddy told me to drive the tractor down to the Thomas place and break a certain field. “You should be able to finish it by about 8 o’clock (PM). So stay with it till you finish it.”

Darkness fell long before I finished plowing that field about 8 PM, raised the plow and pulled the tractor out onto the highway to drive a third of a mile back to the house. Long before, the bulb had burned out in the one and only rear light on our tractor. There was no large reflector on the rear. So, my backside was dark. The two front lights were lighting the road in front of me.

A man driving alone in his car approached me from behind at about 70 miles an hour. He didn’t see the tractor until his headlights lighted the rear of the tractor that was traveling only about 20 miles an hour. He instantly stomped on his brakes while jerking his steering wheel to the left.

I’m greatly surprised to hear the squealing of tires as he locks his brakes and his car starts to slide sideways as he whips the steering wheel to the left. His car just barely misses the plow on back and the rear of the tractor as it slides sideways and to the left. In a flash, the front end of his car is leaving the left side of the road. He instantly whips the steering wheel back to the right, causing the car to almost completely reverse direction, putting it into a sideways slide with its rear on the left shoulder of the highway and the front end of the car now facing the right side of the road. He passes close by to the left of me in that strange fashion. His high speed catapults the car back across the road right in front of my tractor onto the right shoulder. Driver now whips the steering wheel to the left again. On the graveled sloping right shoulder the car again instantly slides around 180 degrees to the left, facing sideways to the road and sliding sideways forward on the right shoulder of the road (directly in front of my eyes that are now each about the size of the moon).

The car’s speed is abating, so it does not again catapult across the road, but slides sideways directly ahead just a few more seconds before finally slowing to a stop. The car stops sideways on the right shoulder, facing the left shoulder, with a cloud of dust in the air and the smell of burning rubber. All throughout that “impossible, miraculous” maneuver, his tires squealed loudly and slung much dirt and gravel into the air each time they were on the graveled shoulder.

I had a close up 3-dimension view (free of charge) of that amazing driving stunt, at my rear, left side and front. (People pay money to view such from the distant stands at a car show.) You would not have wanted to be there to see it, because likely your heart would have failed. Upon the car finally stopping, the driver slowly pulled it up onto the road from the sloping shoulder, turning it to the right and stopping it facing forward. Then he got out and came to address the little driver of the tractor.

The little driver had no desire to be addressed.

That man was trembling and had trouble speaking coherently. “Why don’t you have the tail light turned on?!!”

‘The bulb is burnt out. I’m sorry.’

“We almost got killed!!”

‘I’m sorry. I’ll tell Daddy that he must replace that bulb.’

With a few more choice words the driver got into his car and drove on home. He let me off most lightly. God was most gracious to protect us both from getting killed. Had that driver been just a little lax in diligently watching the dark road ahead, he would not have seen me in time to avoid hitting me squarely from behind. That could have killed both him and me. I marvel at his quick and accurate reflexes all the way thru that stunt. However, when the car was twice sliding sideways at a quite high speed, it could have easily rolled over and over several times sideways.

Also, had there been an oncoming vehicle approaching us right in front of my tractor at that time, this driver coming from behind would have hit it head on, whipping into the left lane as he did. He might have opted to not turn his car, just stomp on his brakes and plow into the rear of my tractor. If he had done so, it could have easily killed me (and possibly him) (no seat belts or air bags in those days). A third option would have been for him to stomp on his brakes while instantly whipping his car to the right and immediately shoot off the road and the shoulder into the bushes on the right side of the road. He could have been killed if he had done that. Almighty Lord Jehovah God was most gracious to spare that man and me that night. And the trouble was entirely my fault, or Dad’s fault.

I drove on home, told Daddy what had happened and urged him to buy a new bulb and put into that rear light. I think the old bulb had burnt out over a year ago. It cost money to buy another bulb. So in his poverty, Daddy just took the chance. It almost cost my life, and possibly that other driver’s life. If that man’s car had slammed into the rear of our tractor at the high speed he was going, the accident would have brought much grief and expense to each of our families.

GIVE ME NEITHER POVERTY NOR RICHES

Please listen to a related hazardous matter. After getting the tractor, we hauled hay and corn from the fields on the trailer pulled by the tractor. We would drive the tractor into the barn’s hallway to unload those crops (and at times we drove the tractor into the barn hallway to park it out of the rain).

The muffler on that Farmall Super C stood straight up from the engine cowling 5 or 6 feet forward of the driver’s face. The very top part of the muffler was a muffler pipe 10 or more inches high. Its height was designed to reach well above the driver’s head to send the exhaust gas above his head. Our poorly built barn was steadily lowering itself as vertical wood framing rotted and as the barn steadily leaned sideways. Soon the top of that muffler pipe started scrapping the overhead of the hallway when we drove the tractor into it. To make a long story short, that continual scrapping bent the pipe, broke it, and Daddy finished twisting the pipe off the muffler and threw it away.

That pipe’s length was well designed to carry the exhaust smoke and fumes up above the driver’s head. With that pipe now gone, the exhaust comes out at face level with the driver. The tractor’s forward speed pushes that breathable poison directly back into the driver’s face. So many times, that poison made me sick as I drove the tractor. Why did not Daddy buy a new muffler and install it? Because it costs money, and we were poor. It cost no money to continue breathing that poison.

GIVE ME NEITHER POVERTY NOR RICHES

Throughout our sin sick world (especially in the poorest nations), poverty results in all kinds of powerful machinery being operated in unsafe conditions resulting in deaths and terrible injuries to many precious souls. It is most profitable for you to pray the above prayer (in red) for yourself, for your family, and for all the precious souls in the world. Extreme poverty is most miserable, most dangerous, and plenty deadly.

At the end of the previous chapter in this book, I stated that a foremost goal of my teen years was to achieve a comfortable living. This “safety” factor was a major factor in that word “comfortable”. I beg God to save me from seeking riches for myself. And when my Gracious Lord blesses me with resources above comfortable and “safe” food, raiment, and shelter (and machines and such items I choose to use), I want to give as much of my resources as I possibly can to needy souls who are still in that unsafe, deadly dangerous lifestyle of poverty.

At the end of May, school lets out for the summer for us farm boys to return to the hard labor of chopping cotton, bailing hay and such, all day six days a week, also fishing and swimming and such whenever we get the chance.

When school starts back in September 1962, I am a junior, 11^th grader. I rejoice to keep getting very good grades as I steadily move up the education ladder. The chains that bind me to slave farm labor are loosening. At school, I study hard, play hard, and enjoy it immensely. At home, I do farm work vigorously and likewise play vigorously (thankful for my increasing strength). I follow the routine of the seasons that I have previously explained to you, enjoying Thanksgiving and Christmas immensely. In January 1963, I turn 17 years old.

I mentioned getting chosen by the Key Club in the 10^th grade. A prominent town citizen sponsored the Key Club and meet with us once a month at school for 30 minutes at activity period. Though the club’s purpose was to do good things for the community, we didn’t do much my 10^th grade year because our sponsor wasn’t enthusiastic about Key Club at all.

But the following year (my 11^th grade), the Key Club got a new sponsor (a new pastor that had recently come to one of the churches in Vernon, not my church). He enthusiastically set about making the club active. He started us selling boxes of a dozen donuts on Friday afternoons after school. I don’t recall for what noble causes we used the proceeds from those sales.

Likely it was in January 1963 at our monthly Key Club meeting when that pastor told us boys, “I have arranged a trip for any and all Key Club members who want to go watch a University of Alabama basketball game on a Saturday night”. There were only about 8 Key Club members. Three elected to go on the trip, Kyle, Jimmy, and me.

Daddy gave me permission. It was 60 miles away in Tuscaloosa. The school principal drove us in the school’s car, a 1955 Chevy. Another man (a prominent town citizen) went along. Those two men sat in front and we 3 boys sat in the back seat of the car on the trip. The 2 men turned us 3 boys loose in Tuscaloosa. I tagged along with Kyle and Jimmy (both of them 1 year ahead of me in school) as they looked up Ronnie and Sammy (boys from Vernon) on the university campus and found them in their dorms. We talked with them a while, walked into town and ate supper in a restaurant, and then went and watched the night Bama basketball game.

Next came the hour (plus) ride back to Vernon. Traveling both ways on this trip, our high school principal had plenty of dirty stories to tell us 3 boys. And the prominent Vernon citizen (sitting in front next to him) laughed heartily at each smutty story. Both of those men were “good” church members. So much for their religion and for them giving us a proper education. In 1963, most adults in that area kept their wicked heart secret in the presence young people so as to not pollute the young’uns. I am now reaching the age when such hypocritical adults cease being decent in my presence. Truly it is an eye-opener. I didn’t know they had it in them.

That spring of 1963, in April or May our 11^th grade class went on a 1-day bus trip to Tennessee State Parks in the area of Shiloh, Tennessee. Those state parks commemorated several Civil War battles fought there. As best I recall, the school highly encouraged us all to go, but did not require it. I didn’t want to go much. But sister Janiece pushed me to go. So did boys in my class. So I went, and not very unwillingly.

About 6 AM on that school day, we left from the school parking lot on Bus Number 1 with Free Will Baptist Pastor Roy Barnes driving us. His son, Leon, was a classmate of mine. Two teachers (Mrs. Hayes and Coach Harrison) accompanied us to try to keep us wild kids civil.

Because we left much earlier than our school buses ran their regular morning routes to school, our parents drove us to the school. Daddy drove me in our 1940 Nash. In my vain sinful pride of youth, I was ashamed of that old car. I so hoped Daddy would just let me out in the school parking lot and immediately go on his way. After all, he was a busy farmer. But he stayed around as most other parents did, until we all assembled, loaded, and left on the one bus packed full of juniors.

We all enjoyed the trip. I enjoyed it immensely! We saw much lovely scenery going and returning, taking a separate route each way. The blood, carnage and destruction had long since vanished from those Civil War battlefields. Now they were lovely fields, meadows and forests dotted with signs explaining what occurred there late in the Civil War. Monuments stood erected to the “heroes” who gave their lives for their nation simply because that nation had a most deadly dispute with its own self. We ate lunch in a restaurant there for tourists.

Our two accompanying teachers had the loathsome task of taking money to various souvenir shops there to pay for items stolen by our school’s 10^th grade class that had come there on a 1-day trip 2 weeks or so before. (So, our trip was likely in early or mid-May and that trip was likely in late April.)

After those 10^th grader thieves returned to Vernon, God smote one of the boys with conviction. He confessed his crime of stealing to teachers and he also squealed on the other dozen or so thieves in the class, resulting in them “fessing” up and paying up also. One or two classmates (that he named) adamantly proclaimed their innocence (likely in truth) and thus got boiling mad at the squealer.

Thankfully we avoid a deadly uncivil war in Lamar County High School over that dispute. Had we not been able to do so, likely the powers to be would have made our battleground (LCHS) into a state park for school bus loads of students from all over Alabama to come visit, to shoplift from the souvenir shops, thus keeping that sinful cycle in motion.

School teachers were thorough in determining how much was owed to each shop there in the parks, took that money and gave it to the shops along with “sincere” apologies. But some alert shop owners told Mrs. Hayes and Coach Harrison that more was stolen than the amount we now brought as payment. Such makes up the fun school trips.

Heading back toward Vernon, we visit one of the dams on the Tennessee River. To date, I had not seen a body of water that large. So the river and the large dam and electric power plant were most impressive to this country boy. As we travel on, an alert Tennessee State trooper saw that one turn signal on the bus did not function. He stopped us, was most strict in his manner, ticketed Pastor Roy and made him pay the fine on the spot. He was not carrying sufficient cash to pay it. So Mrs. Hayes and Coach Harrison each pulled some money out of their personal wallet to pay the fine in full. (After returning home, the school reimbursed them all, of course.)

The trooper’s curt, strict manner sort of left a bad taste in our mouths. As we continued homeward bound, Pastor Roy and the 2 teachers discussed the incident. Pastor Roy was a tall, lanky farmer (and preacher). Tho the school bus’ small window to the left of his driver’s seat was somewhat distant from the seat, he slid it open sideways, thrust his long lanky arm as far thru as it would reach and said, “Why, I can even give a turn signal by hand.” (In those ancient days, it was legal to give hand turn signals, the driver sticking his arm out the window.)

Pastor Roy sang in a men’s Gospel quartet and Mrs. Hayes liked to sing Gospel songs also. So as darkness fell on our traveling bus, he was leading us in singing Gospel songs one after another. Most of us joined him. Likely such glorious activity long ago became extinct on “government school” buses.

It was about 9 PM when the Lord brought us safely back to our school where our parents were waiting in their cars to take us home.

At the end of May 1963, the school year ends, summer vacation starts, and I rejoice to complete the 11^th grade with mostly A’s on my report card!

I had a certain man teacher who was most poor at teaching and he was plenty vain. I took his course’s final exam on the last day of school. The test consisted of 30 or so questions. After the last question, he had written the next number in sequence, but did not write a question for it. Upon passing out the test to us, he explained that.

“For number (31), write anything. But do not write the word ‘anything’.” I knew that in his vanity, he wanted us to write things that praised him. If I had yielded to my mean streak, I would have written the word “Nothing”. Instead I yielded to my own vain streak and wrote: “At 2:45 PM today, I will become a senior at Lamar County High School.” As each of us finished the exam and handed in our papers, “teacher” was ever so quick to open each and look at Number (31). I could clearly discern from his face that what I wrote fed his ego naught.

Our high school principal left at the end of this school year (May 1963) to go be principal at a distant school. Good riddance, dirty storyteller. I lost all my respect for you.

Each 11 times that the school year ended during my upbringing, it was a joy to be free of school again, even tho it meant 6 long days a week of slave farm labor for me most all summer. (But most any break and change of pace can be a welcome relief.) Also, there were times to swim and fish in creeks and ponds. At age 17, I was more or less doing the work of an adult man. It felt good to be growing up.

My older brother, Sidney graduated from school this year and found employment in Columbus, Mississippi. He commuted there from Daddy’s house for a while, and then moved out.

Soon Janiece and her boyfriend (Jerry) part ways and later each of them marries someone else. From my 7^th grade thru my 11^th grade, Jerry was a big “Plus” factor in my life at this important time when I was growing thru my teen years and was maturing into an adult (with a head full of lofty goals). Jerry was now a young adult, an adult who talked much to me. With many encouraging words, he would converse enthusiastically about my own life, my future goals after high school. Jerry’s talking much with me greatly helped fill the void of Daddy being so silent toward me. I am most thankful to him and to God for his presence in my life and his friendship at that time.

“The Progressive Farmer” (a monthly magazine) was the only magazine to which Daddy subscribed. Because there was scant reading material in our “pore” house, from the time I was very small (6 or 7 years old) I would look at every page in this farmers’ magazine. (Even if I couldn’t read much, I could look at the pictures.) And as I grew older, I read more and more of its wholesome content. About this time, “The Progressive Farmer” held an essay-writing contest for teenagers. I forget what the subject matter was.

“Farmer boy Richard, I commend you for your progressive action in writing and submitting an essay. Congratulations on winning first place! What was your prize?”

‘I don’t recall. I may have gotten a cash prize of $10 or so, or possibly only received the fame of having my essay printed in that magazine, along with my name and address. I just don’t remember for sure.’

“Maybe you should write an essay on memory improvement, Richard boy.”

‘It would be a loser!’

Summer of 1963 (between my junior and senior year of high school) is my last summer to toil on the farm along with enjoying fishing and swimming every chance I get.

From the lower (south) end of our farm fields, we boys would walk the 500 yards or so into the woods of swampy Yellow Creek bottom to fish in the nearest slough just inside the woods. Yellow Creek and Mud Creek are the names of two of the main creeks in Lamar County. They got these unattractive names because they were unattractive swampy low-lying, slow-flowing creeks with enough mud in their water to make them yellow and brown in color.

When we boys walked into those woods on the path thru the fields of the Livingston farm, we were met with a “swampy” smell and a cloud of mosquitoes intent on sucking out the last drop of our blood. To add to that excitement, our eyeballs naturally went on high alert for the many poisonous snakes lurking there, waiting to sink their deadly fangs into my flesh that I preferred to keep alive.

One summer day (back when I was about 14), I was standing knee-deep in the waters of a muddy slough (barefooted and bare legs), fishing with my cane pole. Keeping a sharp eye on that shallow water around me, from straight in front of me I see a large cottonmouth moccasin, a highly poisonous snake, swimming underwater straight toward the calves of my legs. No doubt he was most intent on sinking those fangs into one of my legs and pumping all his poison into me. That frightening prospect caused my body to instantly jump up and run on water and air to the safety of the bank and then go choose a far distant place to fish from the bank.

We usually took a rifle or pistol with us when we went fishing, to shoot snakes. On a different day, William and I were fishing at a different place on Yellow Creek. As I walked slowly thru the grass on the bank, I heard the frightening slithering sound of a large snake close in front of me. ‘Snake!’ I conveyed that to William in an unusually high-pitched voice as my body automatically jumped unusually high into the air. William pulled the .22 caliber automatic pistol from the holster strapped to his waist as he hurried my way, quickly sighted in on the nearby serpent and rapidly fired 7 times or so. Most of those bullets hit that loathsome-looking, big, black moccasin, insuring that he would never again cause a little fisher boy to jump out of his skin. God ordained that snakes shed their skin, but not for fisher boys to shed their skins in fast, frightful flight.

On a different day, four of us boys saw snake after snake as we were fishing on the slough directly “down below” our farm. But unfortunately, we hadn’t brought a firearm with us. Sighting many snakes distracted us from fishing. So we soon went back to our houses, each put away his fishing pole and each took up his firearm. We met together again, and marched back into that stinking, mosquito-infested swamp as an army, and we diligently put to death each snake that we could bring into the sights of our pistols and rifles. It was fun adventure, big time reptile hunters!

On a summer Saturday, Policeman Denman Langley stopped in his police car as he saw me walking the road to town, and “gave me a ride”. (There were no strict rules against that in those ancient days.) “I want to swing down to the creek bridge and check it out. Sometimes bootleggers drive down under that bridge to sell and trade their liquor out of sight. We have caught some there before.” As Policeman Langley said that to me, I marveled that apparently there were no strict rules against this little boy possibly getting caught up in a shootout between this policeman and the bootleggers. I considered such to be far too adventurous for me.

A graveled “drive” led from the highway down to the creek and the underside of the bridge. Mr. Policeman drove down it. No liquor traders were there. But Pervey Moore and a few men relatives of his were sloshing around in a muddy bar pit there, muddying up the water even more to cause the fish to come to the surface for a gulp of fresh air, whereupon those men would scoop the fish out of the water. (It was legal to “fish” that way.)

“Pervey, are you catching any?” Mr. Policeman chatted with him.

“A few. But there’s a large moccasin in this bar pit and he seems mad at us!” (I could well understand why.)

About that time, another man yells out. “There it is!” Looking that way, I saw that snake’s ugly head sticking out of the muddy water as he swam around madly. Mr. Crack Shot Policeman quickly pulled the police 12-gauge shotgun out of the police car and blew the snake’s head off the next time mad Viper stuck his head out of the water. Those men pulled the headless long, fat body of the large cottonmouth moccasin out of that muddy water for us all to view in awe.

“Pervey, if that big one had bitten you, you might not have made it home to your wife!” Mr. Policeman chatted such to them briefly and then I got back into the car with him, most relieved to get away from the snakes and go on to town for my haircut in Jimmy’s fancy barber chair.

(I have volumes of snake stories from my boyhood days on the farm, in the forests, and in the swamps. My Lord was most gracious to protect me from ever getting bitten by a poisonous snake. Thank Thee, Precious Lord Jesus, for taking such good care of me, ever watching over me in loving, protecting care.

Let’s get away from the loathsome, dangerous snakes and get back to Vernon High School for my last year there. When I again enter that school building the 1^st week in September 1963, my classmates and I are seniors. Finally, we are the top dogs of all the dogs gathered around that rural tree of knowledge of good and evil. It felt good to finally be a senior and sense myself “coming of age”.

I chose not to take any class that certain vain teacher taught, as that would be an elective course for me this year. So I elected to stay away from him. This final year, all my teachers were good at teaching and each class was plenty enjoyable as I diligently strove for good grades.

Mr. Colburn came in as our new principal. He earned my respect. I am glad he would soon shake my hand and hand me my high school diploma. Truly, my last year of high school was icing on the cake.

Hot September gave way to mild October. I enjoyed autumn days at school and picking much cotton at home.

We never did farm work on Sundays except for the essentials: milking cows, gathering eggs, and feeding all the animals. Back when I was 10 years old or so, one Sunday afternoon I was playing around in our woodshed. I picked up a hammer and started pounding on a wooden bench with it (just playing). Upon hearing the pounding, Daddy quickly came from the house and sternly rebuked me. “Don’t do that on Sunday!” Though I was only playing, neighbors could hear it and possibly think Daddy was hammering (working). Thus he would not allow it. Not only did he forbid us kids to hunt and fish on Sunday, he forbade us to fire our firearms or to shoot off firecrackers (the loud noise not befitting of the Lord’s Day). I greatly admire such reverence and godliness in him.

In late November (1963), President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas (close to Thanksgiving Day). (You can easily search the exact date and details.) This was a profound historical event for our nation, and for me to behold at almost 18 years of age. Many people at the scene saw the actual shooting. Many more saw it live on TV. It was replayed uncountable times and remains available on video now.

I was in Mr. Boman’s bookkeeping class when the news reached our school and some teacher personally brought the news to each classroom. The first news we got was that Mr. Kennedy had been shot, but it wasn’t known how badly he was wounded. About 30 minutes later Mr. Boman stepped out to the school office to get the latest news from the radio that was playing there. He returned to our classroom quite subdued and solemnly announced to us that President Kennedy had died.

That was shortly before noon. I think they dismissed school early that day. School closed for 2 or 3 more school days as the entire nation glued itself to the TV screen and watched Jack Ruby shoot Harvey Oswald live on TV, and then watched the grand funeral of our President. In general, it stunned the entire nation very deeply. It was all most profound. I watched much of the coverage. Our nation’s young, charming president was suddenly gone.

I enjoy Thanksgiving Day and the Christmas season, with lots of good food to eat, presents, church and family fellowship, and all. Then in January 1964 I turn 18 years old, now of age for the military draft (which was still in effect). So I had to go to a government office there in Vernon and register for the draft. So, I’m beginning to be considered as an adult. High school graduation at the end of May is rapidly approaching.

Please allow me to bore you one final time with essay contest news. (Likely this will be the last time.) “The Lamar Democrat” (based in Vernon) was our county’s weekly newspaper. This year for the first time, they sponsored an essay contest for high school students (seniors only, I think). “Why We Should Shop At Home”. The essay’s title was something like that.

Shopping centers and quite large stores are now coming on the scene in larger cities outside (but near) our rural county, causing local citizens to increase their shopping away from home. Local county merchants (with visions of gloomy days to come) sponsored this essay contest and coughed up the $15 and $10 and $5 for the three prize-winning essays at each of the four high schools in Lamar County. So there will be a total of 12 students in the county (3 at each school) who will win a cash prize.

“Essay writing farm boy, how did you spend your first place prize money of $15?”

‘I spent it on things I badly needed. I was overjoyed to get that money and to have my essay published in “The Democrat” along with my picture and a statement saying mine was one of the better essays. I wish you could have read what I wrote, commending the local merchants for being there just for us local citizens and how that all we local citizens would benefit by having our local dollars to keep passing from one local pocket to another local pocket, time and time again.’

“Farm boy, it sounds like you should have gone into politics!”

‘Thank God that He saved me from that nightmare!’

My physical and mental growing and maturing came somewhat later in life than normal. I was a runt in statue compared to most of my classmates until the 12^th grade. Soon after turning 18, one day I was standing in a group of boys at the back of the classroom as we chatted together. With surprise it caught my attention that I was just a little taller now than one of the star athletes. He had always been noticeably taller than I. I looked around at other boys to see that I had become taller than some and as tall as others. Such was a welcome change!

“Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world.”

I thank my Creator God for creating me with a heart that is void of love for many things of the world. At an early age, this brought me into conflict with many worldly-minded people around me. Along about January or February, the ring man came to the school for us seniors to select and order the style of class ring each one desired. He measured each finger and took orders for the rings.

I didn’t want a class ring. Had no use for it. My sister pushed me to buy one, offering to pay the $25 for it. I held out against her persistence. At school one day after the orders had been finalized and mailed in to the maker for our rings to be made, several classmates were talking excitedly with Teacher about our soon-coming rings as we sat in her classroom. I think it was Bud who asked her, “Did everybody buy a class ring.”

“No, not everyone.” Teacher was reluctant to say more.

“Who didn’t?”

Mrs. Millican silently looked over at me and sort of smiled, letting me be the one to answer Bud and acknowledge that I was the oddball. Lord, forever save me to the utmost from loving the things that are in the world, no matter how great an offence that be to all the nice Christians around me.

Our class planned a senior trip of about a week to the nation’s capitol, Washington, D.C. and on to the World’s Fair in New York that year. I think this was the first time any senior class from Vernon had ventured as far as New York City for their trip. Most all my classmates got plenty excited about that trip. Tho I went on the one-day 11^th grade trip to Shiloh, Tennessee last year, I drew the line against going on this trip. I had no desire to sit on a crowded bus for a week and endure all the unbecoming things some classmates would carry on during that week. So I stood my ground against school people and family members who urged me to go.

We seniors had to raise money to finance the trip. Even tho I didn’t go on the trip I was expected to help in that effort. We sold subscriptions to magazines, urging people we knew to subscribe to a magazine. Key Club sponsor’s idea to sell boxes of donuts proved profitable. So our class decided to sell donuts, as no one had a corner on that market. (I think the Key Club had ceased selling donuts by now.) So for 2 or 3 months, every Friday afternoon, many dozens of sugar-glazed donuts were delivered to school and we urged everyone to ruin their teeth and health by eating them because we need money. “Vanity of Vanities!”

On a few Sundays, our senior class put out a nice hot lunch in the school cafeteria. Christian mothers (and some fathers) of my classmates absent themselves from church each of those Sunday mornings to sacrifice themselves to the preparation of this unworthy cause. Then many Christians flock in to the school lunchroom after church services for lunch. “Hey all you town folks, we need money! We want money! We want your money!”

As trip time draws near, all such money raising efforts cease, proceeds are calculated and the amount lacking is divided evenly among all who go on the trip. Each pays his or her share and my class roars off, this year on a chartered bus (for such a long distance trip) to be gone a week.

During that week, I didn’t have to attend school because my classmates and 2 or 3 of our teachers were not there. I stayed home. Daddy made me work. He had recently cut a few white oak trees to fence post length because white oak made tough durable fence posts. The tree trunks each needed to be split into several fence posts. That “exercise” became this young man’s lot for much of that week. I felt like Abe Lincoln the rain splitter and enjoyed splitting white oak fence posts alone (out in the pasture with ax, hickory mall and wedges) much more than I would have enjoyed sitting on a crowded bus that week.

I desired to go on to a university after high school. I chose Auburn University in Alabama. During this last year of high school, I take the long SATS test and another similar test (I think). Any college or university I applied to would want to see those test results as they considered my application.

Another step in preparing for college was to take the vaccine inoculations the college required. I began to do that, one at a time, spacing them out appropriately.

I mention that now because I got my smallpox shot about 3 days before starting rail splitting. And that smallpox sore on my left upper arm was festering out at its peak as I was doing that strenuous work. That tiny case of smallpox made me somewhat feverish, making me wonder if I might collapse from the work. But the hard work seemed to be a release valve for the fever and the effects of the smallpox and it seemed to work just fine. Thank Thee, Lord.

This last half of my senior year, there was much to do relating to graduating. Each senior rented a cap and gown for the graduation exercise. We each bought the number of invitations we wanted, mailing them to all souls whom we thought knew us well enough to get an invitation. Sending an invitation indicated that we wanted a graduation present from the receiver of the invitation. Thus a little discretion should be exercised. Often it was far too little. “Hey, everybody! Send me gifts. The graduate is worthy.”

Likely it is late April or early May when I take the written test for a drivers license at the courthouse in Vernon. I pass it and get a 30-day learners permit that permits me to practice driving with a licensed driver seated beside me.

About this time, I apply for employment at Sanford Company about 2 miles from my house (indirectly) toward Vernon. I want to start working a paying job as soon as I graduate from high school in order to save money for university. Daddy is not able to help me financially. If I get on at Sanford, I’ll walk or ride a bicycle to work each day till I earned enough money to buy a cheap car.

One afternoon when school lets out, I get on the school bus that goes past Sanford, ask the driver to stop and let me out at their entrance, walk into their office, fill out a job application and walk on home. I was void of knowledge of many of the ways of the world, like applying for a job. I walk into Sanford’s office unannounced after 3 PM and ask the lady if I may apply for a job. She sizes up my age and asks, “A summer job?”

‘Yes.’

She gives me a simple form to fill out. Name, address, age, and phone number is about all the info they want. I quickly fill in all the blanks and return the form to her. She smiles and says they’ll call me if and when they are interested in hiring me. I thank her, walk out of her office and walk the 2 miles home. Sanford Company never contacted me. I didn’t know of any other place to apply for work.

At this time, my older brother Sidney was commuting to work with a fellow worker. His car sets at our house all day so I ask him to let me use it to take my driving test for my drivers’ license. Sid lets me. I take that test on an afternoon on one of the last days we attend school. At the courthouse in Vernon, an Alabama Highway Patrolman gets into the car beside me, and gives me directions one at a time. “Go this way.” “Turn left up ahead.” “Stop on this hill (incline), park, and kill the engine.” “Park here in this parallel parking spot.” (And a few other such maneuvers.) It all takes about 15 minutes or more. He passes me and I receive my license to kill.

Lord Jesus, many people have been killed in motor vehicles. I thank Thee for Thy Most Needed Protecting Power that has kept me from ever injuring anyone while I am driving a motor vehicle, a killer of a worldly machine. I beg Thee to continue to protect me from injuring any other person as long as I drive motor vehicles and ride my bicycle here in Japan. Please also protect me from injury.

This afternoon that I take my driving test, many classmates are on an emotional high because we are about to graduate. As I complete the driving circuit and am returning to the courthouse on the 4 lane there in town, a car filled with 4 or 5 girl classmates pulls along beside me as they cruise about our small, quiet town, just having fun in a celebrating mood. It’s hot. Our cars were not air-conditioned in those ancient days. Thus windows are open in both cars. One or 2 of the girls spot me. “Hey, there’s Richard!” Both the patrolman and I hear one of the girls exclaim that. And just as they are about to start yelling to me in fun, they then notice that serious looking Highway Patrolman sitting erect “straight up” next to me in his impressive uniform. “Opps!” The giggling girls quickly hush up and drive carefully on their way.

Our Senior Commencement service was on a Sunday afternoon and the Graduation ceremony was on a Friday night. Each year, my school chose a graduate whom they deemed had best excelled in English, History, Math, and Science, a different student in each of those 4 fields of study (4 honor students). I was chosen as math honor student. On Graduation Night, Principal Colburn called each honor student onto the stage one by one, called each person’s name, named the subject in which each had excelled, congratulated each, shook the hand, and handed over a $25 U.S. savings bond.

When it came my turn, my Principal said a little extra. He gripped my hand and holding it, he turned to the audience with a great approving smile on his face. “Richard took two math courses this year, Algebra II and Trigonometry. And he made straight A’s in both.” He handed me my savings bond and as I walk down to my seat, the applause is exceptionally loud. I have so much for which to be thankful.

I like math and desired to learn much of it in high school. When I chose my courses at the start of my senior year, both Trig and Algebra II were being offered that year. (Trig and Geometry were taught alternately every other year at my small school.) I had taken geometry the previous year in the 11^th grade. I had taken Algebra 1 in the 10^th grade. I wanted to study both of these remaining math courses my last year. So I forewent a study hall period and took one subject more than most students took in a year.

But upon taking my first Algebra II test within 2 weeks or so after school began, I got a B on it instead of an A. It devastated me to make a B instead of an A. “Vanity of Vanities.” I gave it serious thought, went to Coach Bell who taught all the senior high math courses, and told him I wanted to drop Trigonometry (the more difficult of these 2 subjects) to concentrate on Algebra II.

“I see. OK.”

But God set my heart to burning with regret over that decision. Likely it was the very next day at the end of algebra class that I stopped by his teaching desk up front and shyly asked if I could come back into the Trig class. Coach Bell was a wise and gentle man (especially toward a finicky youth). He replied something to the effect: “Yes, you may come back in. But you’ve got to make up your mind.”

‘My mind is made up. Thank you, Coach.’

I diligently dig into both math courses my senior year (along with my other 3 courses) thoroughly enjoying the challenge of both Trig and Algebra. Had I not taken both of those math courses that year, some other boy might have outshined me in math and have gotten the reward. No other senior took 2 math courses this year. I got A’s in two math courses, and no doubt that was the deciding factor in awarding me as math honor student.

A total of 52 boys and girls in our graduating class received a diploma that night. When the ceremony ended, we graduates walk out of the auditorium together and head to a classroom to take off our rental caps and gowns and return them. Sweet Kaye catches up with me as we walk down the hall, locks her arm thru mine and smiles ever so sweetly. “Richard, I’m proud of you.” Warmed my heart, did it ever! I was happy!

“Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.” (Proverbs 30:8)

I lived the first 18 years and 4 and a half months of my life in poverty, extreme poverty at times. Now starting my own life as a high school honor student graduate, I am most desirous to rise above poverty and its misery. That is one of my main goals at this stage in life. Thus far, I have studied hard for twelve school years, knowing that to be an important key to “rising”.

I am most deeply indebted to a good number of kind souls who took pity on our poor family as I was growing up and helped us in various ways. Most of them were not rich themselves, but each helped according to his or her abilities. I have told you of the much kindness bestowed upon my family upon Mother’s death. I told you of Pastor Ritch buying me a new suit to wear to my 6^th grade Formal (not knowing at the time he made the decision to suit me up properly that I was to be the Master of Ceremonies for that Formal).

Most all those kind and generous adults are now in eternity. The few who are still on this earth now (2016) are in their 80’s and 90’s. The baton has been passed on to me to do all I can do to help suffering mankind. Please pray that I will not fail.

Thank Thee, Lord for allowing me to rise above the dire physical poverty I experienced throughout my boyhood. I also thank Thee that upon arriving at adulthood I had no desire to strive to be rich. Thank Thee; Lord, for training me to be content with sufficient food and raiment. I thank Thee for many compassionate souls who bestowed much kindness upon my family throughout my boyhood, thus somewhat alleviating the misery of our poverty. Please help me to always love my neighbor as myself and thus to always do all I possibly can do to help others in need.

“Congratulations on high school graduation with honours, Richard boy. Reading of the several speeches you made and the several essays you wrote (voluntarily) as you grew up, perchance can one see God making you into a writer and a speaker for His Glory?”

‘Perchance one has eyes in one’s head, one could perchance see that.’

On to Chapter 10

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