Chapter 4

MAY LEARN.

(From the time I enter the 1^st 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 God-ordained farming (tilling the soil, living off the land and waters). As a family, we labored together on the family farm to personally produce most of 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 the animals. 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 & 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 1^st grade class. I was glad to be in her class because I already knew (from listening to my upper-class siblings) that she was kinder and gentler than the one other 1^st grade teacher.

There was a kindergarten in Vernon in those days, 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 way 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 1^st things Teacher taught 1^st graders like me, was how to write each letter in the alphabet (printing each letter, block style). Then she taught each of us how to spell and print 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 1^st 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 of them 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 1^st grade and 25 cents when I graduated from the 12^th grade. Inflation was slow in those ancient days.

When I started school, a good number of poor children brought a sack lunch from home (in a greasy brown paper bag, which we saved and re-used many days). 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, and 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 happily 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 78) I can see that it subconsciously lifted my spirit to be around the many children at school who were not poor, and also subconsciously instilled within me a belief and hope and dream, that one day, some day (long, long away), I too could become as well off as they were. All such bright things 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, and rather living in town a life of more ease, fun, and excitement.

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 1^st 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 endanger his life by turning upside down a horse-drawn heavy drag onto himself 4 months before starting grammar 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 dragging the ground), 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.

Of course, our dilapidated, poverty-stricken farmhouse had no air conditioning, it still being plenty rare even for well-off people. Neither was there any air conditioning in the school buildings. So, 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 foods and getting a few presents.

Dear 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 1^st 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. I always looked forward to some relative’s homemade pecan pie that never failed to be available on that occasion. 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.

New Years 1953 arrives, and soon after, I turn 7 years old.

Mother’s Day (in spring of 1953) when I was in the 1^st grade was the last Mother’s Day that my Mother was with us on this earth. (Of course, at that time, no human soul on earth had any inkling that would be the case.) Anyway. I think it was this Mother’s Day (not the previous one), 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 occupied in the living room or kitchen. Daddy quietly motioned us 4 kids into their bedroom, hopefully without Mother noticing it. He brought out the hidden packet of a pair of plain stockings (void of any gift wrapping), had each child take hold of one corner of that packet that was about 10 inches square, and walk out from their bedroom into the living room in that 4 Child Formation to present to Mother her plain pair of stockings from the five of us on Mother’s Day. She smiled kindly, and thanked us most simply for her 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 piloting a fast jet), and witnessed many more marching formations (some of them most precise, elite and dazzling). But not one of them means as much to me as this poverty laden, 4-child formation presenting our young Mother a simple pair of plain stockings on her last Mother’s Day on earth with us.

For 2 years or so, Clyde’s family lived in the next house on past ours headed away from town, about 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 warm evening (bringing 2 guitars). We brought out “straight chairs” for all to sit in the front yard, and we 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 hoot of a hoot owl, 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 teenage son, tall 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 into the kitchen. “Mother sent me to ask if we could borrow some coffee for breakfast.” (That’s how poor we country folks were then. And the poor begged from other poor.)

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 little spokesman 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.

No doubt, the Holy Spirit saw to it that little Joe (unaware of the situation) did not now speak up with, “You just put it up there!”

(I don’t recall if Jack’s family later repaid it.) Daddy didn’t drink coffee. Mother liked one cup a day with her breakfast, but at times she had no breakfast coffee due to our poverty, or maybe due to Jack’s family poverty.

“During such times, go borrow it from Clyde’s family!”

‘Good idea, but likely we would not get any!’

Rural people didn’t go to town often. It was a custom to borrow staple foods from neighbors (coffee, sugar, tea, flour and such), and to return to neighbor 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, the race of sinners on earth remains the same thru out all generations, does it not?

Likely it was summer after 1^st 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. A few times smaller than a ladybug, its life mission was to puncture a pre-mature, still closed, cotton boll as the boll grew, thereby ruining the cotton forming inside the boll (similar to a round pod), thereby moving poor farmers further down the poverty scale. Each year, the farmers had to poison their cotton several times while the bolls were forming, in an effort to kill the boll weevils. (The strong poison also killed other nice living creatures, lovely butterflies, honeybees, 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 quickly cause it to cease to live and breathe and to have its harmful being.) That generous financial incentive inspired me to diligently search for the enemy weevils in our fields. Likely it was late this summer after 1^st grade, shortly before I started 2^nd 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 to 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 parked 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 gas 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 and 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! And there was no reason for me to do that. Only God’s Divine Protection saved me from being electrocuted. 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 distanced myself from that meter, going elsewhere 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, dangerous 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, searched for and found a “power company” employee on Sunday afternoon, and told him that we had a dangerous problem. The worker rushed to our house in the company truck, climbed the power pole nearby, shut off the transformer on the pole to cut off power from it to the meter, and then readjusted the meter’s ground wire.

Neither Daddy nor Mother whipped me for stuffing corncobs into the car’s gas tank, or for dangerously tinkering with the electric meter. So, I feel duty-bound to tell of one of the several times my dangerous foolishness earned me a painful whipping.

Our rural 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 by hand with those homemade yard 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. Regretfully, 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, dangerous, and forbidden stunt 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 commenced to spiritually “doctor” me (Biblical method) by applying 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 compassionate 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, gentle, old man who never chunks rocks at anyone.

On a far-apart 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 few souls in the store all marveled that this brave little boy didn’t cry.

Daddy then bought me a small (5 cent) 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 spat 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…silent Dad 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.”

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 such 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, while watching little children like a hawk, to nip potentially dangerous deeds in the bud, while firmly lecturing the smallest of children that they are to never even touch things like the car’s gas cap or the ground wire to the electric meter. (In this modern day, likely both those items are unreachable by kids. But other dangers abound, like the pan’s handle on a hot stove, electrical plugs, and such.)

(Next adventure) I watch in awe as man’s progress turns the dirt and gravel road in front of our house into a paved highway. As I stood outside watching those workers, one morning as they started working, 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 planned to move the fence. So, it was a learning experience to see that they didn’t have to touch a hog, simply “shoo” the hogs back as the men took up the fence and re-set it inward. (Live and learn, as we grow toward Eternity.)

One day as Sidney and I watched the construction work; our own bulging eyes witnessed 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 door’s open window that now faced upward. That accident scared me terribly. 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. I did not watch it from my Hiding Place, and I tried to stop up my ears against their loud racket. 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 on about their work. Then Sidney went about his work of laughing at me and ribbing me for being so scared. (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 east 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 to 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. And when I stumped my bare toe when walking on it, often it ripped the skin open. It was much more blessed to walk barefoot in God’s nature (on dirt) than in the devil’s world of much hardtop. Also, that rough hardtop wore out poor farmers’ vehicle tires much quicker than the unpaved, more natural, road did.

Likely they blacktopped our farm to market road in the summer of 1953, just before I started 2^nd grade. Loud powerful motors and any machinery easily scared Little Me at that age. Not so far from our farm was Columbus Air Force Base near Columbus, Mississippi. In the high skies over our humble pore farm, their trainer planes 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; fearing the plane would fall all way to the ground and likely hit 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, barefoot farm boy, about 17 short 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. But that adventure was up ahead in my future.

Along about now (Summer 1953) my parents buy an ancient, used refrigerator to 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. (The modern fridge in their house purred quietly.) Also, our faithful old 1935 Dodge car completely died on us sometime along about now. 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 for 2 or 3 years as Daddy tinkered with it much, endeavoring to keep it alive and running to and fro.

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 while cooking, of course). Truly, it is only by the grace of God that none of us received grave bodily or mental harm from those metal poisons.

“Well…that just may be the very reason why your 3 brain cells malfunction so much.”

‘Maybe so.’

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. Back during World War Two, young Brother Cobb was drafted into the Army, and fought on the battlefield against Germany in Europe.

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. They did not yet have any children, God giving them one son years later.

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 2^nd graders. Fortunately, I was assigned to Mrs. Duke’s class, she being the kinder and gentler of the two lady 2^nd grade teachers. Just as in the 1^st grade, I again have the nicer teacher. Come March of next year, I will be in Mrs. Duke’s classroom at school, when Mother dies in the Vernon Hospital less than a mile away.

During play period on the playground, I climbed to the top of the jungle gym from whence I could see our dead Dodge car in the junkyard across State 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 2^nd grade, a girl in my class was scalded at home by hot water accidentally spilt on her in their kitchen. 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 television set for the 1^st 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 television!” 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 2^nd 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 on the small, somewhat oval-shaped screen, of bald-headed President Eisenhower 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 recite a poem for all the viewers to hear. Many local viewers will like your speech better than they liked President Ike’s speech this day. Do you believe me?”

‘That’s most hard to believe, but you sound most sincere.’

In the 2^nd 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 person called, to enable them to talk to each other. When the call ended, the operator would pull out wires, ending the connection. Operator overheard all phone conversations (I think).

In a different area of our nation, once (as the operator connected the call) she commented to the caller, “I’ll ring them, but I don’t think they’re home. Their car is gone.” Operator could see the house being called, from where the operator sat in her house, plugging in connections. I like that personal touch!

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, (I guess). Young guy or girl now taking time from your “dumb” smart phone to read this, can you imagine such a life?? It was wonderful!

On a different day, our class walked to the fire station in Vernon to view Vernon’s one fire truck, listen to its siren and to ask questions. Days before, each student wrote his or her one question in class and rehearsed it before Mrs. Duke.

‘Do you have an upstairs?’ The one volunteer 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. He then did reiterate (blandly) that they didn’t have an upstairs.

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 wood chair, doubting that it could endure his “official weight”. Mrs. Duke then brought out her metal folding chair from behind her desk for him to sit in. 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. But I am sure that I did not ask him to fire his pistol for us to see, there in the classroom, tho I would liked to have done so.

As in the 1^st grade, this 2^nd 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 nice 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 it 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. But he was a gentleman from a most early age, and I still remember that later he kindly thanked me for the cheap, jointed, worthless green snake. Benny has many fine inborn characteristics. We elected him class president, our senior (last) year of high school.

The year 1954 arrives, and soon after, I turn 8 years old. I feel like I’m really getting big!

Television (that monstrosity of an idol god of an unlimited number of moving images and likenesses, clearly forbidden by the Second of the Ten Commandments) began invading rural homes one by one. Mother and Mrs. Stacy (our neighbor over the hill toward town) 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 to the Stacy house, causing each soul in the room to keep his or her eyes glued to it in awe, no matter what was showing.

(Of course, back then, all of the worldly TV broadcasting was “decent”, relatively speaking.) For example, Wrestling aired during our Saturday afternoon visit time. Plump Mrs. Stacy would get intensely enthralled in the wrestling match, wanting to help the “Good Guy” wrestler. When the “Bad Guy” wrestler was getting the upper hand, she would exclaim “I wish I could stick him with a pin,” or some other such action on her part to help the “Good Guy” win the match.

Mother also stared at whatever the glowing screen showed. But, as we walked backed home from the Stacy house, Mother preached to us kids about how awful and bad were some of the scenes (mainly Wrestling) that we had just watched on TV. However, we would soon go visit Mrs. Stacy again (sort of a Saturday afternoon ritual). On each visit, Mother’s eyes also stayed glued to the TV just as everyone else’s eyes did. But again, 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 old-fashioned 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 (“any…image”, “any likeness”, being forbidden in Exodus 20:3~5) drew her back to gaze on them 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.

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 poured many tears forth from her eyes.

Our poor family did not possess a camera for taking photos. But a summer or two ago, someone (likely neighbor Mrs. Parson) had taken a black and white photo of Mother standing by one of her rose bushes showing many lovely roses in bloom in the picture. Mrs. Parson gave that picture to Mother. Mother liked that picture much. After Mother’s death, Daddy had it enlarged, “colored”, framed, and made into Mother’s “portrait”, from then on, to hang on our living room wall in place of Mother’s presence.

Lovely, warm, balmy spring is also a time of death. The Grim Reaper regards no set time or set season.

Lost Reader Friend without God The Saviour Jesus Christ, your death could come at any time or season. It could come today. Don’t continue your journey to eternal Hellfire any longer. Trust in the Saviour of all the earth now. Tomorrow might be too late. There might not be any tomorrow for you on earth.

The End of Chapter 4

On to Chapter 5

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