Chapter 9
GIVE ME NEITHER POVERTY NOR
RICHES.
(My 3 years of senior high school,
grades 10 thru 12, graduating at the end of May 1964)
When
school starts back the 1st week of
September 1961, 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 10th grade. Senior High School. The fancy
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 far too tardy for each of those crops. Thus,
undue exposure to rain and such reduced the quality of each crop, reducing its
value.
At
this age, I greatly enjoy the time from late September (when stifling
summer heat abates) till the 1st 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 delicious
meals, Christmas presents, and days out of school. The few days Daddy doesn’t
make us work; I often go hunting.
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 10th 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 early 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 tractor’s rear. So, my backside was dark. The two front lights
were lighting the road in front of me.
A man
driving alone in his large car approached me from behind at about 70 miles an
hour. Fast! He didn’t see the dark 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 (from left to right) directly in
front of my tractor and onto the right shoulder. Driver now whips
the steering wheel to the left again. Now on the road’s 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
eyeballs 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. I have stopped the tractor. 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 you. 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 tractor’s Little Boy Driver.
Little
Boy Driver had no desire to be addressed.
For
some strange reason, that man was trembling and had trouble speaking
coherently. “Why don’t you have the tail light turned
on?!!”
For
some stranger reason, Little Boy Tractor Driver was plenty composed. ‘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 easily have killed me,
and possibly him (no seatbelt or airbag back then). I marvel
at his quick and accurate reflexes all the way thru that stunt.
However, when his car was twice sliding sideways at a quite high speed, it
could have easily rolled over and over several
times sideways.
Also, perchance
there had 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. Likely he would have opted to 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). Another 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 or seriously injured 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 to
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 innocent 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.
Please
listen to a related hazard of our deadly dangerous poverty.
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, 6
feet or so forward of the driver’s face. The very top part of the
muffler was a muffler pipe (like unto a car’s tailpipe) 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 at the bottom, 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 (harmful to human life)
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, just the driver’s irreplaceable
health.
“Possibly,
brain damage from those exhaust fumes is what makes your writings so whacko!”
‘Possibly
so!’
All
over our sin-sick planet (especially in the poorest nations),
poverty results in all kinds of powerful machinery being operated in unsafe
old, dilapidated, worn-out 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.
Overall,
extreme riches are more so deadly. Therefore,
the whole above prayer should be a desire of each
of our hearts.
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 (because poverty put much misery into my
upbringing). 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. Daddy always let
us off from work on the Fourth of July, a holiday.
When
school starts back in September 1962, I am a junior, 11th
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 10th grade. A
prominent town citizen sponsored the Key Club and met 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 10th
grade year because our adult sponsor wasn’t enthusiastic about Key Club at all.
But
the following year (my 11th 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.
Along
about February 1963 at our monthly Key Club meeting, that pastor told us boys, “I
have arranged a day 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 townsman
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 (older boys from
Vernon) on the university campus, and found them in their dorms. I listened as
they chatted a while, walked into town and ate supper in a restaurant, and then
went and watched the night Bama basketball game. I enjoyed all that!
Next
came the hour (plus) ride back to Vernon. Traveling both ways on
this trip, our high school principal had a few 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 this rural area kept their wicked hearts
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. Thank God, my
Christian Daddy didn’t have it in
him!
That
spring of 1963, in April or May our 11th 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
as chaperons, to try to keep us wild kids civil. Tuff Job!
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 10th
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 10th grader criminal thieves returned to Vernon, God smote one
of the boys with conviction. He confessed his crime of stealing to teachers,
also squealing on several other 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), thus getting boiling mad at
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 amounts we now bring as payment. Such makes up the worldly 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, 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. Pastor Roy 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 to Vernon, the county
school department reimbursed them all, of course.)
The
trooper’s curt, strict manner 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 turn signals by hand, the driver sticking his arm out
the window.)
Pastor
Roy sang in a men’s Gospel quartet (the quartet that sang at my Mother’s funeral), 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, and even forbidden, on “government
school” buses.
About
9 PM, we arrived safely back at our school, thank God, where our parents were
waiting in their cars for us.
At the
end of May 1963, the school year ends, summer vacation starts, and I rejoice to
complete the 11th 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 paper 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 paper to each of 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 to look at Number (31). I could clearly discern from his face that
what I wrote fed his ego naught. Likely he also got too little
praise from the others.
Our
high school principal transferred at the end of this school year (May 1963), to
go be principal at a distant school. Good riddance, Dirty Storyteller. I lost
all respect for you.
From
the start of the 1st grade, 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 am more or
less doing the work of an adult man. It feels good to be growing up.
My
older brother, Sidney, graduates from school this year
and gains employment in Columbus, Mississippi. He
commuted there from Daddy’s house for a while before moving out.
Soon
Janiece and her boyfriend (Jerry) part ways, and later each of them marries
someone else. From my 7th grade thru my 11th grade, Jerry
was a big “Plus” factor in my life at this important time when I was growing thru my teen years, 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 talking much
with me greatly helped fill the void of Daddy
being so silent toward me. I am most thankful to Jerry 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 exactly. I might 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.
Summer of 1963 (between my junior and
senior year of high school) is my last summer to toil away on a poor
farm.
As I re-write this in 2024 past the age of 78, I have never again (to any great degree) toiled away at farm labor. I got what my little heart desired. I was able to break out of that slave labour prison farm. Worldwide, vast multitudes of little farm boys and girls have rejoiced to achieve that breakout, and have generally been enthusiastically lauded for that great achievement(?).
But none
of the human race worldwide will
rejoice in the final result
of that breakout from the prison farm: worldwide
famine prophesied by our Lord in Matthew 24:7 “There
shall be famines.” Tho the world population
is steadily increasing, the percentage of people that grows food
to eat is steadily decreasing. Anyone with half a brain
should be able to see famine in the near future.
“…and
there was not a man to till the ground.” (Genesis 2:5) Thus…“Therefore
the Lord God sent him (Adam) forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground
from whence he was taken.” (Genesis 3:23)
Humans must eat. Thus, our All-Wise Creator ordained tilling
the ground for the ENTIRE HUMAN RACE, when we all were in the loins of Adam.
When Christ’s Rapture of Christian believers occurs, famers will be ever so few (similar to Creation’s start, when there was not a man to
till the ground. Genesis 2:5). The devil’s hardtop will have replaced
much farming ground worldwide. Thus, severe famine will be widespread. “And there shall be famines.” (Matthew 24:7)
Instead of tilling the ground, worldly humans who
build the devil’s kingdom (“the world”, as God’s Holy Bible defines it) hardtop
the ground, putting it to death, so that the hardtop can never again
produce food to eat. FAMINES! Wise up and
stop to think how deadly the lucrative world system is.
Each of my boyhood summers, I enjoyed
fishing and swimming every available chance.
From the
lower (south) end of our farm fields, we boys would walk the 500 yards or so to
the woods where the Yellow Creek “bottom” (swampy area) began, to fish in the
nearest slough just inside the woods. Yellow Creek and Mud Creek
are the official, majestic 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 damp “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 highly
preferred to keep alive.
One
summer day (back when I was about 15), 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. Then, I went to a far
distant spot to fish from the bank.
We
often took a rifle or pistol to shoot snakes, when we fished swampy waters. On
a different day, William and I fished 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
naturally jumped unusually high into the air. William pulled the .22
caliber automatic pistol from his waist holster, hurrying my way, quickly
sighting in on the nearby serpent; then rapidly firing
7 times or so. Most of those bullets hit that loathsome-looking, big, black
moccasin, ensuring that it 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 we hadn’t brought a firearm.
Sighting many snakes distracted us from fishing. So, we soon went back to our
houses, each put away his fishing pole, to take up his firearm instead. We met
together again, and marched back into that stinking, mosquito-infested swamp as
a Firing Squad, diligently executing each snake that we could bring into
our weapon’s sights. Fun adventure,
big time reptile hunters!
On a
summer Saturday afternoon as I walked to town, Policeman Denman Langley coming
behind me stopped in his police car to “give me a ride”. (There were no “small-town
police rules” against such 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 calmly told me that, I
marveled that apparently there were no rules against this little boy possibly
getting caught in the crossfire of a shootout between this policeman and
the bootleggers. Tho I like adventure, I considered
such to be far too adventurous for me.
A graveled
“drive” led from the highway down to the creek and into 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 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 big moccasin in this bar pit, mad as can be at
us!” (I could well understand why, them muddying up the snake’s house interior like that.)
About
that time, another man yells out. “There it is!” Looking that way, I saw that
snake’s large ugly head sticking out of the muddy water as he swam
around madly amongst those fishing agitators. Mr. Crack Shot
Policeman quickly pulled the police 12-gauge pump shotgun out of the police car
and blew the snake’s head off the next time it stuck its head out of the muddy
water for a breath of fresh air. Those men pulled the headless long, fat
body of the large Cottonmouth Moccasin out of that muddy water for us all to awe
at.
“Pervey,
if that big thing had bitten you, you might not have made it home to your wife!”
Mr. Policeman chatted such to them briefly. Then I got back into the car with
him, most relieved to get away from snakes, and go on
to town for my haircut in Jimmy’s fancy barber chair, where there were no snakes,
nor painful tumbling acts.
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. (One or more guys I fished and swam with, got snake
bitten, but I wasn’t present when they did. They survived.) 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 dismal swamp and its loathsome, dangerous snakes, and get
back to Vernon High School for my last year there. When I again
enter that school building the 1st week in September 1963, my
classmates and I are seniors. Finally, we are the top
dogs of all the bulldogs gathered around that rural tree of
knowledge of good and evil. (School mascot was a Bulldog.) It felt good
to finally be a senior and sense myself “coming of age”. But it didn’t
seem like I was as great in the eyes of the 7th graders, as the 12th
graders were in my eyes when I was in 7th grade. Perspective!
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.
Our
principal left back in June after school let out for the summer. I was glad
to see that dirty joker go. Mr. Colburn came in as our
new principal this year. He earned my respect. I am most glad that he
will be the principal to 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 gives way to mild October. I enjoy 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 also 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,
as soon as the bus drivers could bring the school buses. School closed for 2 or
3 more school days as the entire nation glued itself to the TV screen, and saw Jack Ruby shoot Harvey Oswald live
on TV (to stop Oswald’s mouth, who was likely framed). In this life, the common
man will never know the great extent of high level; evil
scheming and planning that went into the murder of those 2 men. Most of the populace
watches our President’s grand funeral on TV. All of 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 U.S. government office there in Vernon to register for the
draft. 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) is 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 onto the scene in larger cities
outside (but near) our rural county. Also, folks are becoming more mobile with better, faster cars,
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 of the 4 schools),
who will win a cash prize. The Lamar Democrat will publish
a prize-willing essay, weekly, for 12 weeks, publishing all 12.
“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 proud 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 being loyal locally, having our few local
dollars to keep passing from one local pocket to another local
pocket, time and time again. (Oh, did I ever turn on the charm, when actually my main goal was to have 15 local
dollars fall into my local, poor pocket!)
“Farm
Boy, it sounds like you should have gone into politics! Who knows, you might
have made president of USA.”
‘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 12th 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 (my Dad
being much more void of love for the devil’s 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 to lecture us seniors, and then have us 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. Wearing it
would not enhance any one of my 3 brain cells a whit. 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 of us in a
classroom were talking excitedly with Teacher about our soon-coming
rings. Bud asked her, “Did everybody buy a class ring?”
“No, not everyone.” Teacher was reluctant to say that, and said no more.
“Who didn’t?” Nosey Bud wants to know.
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 in the
devil’s world. 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, lukewarm
Laodicean Christians around me, making me a speckled bird, the birds
round about being against that bird.
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 being held in New York City this year. I think this is
the first time for any senior class from Vernon to venture as far as
New York City for their trip. (How great we are becoming.) Most all my
classmates got plenty excited about that trip. Tho I
went on the one-day 11th 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. Speckled Bird!
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 damage 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 H.S. Seniors need money!
We want money! We want your money!”
As trip time draws nigh, 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. So, 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 makes tough durable fence posts. The tree trunks each need to be split into
4 or so fence posts. That “exercise” became this young man’s lot for much of
that week. I felt like “Abe Lincoln the Rail-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 with fellow delinquents that week.
I desire 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 apply to would want to see those test results as
they consider my application.
Another step in preparing for college is to take the vaccine
inoculations the college requires. I begin to do that, one at a time, spacing
them out appropriately (Nurse Hankins in Vernon being that Minister of Pain).
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 rate getting an invitation.
Sending an invitation indicated that we were begging for 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. This Graduate is most worthy.”
Likely it is
late April or early May when I take the written test for a driver’s
license at the courthouse in Vernon. I pass it, and
thus receive a 30-day learners’ permit that permits me to practice killing,
I mean driving, with a licensed driver seated beside me. (No driving
school in these ancient days.)
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 hired at
Sanford, I will walk or ride a bicycle to work each day till I earn enough
money to buy a cheap car.
One afternoon when school lets out, I get on the school bus that goes
past Sanford (not the bus I ride daily), ask the driver to stop and let
me out at their entrance, walk into their office, fill out a job application
form, and walk on home. 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 are 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, and walk out of her
office to 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, is 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 one
afternoon on one of the very 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 20 minutes. 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, simply cruising
for 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. We are cruising slowly. 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 “ramrod” erect next to me in
his impressive, official uniform. “Opps!”
The giggling girls instantly hush up, sober
up, and drive carefully on their way. All In A
Day’s Work (or Fun).
Our Senior Commencement service was on a Sunday afternoon. The Graduation
ceremony was on the following Friday night, I think. 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 feel
most honoured. 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 and I had not yet taken either.
(Trig and Geometry were taught alternately every other year at my small
school.) I had taken geometry the previous year in the 11th grade. I
had taken Algebra 1 in the 10th 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 take in a year.
But upon taking my first Algebra II test within 2 weeks or so
after school began, I got a B on that test 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 report card 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!
(Parents, at that time, my own Dad had never
once said those words to me, and he did not say them to me now on this occasion.
Parents?? Are you listening???)
“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. They were not rich themselves, but each
helped according to his or her abilities, and compassion. 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 6th
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 scant
few who are still on this earth now (2024) are in their 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 who are 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 (preacher) for His Glory?”
‘Perchance one has eyes in one’s
head, one could perchance see that, perchance!!’
The End of Chapter
9