Chapter 8
AND THE CHILD GREW
(My
3 years of junior high school, grades 7 thru 9, starting at the beginning of September
1958 and ending at the end of May 1961, and the following summer in 1961.)
I
thank God for making me a happy child amidst many troublesome
circumstances throughout the first 12 years of my life. And I heartily thank
God that during this calendar year of 1958, life’s circumstances greatly
improved, making my life much brighter.
First
of all, it is an immense relief to all 5 of us Yerbys to be
living in a much better house. Daddy never talked to us concerning how he was
personally faring in life. But he too perks up now that he has a wife (and a
better house). I am happy for him (and life under his rule becomes somewhat
more pleasant).
Also, at home now, there is an increase in
talking and interacting amongst the eight of us, dispelling the much silent
gloom I have endured at home since Mother’s death. Daddy didn’t talk much.
Moreover, he seemed less interested
in talking with his own four children
than he did with other people. Now
that we have three other people
living in our house (all of whom are good talkers), Daddy talks more with them,
and we children join in also.
God
ordained that humans be communicative creatures. We should take heed to the
many Scriptures in the Bible that warn us against talking too much.
But to be overly silent when amongst people is neither
natural, nor is it appropriate in most cases. It is my belief
that when parents are overly silent toward their children that it is
detrimental to the children (and I am speaking from experiencing such silence
toward me from Daddy). (Are you parents taking notes?)
Before
graduating from high school, Janiece began dating her classmate, Jerry. To me,
Jerry was a most likable guy. He was cheerful, plenty talkative, and his talk
was interesting. Now I talk to him as much as I can when he comes to the house.
Also, when I talk with big sister Janiece now, I am talking to an adult. That
tends to help also. This large increase
in communication at home immensely brightens my daily life.
Also,
I now get plenty of enjoyment from watching the devil’s TV in our home (all TV
programming broadcast in black and white only, back in those ancient days). “Gunsmoke”
with Matt Dillon. “Rawhide’s” adventurous cattle drives. “Wanted Dead or Alive”,
with Steve McQueen hunting down those outlaws. “Have Gun Will Travel.” “Route
66.” The flying adventures of “Sky King” and “Whirlybirds”. Such shows topped
the list of my favorites. I liked to laugh along with Lucy, Red Skelton, Jackie
Gleason and such comedians. Now, watching TV regularly adds happiness (not true
joy) to my life. More than enough said about the vanity of watching TV. (I
am not condoning TV and movies. I’m simply writing my history.)
Autumn
of 1958, we have no cotton crop of our own to pick, because we didn’t plant any
cotton this year. I pick cotton for other farmers when Daddy allows, and earn a
little money. We are still busy working on the house, and we have our corn crop
to harvest. It was a most pleasant autumn for me. Enough said about this year’s
harvest time. I want to talk about school.
When
school reconvenes at the start of September, instead of 1 girl and 3 boys
getting on the school bus at our house, now 4 boys hop onto the bus. Rayburn,
our stepbrother, is a high school senior. This will be his last year of school.
With
great anticipation, I have looked forward to entering the 7th grade,
junior high school, really growing up and moving up the ladder. Miss Strickland is my homeroom teacher. I am
now back in the school building and classrooms I used in grades one thru five.
Three or so rural elementary “feeder” schools surrounding Vernon “feed” their 6th
grade graduates into the 7th grade at Vernon school. So I get plenty
of new classmates. With the increased numbers, I think there were 3 sections
(classes) of us 7th graders.
Old
Maid Miss Strickland was a most godly, dedicated Christian woman. I was blessed
to have her for my homeroom teacher. Also, she taught one or two of my subjects
(English and Social Studies, likely). In grammar school, only one teacher
taught me each year. Now about 5 teachers teach me daily, Mr. Livingston
(math), Mrs. Rickman (science), Coach George Bell (PE), Miss Redus (study
hall).
We
soon elect class officials. I am elected as president of the 7th
grade.
Thru
out grammar school, all my teachers were women. Now I have men teachers also.
In grammar school, I stayed in one classroom all day all year (essentially).
Now when the bell rings at the end of a period, I have 2 minutes to hoof it to
my next class in a different room. “And you had better not be tardy and you had
better not run in the halls, boy! You want a paddling, boy??”
‘I
can do without it. I don’t believe the fable that whippings make a boy grow, no
matter who says so.’
In
elementary school, students who didn’t handle book learning well were “failed”
and had to repeat that year of school. We took tests which teacher graded and
showed us the grade scores. Students “passed” or “failed” each test. We
received report cards in grammar school but the report card did
not list “letter” grades (A, or B, or C, or D, or F). Instead, at each
reporting period, the teacher wrote a short report on each student’s study
habits, learning ability, test results, classroom conduct, manners, and such.
At the end of the year, if cumulative test scores totaled failure, she failed
the student.
But
from 7th grade on, each six weeks when our report cards come out, I
will receive “letter” grades for each of my 5 subjects (no grades given for
study hall). I am determined to make straight A’s every time thru out the 7th
grade. By God’s Grace, I come quite close to doing so.
Back
in the summer, I started spending the night occasionally at Aunt Virgie’s
house. At this time, Uncle Hershel is working (construction) quite far away and
comes home only on weekends. Aunt Virgie doesn’t like to be alone at nights.
(Their only child, my cousin Betty, is already married and living elsewhere.)
Some nights, both Janiece and I spend the night with Aunt Virgie. She also
calls on other nephews to come stay nights with her. Thus my turn comes occasionally.
Aunt
Virgie is a good cook. Each time I spend the night there; I eat supper and then
breakfast with her. How I delight to eat her delicious and filling breakfast,
then walk out the dirt road from her house to Hwy 9 to wait with classmate Judy
and her 2 younger brothers in front of their house to catch the school bus.
“School
Days! School Days! How I love Golden Rule Days! Reading and riting and
rithmatic, taught to the tune of a hickory stick!” That was the start of a song
we learned at “music time” back in grammar school. School days were truly a joy to me, in a small town school where
most teachers were Christians and fairly good conduct was enforced on the
students. Life was much more simple and natural before it became so modern and
hi tech. I thank God that I wasn’t born one day later than I was.
Janiece
is employed now. She gives me a weekly allowance to do chores for her, mainly
keeping her closet stocked with firewood during the winter when she needs a
fire in the fireplace, taking out the ashes, and sometimes building the fire in
her fireplace. Most months, she gives each of us boys 75 cents to get a haircut
at Jimmy’s Barber Shop in town. Thus Daddy’s barbershop goes out of business.
Somewhere along the way in time, Daddy quits his custom of swapping haircuts on
our front porch with some neighbor man and he even starts paying for a haircut
in town. The Yerbys are going modern.
Janiece
doesn’t have a car of her own. Most every Saturday afternoon, she calls a taxi
from our new phone. (One or 2 taxi cabs park in front of the drug store in
Vernon. People phone the drug store, give their name and tell where they want
the taxi sent. The druggist hangs up the phone, opens the front door and
hollers out that info to a taxi driver who then drives off to get his
customer.) Janiece takes her basket of laundry in the taxi to the coin laundry
in town, does her laundry and some shopping and brings it all back home in a
taxi.
When
I need a haircut, I ride with her (if Daddy will let me off from work) and get
my haircut at Jimmy’s. Sitting in Jimmy’s barber chair that swiveled around and
could be elevated up and down, was a great improvement over the nail keg on the
rickety chair I sat on when Daddy cut my hair. I never took a tumble out of
Jimmy’s barber chair.
Sidney
and I are now of age so Daddy will let us each walk to town alone. I walk that
road to town and back many times during my six years of high school, three and
half miles each way, dreading to go by the houses where large dogs always come
running out to me, barking and growling, threatening to tear my leg off. They
are more vicious at night.
During
this autumn, an alert salesman driving by our house sees the black tarpaper
tacked onto the outside walls of our new castle and stops to show Daddy the
nice siding that his company puts on exterior walls.
“Go
ahead and get it and I’ll help pay for it.” Likely it was on the salesman’s 2nd
or 3rd persistent visit (as he kept stopping in occasionally urging
Daddy to buy) that Lucille spoke up with that offer. (Lucille was presently
getting a regular paycheck at the garment plant.) No doubt a broad smile spread
widely across the salesman’s inner soul when he heard that. He clinched the
sale that night. Daddy agreed (somewhat reluctantly) and it amazed me to see a “real”
work crew (2 or 3 men) come do the job of nailing on nice looking siding over
that drab black tarpaper.
Then
Daddy and Lucille start making the monthly payments for that job. Had Lucille
not urged Daddy, I wonder how many years he would have left those exterior
walls in that “unfinished, black tarpaper style”. If only a salesmen driving by
our castle could see the black tarpaper interior walls of the boys’ bedroom.
That might have saved me from having to gaze on that unsightly scene for the
next six years till I move out of this house.
Each
six weeks, I receive my report card at school. There are 3 such reporting
periods before our Christmas vacation. I get straight A’s the first and second
times I receive my report card. I am elated and proudly show it to fellow
students and homefolks. Upon getting straight A’s the second time, Rayburn
tells me that he will give me a present if I get straight A’s all this year. I
am determined to get straight A’s all year! But on the 3rd reporting
period as we get out of school for Christmas break, I got one B. The rest of my
grades were A’s. I was disappointed, but no need to despair. Just keep studying
hard.
Just
before Christmas Lucille and Janiece each receive a large (refrigerated)
Christmas turkey at work. “Let’s eat yours at Christmas and mine at New Year’s.”
Janiece proposes that to Lucille, they agree to it, and we eight souls stuff
ourselves with much stuffed turkey that holiday season.
You
know from experience how that it seems to take forever for your family to
finish off that holiday turkey, and you all heave a sigh of relief when you
finally accomplish that. There was no
such problem for us 8 hungry country folks. Five were males (4 growing boys
and a hardworking Dad). The 3 ladies were also skilled at eating turkey. We all
speedily inhaled those two big birds and marveled at them disappearing so
quickly.
(Apart
from holiday eating, Janice now does her own grocery shopping in town, cooks it
at suppertime and on weekends. I’m welcome to eat from it, and I do.)
On
Christmas morning 1958, Rayburn, Sidney and I go hunting together, each
carrying his .22 rifle. For over 2 hours, we walk a large circuit thru forests
and meadows, seeing little game, but target shooting at objects for fun. We
time our arrival back home to be greeted by the delicious smell of Christmas
dinner being set onto the table. All eight of us enjoy that family Christmas meal,
Janiece and I standing at the kitchen counter to eat. Never before in my
lifetime, had I seen such a nice mealtime (or holiday time) in my own house.
Likely Mother was looking down in amazement from the portals of Heaven, shaking
her head and saying, “I just can’t believe it!”
During
the calendar year 1958, several major changes (for the better) came into my
life. I hope you can grasp the gist of them from my feeble attempts to briefly
write of them in the latter part of the previous chapter and thus far in this
chapter. I thank God for those betterments in life. Truly, every good thing
comes from God in Heaven.
When
this year (1958) ends, my 13th birthday is only a few days away in
the future. No longer am I a child. I am evolving into a youth, a teenager.
Steadily with passing time, I feel less and less helpless. Less and less I feel
hopelessly trapped under the circumstances of poverty and strenuous farm labor
with no better outlook in sight ahead. I am determined to grow up and
make a better life for myself than the life I have experienced my first 13
years on earth. The hope (of better things to come) continually swells within my being as I steadily approach adulthood
(when I then hope to start making those “better
things” reality).
At
this time, though I’m a only a lad who had thus far only experienced a life of
poverty-stricken hard farm labor, I’m already well aware of an
important key to a better life on earth. ‘Study hard, Richard boy! Make those straight A’s! Go on to
college! Eat all you can possibly digest from the tree of knowledge of good and
evil. That is the key to breaking the chains that bind and enslave
you to the “pore” farm and the key to enabling you to rise up and be great! Go
for it, Boy, with all your might! Give it all you’ve got!!’
(Later
on in this book, I will start numbering major changes that occur in my life. In
an attempt to keep those numbers few,
I am not numbering the year 1958
among them, though it was a year of
significant changes.)
“Congratulations
on your betterments, Richard boy!”
‘Thank
you!’
Let
me write of church life at this time. Growing pains develop concerning our
aging church building itself. Pastor Ritch is a carpenter (a builder), and
likely he was the first to feel those growing pains and then began to inject
them into other members.
After
plenty of discussion, voting, planning (and possibly fund raising) (and other
such necessary evils), a concrete slab is poured behind the present two story
church building, and a two story addition is built onto it. Three holes are
knocked into the 2nd floor back wall of the old building; doors are
installed in 2 of them and a baptistery is built into the hole behind the
pulpit area. No longer will we all have to troop to a creek to have a
baptizing. Years later, I will be baptized here.
A
stairway is built in the new addition next to the former outside back wall (that
wall now inside the new addition).
Three new (larger) classrooms make up the 2nd floor of the new
addition, and its first floor is made into a kitchen and dining area. Thus we
become modern Christians who no longer have to troop thru the rain to go to and
from the auditorium to Sunday School classes. This indoor stairway leads down
to the kitchen where a new door in the former back wall gives entrance to the
narrow hallway to go to 1st floor classrooms.
“What, have ye not houses to eat in?”
Yes,
each of our church members was blessed with a house in which to eat. There were
no homeless amongst us. But it is much more fun to eat together at church
often, and just ignore such warnings in the Bible. So the church starts eating
and drinking together several times a year (inside) (so no need to worry about
it raining on our eating, and so convenient to eat at night also). I especially
liked the annual Christmas program a few nights before Christmas; singing Christmas
carols, putting on a play and such. And then going down to the dining area for
delicious cake, pie, fudge, cookies, and such. I particularly liked the hot
chocolate with a marshmallow in it.
Classmate
Jerry Ritch (Pastor’s son) and I have become good buddies and enjoy horsing
around when we are together. Sunday School and League teen classes now plan
more events at church, which include plenty of fun and eating. So church is
evolving from a house strictly for worshiping our Lord into a place to come and
have much fun also, and to go to the devil.
At
school, Miss Strickland tells us about a speech contest and urges all who will
do so, to enter it. Few enter it. Guess who one of the few was. You guessed “right”
again. Contestants were to choose a famous American, write a speech on that
person, memorize the speech, and on contest day, deliver that speech in the
auditorium before teachers, principal, teacher judges and the entire junior and
senior high student body. I chose Robert E. Lee, wrote my speech about him,
Miss Strickland rewrote it much better, I memorized it, and rehearsed it many
times as each of the few contestants did.
On
contest day, I had good, steady delivery, not once having to pause to recall my
next line as the other contestants did on occasion. I was the best contestant
with “speech delivery” except on one point.
I would have won first place except I didn’t speak up hardly loud enough
for that size of an audience. They could hear me, but still the judges “docked”
me for insufficient volume. I didn’t place well in the final judging. So what!
There were no monetary prizes given for these winners, just praise. Praise
would not have helped my thin wallet, so I wasn’t upset about not placing well.
(All
these speeches I am volunteering to do as a boy, is an act of my Lord preparing
me to “preach the word”! And now as I do that, I make it a point to insure that the volume is plenty high, as the
Judge of all the earth rates me each time and determines my eternal reward.)
I
think it was at the start of my 7th grade year that Lamar County
bought a brand new school bus and put it on my route for me to ride to school.
It was rare for that poor county to get a new bus. This one was longer than the
present buses in the county (with more seats). The county bought it to be used
for some of the high school (day) trips. Each bus has a number. This bus is
Number One. They chose to put it on my route because this route has a large
number of students.
I
enjoy riding the nice, new, long bus, but I enjoy something else more (I
think). Several days each year, Number One is taken off its regular route for
some class to use for a school trip. Then an ancient bus would be pulled out of
mothballs at the bus barn to substitute on our route. Sometimes we got an old
bus that was in shambles, the seats falling apart and such. We boys enjoyed the
adventure of riding it. Because the substitute bus would be smaller than Number
One, we were packed into it like sardines before it reached the school. We boys
liked to see how many boys we could pack onto one seat to see if we could
finish collapsing the seat completely.
‘School
Days! School Days! How I loved mischief on School Days!”
“Mischievous
school boy Richard, did you ever get paddled at school?”
‘A
few times!’
“Would
you care to give us the exciting torturous details?”
‘Such
details are not appropriate content for this highly dignified,
refined, cultured book.’
“You
certainly have a way with words, writer boy!”
‘Thank
you!’
When
my 7th grade studies end at the end of May 1959, I have a nice
report card with many A’s on it to keep as a souvenir. I did not get any
present from Rayburn because I did not make straight A’s. But I’m thankful to
have made high grades in all subjects all year.
My stepbrother
Rayburn graduates from high school now. I do not recall the details of him
consulting with an Air Force recruiter, signing up to join the Air Force and
such. But he planned all that well and as soon as he graduates at Vernon; he
travels far away for Air Force basic training. After that basic training ends,
Rayburn comes back to our house on leave (autumn of 1959?).
He
has no car. He left by bus and comes back here by bus. On Sunday morning, he
rides to church with us in our old Nash, dressed in his Air Force Blues for
everyone to see (just like I will later wear my Marine dress uniform to my home
church for everyone to see). He stays 2 weeks or so, visiting with friends and
buddies of his. Then he leaves Vernon to travel to the Air Force Base where he
will go on duty. I think that base was on the west coast of the U.S. I recall
him bidding Farewell to us who were in the house when he left. And then Rayburn
really leaves
Vernon. He vanishes. I have not seen him since. If he came back to
Vernon after that, I think it was only one time.
As I
now switch to farming news, let me back up to late this past winter (of my 7th
grade). About one-third of a mile on down the road away from town is the Thomas
farm. They were one of the few households (possibly no children) within half a
mile of us of whom I knew very little.
(I think they kept pretty much to themselves.) Mr. Thomas died. (I never knew
any details of his death, the time or the cause.) Mrs. Thomas is left with his
farm and equipment.
Now,
before spring planting time comes, Daddy buys deceased Farmer Thomas’ tractor
and all his farming equipment. Also, Daddy rents his farmland. (Other people
are living in the Thomas farmhouse.) Daddy also rents the Lollar field at the
lower end of the Thomas farm (going toward the creek bottom) and in that field
we plant the cotton acreage allowed for the Lollar farm. So this year (1959), Daddy
greatly expands the amount of acreage he farms and cultivates, transitioning
from farming with animal and human strength to mostly mechanical power. Along with the several major changes that occurred in our
family life now, add this one to
them.
In
mid-summer, Daddy turns 42 years old. No doubt the strenuous
task of cultivating the fields with horses was beginning to tax his physical
strength. We boys do plenty of the “lighter” plowing and cultivating with the
horses. But we boys don’t have the strength to help Daddy with the “heaviest”
labor or the skill to do, that which requires a lot of skill.
The
2 “plowings” that were most physically demanding were the breaking of the
fields with the breaking (turning) plow before planting and “laying the crops
by” in hot mid-summer with that heavy plow called the “middle buster”.
The “breaking
plow” (a single wing plow used to “break” each field in the springtime) was not
nearly as heavy as the “middle buster” plow (a double wing plow) that Daddy
used to “lay by” the crops. Also, the weather was not hot at “breaking” time,
like it was at “laying by” time in mid or late summer. Also, he used both
horses to pull the breaking plow (which was a help to the skinny horses). So
that springtime plowing was less demanding than “laying by” the crops in
mid-summer.
Soon
after planting (when the cotton or corn plants shoot up a few inches out of the
ground) came the first plowing, running the light “top harrow” over each row,
its small teeth uprooting and covering small grass (that is also springing up)
and throwing a thin layer of soil against each side of the row of plants to assist
in their growth. The next plowing was with the “side harrow”, throwing a thin
layer of soil against each side of the row of (now taller) plants (one side at
a time because the plants are too high to “straddle” with a plow like the “top
harrow” straddled over the small plants).
I
think there was one more plowing before the final “laying by”, running the big “middle
buster” plow down each furrow. This big heavy plow plowed deep into the furrow
for its large wings to throw up a thick layer of soil onto the (now large)
plants on the 2 rows to the left and right of each furrow.
Though
this plowing requires the most “horsepower”, only one horse can be used at a
time, it walking straight down the “middle” (furrow) with tall plants on both
sides. Daddy would take both horses to the field and rotate them every 20
minutes or so (one tired, sweat-soaked, panting horse resting, tied to something
at the edge of the field and one horse pulling that heavy plow). I watched
those horses strain to pull that heavy plow (running deep) with sweat dropping
off the horse and the horse panting (covered with sweat and white foam formed
from the sweat). I would look at the tired horse presently at rest and wonder
if it was about to drop dead from fatigue.
But
poor Daddy didn’t have a son strong enough to take turns with him. He would
take a break when absolutely necessary. I watched him (soaked with sweat and it
dripping from him) becoming fatigued to the limit. Yet he would keep at it all
day (and the next day) till all the crops were “laid by”. And he never complained. He readily accepted that lot in life and
loved to farm. He certainly had a farmer’s
heart! Observing his strength, ruggedness, hard labor, perseverance and
good attitude caused me to greatly admire that truly great man. Also, observing
the excruciating toil of old fashion farming, my heart quickly evolved into a heart desirous to escape
from the farm.
Steadily
aging at 42, Daddy could not continue to work that hard indefinitely. Also,
steady modernization steadily made it more difficult for a family to make a
living on a small farm, bringing on the necessity to switch to mechanical
farming and to cultivate much more acreage. “For the times, they
are a changing!” Those were the trends of the changing times around me in 1959
as I grew from a child into a youth.
I
almost jump with joy upon learning that Daddy is going to buy a tractor. That
sounds exciting because it will diminish our toil and I will get
to drive that tractor. Exciting. When I became about 10 years old,
Daddy decided that I was old enough to catch the horses out of the pasture
early in the morning (not on school days) and harness them up for their day’s
work. A big problem was involved with that chore. Those two tired, skinny
horses objected to their daily toil. They had rather relax in the pasture all
day eating the bitter weeds and what other scant grass they find in our poor
pasture. They didn’t want to be caught, so they typically walked away from me
when they saw me coming for them.
I
wasn’t assigned the job of catching them out every time, and I dreaded it when
Daddy told me to go catch them. The most successful method my little brain
devised was to get an ear of corn out of the crib. I would take one horse’s
bridle in my left hand, hold it behind my back so the horse hopefully wouldn’t
see it, hold out the enticing ear of corn in my right hand, and thus walk
toward the first horse whistling the horse call. ‘Lookie here at this delicious
ear of corn! Come get it, horsey!’
With
his large head full of horse sense, he knew that this little boy was trying to
trap him in slaving away another day (as I had done many times). But the
underfed horse wanted that ear of corn. So usually he would let me bring it to
him, take it in his mouth and try to walk away with it as I was trying to hold
his muzzle with one hand (to prevent his escape) while bringing up the bridle
with the other hand and fitting it onto his head. If I got the bridle on him, I
had won that war. Sometimes he would break my grasp on his muzzle and run away
with my ear of corn. I would try again or give up. When I gave up, Daddy would
have to go catch the horses. For some reason, they submitted much more readily
to a man master than to a little boy. I wonder why?
“It’s
because they have a lot of horse sense, little boy!”
But
from now on it will be much easier to just start up the
tractor’s engine, put it in gear and go! This tractor was a large; two row
Farmall Super C that cultivated 2 rows at a time. Most farmers around had
smaller “one-row” tractors, a Farmall Cub, or Super A, or a one-row John Deere
tractor. We poor Yerbys were the last
family in our area to farm with horses only, the last to obtain a
tractor. But when we finally did, Daddy got a tractor that out-gunned most
other tractors around. Also, the tractor and all its cultivating plows and
equipment were quite new. Mr. Thomas had kept them in good condition. As I
looked at that big powerful tractor and its complete set of equipment in fine
condition, it just didn’t seem proper for it all to fall into our hands.
So,
this spring of my 7th grade, Daddy soon lets us boys drive the
tractor and do plowing (with the tractor) that we are able to do. Disking was
easiest. Breaking was next easiest. I soon began doing both of those and
enjoyed farming much more with this powerful machine.
Till
now, we have kept a team of horses (two). When a horse got too old to
work, we replaced it with a younger horse. Soon after buying the tractor, we
come to keep only one horse for plowing the vegetable garden and such. Seldom
did we ever need a pair of horses. When we did, Daddy would borrow Mr. Gary’s
mule and team it up with our horse. Mr. Gary lived a quarter mile down the
road. Sidney or I would walk to his house to “borrow” his mule, lead it to our
house and then lead it back to Mr. Gary’s house after we finished working with
it.
Along
about this time, Daddy replaces our aging horse, buying a white horse named
Bob. Bob was more of a racehorse than a plow horse. For a few months, Daddy
tried in vain to gear Bob down to the slow speed of a workhorse, but finally
gave up and traded him for a good workhorse. The short time we had this white
horse, I so thrilled to ride him. Joe obtained an old worn-out saddle (for
free, I think) from a neighbor. We boys would saddle up Bob and ride him. He
would run fast!
On
the Thomas farm, Daddy had the pasture, barn and separate crib. We kept cows
and calves there at times. Daddy had the nice shop where orderly Farmer Thomas
kept the tractor and all its equipment (all cleaned up and in such order and
good array, which Daddy didn’t have such a knack for doing). Also, the 3 farm
buildings I just listed were in much better condition than the ones on our own
farm (that Mr. Otto built). ‘We have really come into some nice things!’ That’s
how I felt looking around on all that. Thus I feel better about life.
So
we get busy planting and cultivating many more acres this spring and summer
(especially of cotton).
We
plant our largest watermelon crop ever (about 4 acres). Trucker Dennis Langley
(in our church) agrees to take a semi-trailer load “up north” (to northern
states) to sell them. We hire several boys from church and a quite large crew
of us works hard one long day to take
a few hundred watermelons out of the field on the trailer and wagon, and load
them onto the long trailer of that “big rig” parked on the Old Road beside the
watermelon patch. It was a tiring workday, but fun with several boys and 3 or
so adults joking and such as we worked. In a few more weeks (as more watermelons
ripen), Daddy talks another trucker into buying a load to haul north and we
again have a similar workday.
Come
fall time, Daddy has to hire more people to help us pick our larger cotton
crop. Several poor adults who live around are willing to pick cotton for its
low wage. We hire several young’uns from the neighborhood and from our church.
Those church kids live further away and only come to pick cotton on Saturdays
(not the short time after school on school days). Thus, cotton-picking time
(that I naturally like) becomes more fun as I enjoy the company of other kids
much of the picking cotton time.
Mr.
Thomas had a large, good and sturdy trailer that we got in the package deal of
buying all of his farm equipment. So now, instead of loading the cotton onto
our horse-drawn wagon, we pull this trailer behind the tractor to the cotton
patch at cotton-picking time and empty our sacks of cotton into it to make up a
bale. Our car frequently has to give up its place in our new house’s carport so
we can put the trailer of cotton under the carport out of the rain. Just a few
times, Joe and I spent the night sleeping on that cotton in the trailer under
the carport, digging down into the cotton for it to provide us sufficient warm
bedding on a chilly night. (Pioneer adventure!)
(Enough
said of this major change to a tractor and expanding our farming in the summer
after my 7th grade and fall of my 8th grade. Let’s go
back to school now.)
I
start the 8th grade in September 1959. I gain a new sweetheart for a
few months, 7th grader Joan from Crossville Elementary School. So
this is her 1st year to attend Vernon School. I had never seen her
before this year. We got to know each other in a combined study hall of 7th
and 8th graders.
At
the end of the school day, I often walk her to her school bus, carrying her
books in my best chauvinistic effort. (Too bad there weren’t any dragons along
the way for me to slay and impress Joan in that manner.) She had an identical
twin sister (Jane) and they dressed alike each day. It was most difficult to
tell them apart. I think, only once did I mistake Jane as Joan when I
approached the two of them together. They both got a good laugh out of that.
As
best I remember, I was elected president of our 8th grade class. At
this age, I’m getting a big head and even dreaming of becoming our nation’s
president. (I haven’t yet completely dropped that idea.)
“Drop
it, old man. By all means, drop it!”
I
have little else to write to you of my 8th grade of school. It was a
most enjoyable school year. I made 3 B’s on my report card and all my other report card grades were A’s.
Of my 6 years of junior high and high school, this year was my best report
card. Only three B’s, and two of them
should have been A’s.
Physical
Education (PE) was a graded subject. But typically we were just turned loose to
do what we wanted to do on the “PE” ground (play football or softball, or to
just stand around and talk). One of the two coaches at school was assigned as
instructor to each PE class. We seldom saw our PE instructor at PE class time.
He typically used that time catching up on other schoolwork of his. And it was
typical for him to just assign an A for a PE grade, each six weeks to each
student.
Coach
Bell typically assigned an A to each student. He was my PE instructor last
year. I was hoping he would be my instructor this year. But I got stern Coach
Jones instead. During the first semester, on the 2nd six weeks
reporting period, Coach Jones gave me a B, the only reason being that arbitrarily
he did not give an A for PE to all students each time. And though I was most
active in playing sports during PE class time (not like the guys who hid behind
the blenchers behind the wire screen behind the batters’ box to smoke and tell
dirty jokes during PE), Coach Jones arbitrarily assigned me a B (for no other
reason than “I don’t give A’s to everyone”).
So
for my first 3 reporting periods, I get A, B, A in PE. Next comes the first
semester’s grade average. Common sense told me that those three grades would
average out to an A. But stern Coach Jones didn’t use common sense. He assigns
me a B for that semester’s average. Those 2 B’s (of the three B’s I got in the
8th grade) were absolutely
uncalled for.
Stern
Coach Jones was scary to little boy me. I don’t think he had ever said anything
personally to me and vice versa. I tried to avoid that scary man. But I muster
up the nerve to approach him one day in the gym with my report card open in my
hand.
‘I
got two A’s and one B. Shouldn’t that average out to an A for the semester?’
“No!
Two A’s and one B cannot possibly average out to an A average. That’s a B
average.” In his slow drawl, Jones was just as stern and as cold as he could be
with that unreasonable arbitrary thinking of his.
So
be it, Coach! You’re the boss. I’ll just keep pressing on with my primary goal
in life of making Heaven my home. Perchance I meet you at the Judgment Bar; I
just might bring up this subject when we are on that more level playing field!
That
8th grade First Semester report card came out at the end of the
calendar year as we go on Christmas vacation. January brings in the new year of
1960 and my 14th birthday.
I
chose to be in the 4-H Club all 12 years I was in Vernon School. “Head, Hands,
Health, Heart.” Those were the 4 H’s and we were taught to protect each of them
and to use them for the good of mankind. Each year, club members chose a 4-H
project from a list of “approved” projects. It was typical for the rural
members to raise a calf or a pig as a project.
There
were a number of 4-H Club activities in which members could choose to
participate. One was the annual essay writing contest with 1st, 2nd,
and 3rd place winners chosen countywide from all four schools in the
county. No monetary prizes were awarded, just a small trophy and the glory and
fame of having won. Few 4-H Club members bothered to write an essay for this
contest. No doubt you have already
guessed who one of the few was!
During
the 8th grade, I wrote a 4-H Club essay on Firearm Safety, and you have already guessed who won First
Place in Lamar County this year.
(‘Coach
Jones, do you think that would average out to an A in essay writing?!’)
I
submitted an essay four different years (I think). Firearm Safety was my
favorite subject for that 4-H Club essay. I liked using firearms. Even more, I
liked not accidently shooting a buddy or myself. Also, I liked not accidently
getting shot by a buddy. Thus, I put my heart into the writing of my Firearm
Safety essay. (I think it took First Place in the county one other year also.
Even if I wrote on the same subject a second time, I wasn’t permitted to turn
in the previous essay again. I had to write one anew, with somewhat different
content.)
Each
year on a Saturday in May (shortly before the school year ended), the 4-H Clubs
of Lamar County held their annual combined rally in the Vernon School
auditorium for club members who desired to attend. Awards were issued at that
time. I highly desired to attend when I was to receive an award. This year I
received a gold (color) trophy cup about 8 inches tall (for my First Place
essay) and cherished it for years to come.
A
talent show was part of this annual 4-H Club countywide rally. I know you are surprised and disappointed to hear that I
never entered it. I must use caution to avoid spreading my scant talent too
thinly.
Such
is enough to say of my 8th grade of school that ended at the end of
May 1960. However, shortly thereafter, I got to attend a most fun 4-H
Club event during summer vacation (and am most desirous to tell you about it
now).
Each
summer, county junior high and high school 4-H Club chapters statewide in
Alabama held a 4 or 5-day convention on the Auburn University campus. From each
county, just a very few (7 or so)
junior and senior high school 4-H student members were chosen to attend. And
you were ever so speedy to guess who
one of the very few was this summer.
Four
delegates from each
county attended to cast their votes on 4-H matters that were voted upon
(including voting for statewide student officers). The winner of each county’s
talent show went, to compete on “state level”. Candidates for “state level” 4-H
Club offices went to run a campaign during the convention (with the voting at
the very end). This year, we had one candidate from Lamar County. Our talent
show winner was one guy (as opposed to a group of two or more). So that
totals 6 (and there may have been one other student).
I
think it was after school let out for summer vacation that I was notified that
I had been chosen to go attend the convention as a voting delegate. Such
delegates were chosen from amongst the most active and achieving 4-H kids. I
was elated over the prospect of spending 5 days on that university campus, as
opposed to doing slave farm labor those 5 days. But my first thought was: ‘No
way will Daddy let me go. He’ll make me stay here to work, as he needs my help
so badly in the middle of busy summer farm work.’
I don’t recall if I got the “invitation” by a written
letter or a phone call or if someone came to the house and told me in person.
But Daddy was not yet aware of the invitation. I so dreaded asking him if I
could go, because I thought there was a good chance he would devastate me by
refusing me, saying he needed me to work. I think we were busily working in the
field when I told Daddy I was invited and told him the time frame (when I would
leave home and when I would return). He immediately said that I could go. I
felt like I was back among the living.
I
quickly notified the 4-H Club official in Vernon that I could go, received
instructions from him, and prepared accordingly. Packing up a few clothes and
personal toilet items (enough for 5 days) was about the sum total of “preparing”
for the trip. Before, I have told you of us Yerby kids “packing” such into
paper sacks (large brown paper bags from the grocery store) when we went
somewhere to spend one or more nights. At this time, there is not a suitcase in
the Yerby house. I sure don’t want to take my belongings to a university campus
in a paper poke. (Why, they might just think I’m a country hick.) I was able to
borrow a canvas bag or an old suitcase from someone to use.
Vernon
student Edward and I leave Vernon on Monday morning with Mr. Haskell in his
car. I am excited. This is Big Time for an 8th grade country hick.
We stop between Kennedy and Millport to pick up Mac (and the boy singer who won
the county talent show). We head down Hwy 82 toward Montgomery, stopping at a café
on that highway for lunch, and then on to Auburn, arriving in mid-afternoon. A
lady worker in Vernon took the three or four 4-H girls (from our county) to
Auburn in her car today, and got them settled into the assigned girls’ dorm. We
boys were assigned 2 boys each to men’s dorm rooms in Magnolia Hall. Edward and
I room together.
Four
hundred or so 4-H kids were arriving from all over our fair state. So I found
myself amidst a bustle of activity. The university’s summer quarter is in
session now, but fewer (than normal) university students attend the summer
session. Thus they have dorm space to loan us kids for 5 days.
My
slow farm-paced mind tries to stay abreast of everything in the hustle and
bustle of a large group of kids settling in. We are issued meal tickets for the
dining hall here in this men’s dorm complex and soon go there and eat supper. I
stay close to Edward. He is 1 year older than I, has a level head, and can
absorb this worldly hustle and bustle better than I can.
I
have to pay very little money to enjoy this week on this nice campus. I had to
pay for my meal ticket (and possibly a little for the dorm room). I think that
was all I had to pay. And I brought a little spending money.
We
have been issued our schedule and a simple map showing the locations of the
dorms we lodge in and the campus buildings 4-H Club meetings are held in. After
supper tonight, all 400 or so of us assemble in the main ball room of the
Student Union Building for a “welcoming” meeting with speeches highly praising
4-H Club and calling on us to be faithful to 4-H all our lives. (There is
always volunteer work adults can do to help 4-H kids.) Anyway, this pep rally
and praise meeting tonight was akin to idol worship.
We
had meetings most every morning, early afternoon, and at night (7 PM or so).
Upstanding 4-H adults lectured us on becoming upstanding adults. The talent
show contest was held one night. The guy singer (who won 1st place
back in Vernon) was far outclassed here. He didn’t stand a chance of placing
among the winners. Each county’s group of kids decides which candidates for
state officer to campaign for, and writes posters to plaster everywhere allowed
(in dorm halls and Student Union Building) that toot their candidate. I think
the election was held on Thursday and the results were announced in our final
gathering than night. The one girl candidate from Lamar County lost badly in
the election.
Briefly
stated, this convention consisted of those things. After eating breakfast
Friday morning, we all soon vacate our dorm rooms; get back into our sponsors’
cars to head back home (back to the slave farm for me). We arrive on campus
Monday afternoon and depart Friday morning. We were here for 3 whole days, and
a short part of 2 other days. This was a most fun week for me that went too
fast and ended too soon.
The
3 whole days of Tuesday thru Thursday, from mid-afternoon to suppertime was
free time. Some sponsors drove their kids out to lovely Lake Chewacla to swim.
Upon dropping us off at the dorm Monday afternoon, my sponsor (Mr. Haskell)
drove back to Vernon to work the next 3 days, driving back here on Friday
morning to pick us kids up. Thus he wasn’t here to chauffeur us kids and such.
I tried to catch a ride to the lake one afternoon, but failed. During free time
on those 3 days, I walked around campus and the town of Auburn, just taking in
everything. I spent some free time in the dorm where 4-H guys were horsing
around.
I thoroughly
enjoyed this stay on Auburn campus. Three times a day, I lined up with “men”
university students in the dining hall, got my tray of food and sat at a table
with 4-H kids to eat (in the same dining hall with university students). The
food was good. To me, the atmosphere was high class.
While
living in my boyhood home (till I was almost 19 year old) I had extremely few
opportunities to take a shower at bath time. At home we had no running water or
shower bath. Here in the dorm, I would get in the shower, turn the water up
high pressure and just never wanted to turn it off. I felt like I could
let it shower on me forever (it felt so good). I enjoyed a plush life here a
total of almost 4 days. We 4-H boys horsed around together much in our dorm
rooms and the dorm complex. I am most thankful I got to come there this week. I
plenty regretted having to load up into Mr. Haskell’s car and leave here.
Heading
back to Lamar County, we stop for lunch at a café on the highway. I think it
was after mid-afternoon Friday when Mr. Haskell dropped me off at Daddy’s
house. I change from my ballroom Cinderella outfit to my rough “slave rags” and
work in the field the rest of that afternoon.
Upon
graduating from high school 2 years ago, Janiece’s boyfriend (Jerry) entered
Auburn University that September. Jerry now has 2 years of university study
behind him. This summer, he is here in Vernon working to make money. He comes
to our house 2 times or more each weekend. Back when I first got invited to go
to Auburn (and got Dad’s permission), I excitedly told Jerry about it. He
rejoiced with me. Now, upon returning home, I talk Jerry’s ears off about how
much I enjoyed my trip and of the places I now know, on campus and in town.
Truly, it was a rich and happy experience for me!
Now parents, bring your chairs up close
for a most important lesson on parenting. You might even want to drag your kids
in also.
“Here’s
a new pair of shoes for you to wear on your trip.”
Two
or three days after Daddy told me that I could go on the trip to Auburn, he
came back from town and handed me a shoe box as he said that. I opened it up
and liked the looks of those bright, shiny black shoes. I soon tried them on.
‘They’re
too small! They hurt my feet!’
“That’s
probably just because they are new and stiff. When you wear them a little and
break them in, maybe they’ll be OK.”
I
soon wore them to church. ‘They hurt! They aren’t big enough!’
“We’ll
take them by the shoe shop (repair shop) in town and let Mr. Faulkner stretch
them. That should do it.”
So I
went to the shoe repair shop with Daddy. And Mr. Faulkner (our neighbor)
inserted a “stretcher” into each shoe and ratcheted on each “stretcher”,
spreading the interior of each shoe somewhat. He let them set a few minutes in
that “stretched” state as he and Daddy chatted, and then Mr. Faulkner had me to
try them on.
‘That
feels better’, I reluctantly confessed (because I knew this growing boy
needed a larger size shoe). Those shoes
were at least a half size too small for me at
that time, and I was a growing boy!
“When
you get them broken in good, they should be just right.” I think one of those 2
adults proclaimed something to that effect (words in which this little boy had
absolutely no faith, but I had to accept what adults dished out).
All
down thru the long ages of time on this earth, cruel men have come up with
unnumbered devices to render the most exquisite pain upon a human body and have
purposely used those devices to torture people they hated. But I think this shiny new pair of shoes outdid all such devices of all ages. The pain my feet endured that
week at Auburn was most exquisite!
I
saved this tragic news till after telling how greatly I enjoyed
that trip. But Mr. and Mrs. Parent, it was most regrettable that I had to needlessly
suffer such great pain all the time I was wearing those shoes during that time
at Auburn. I did not take an extra pair of shoes. I didn’t have enough money to
buy a larger pair at Auburn. As I tried to enjoy the daily activities, one
thought continuously throbbed thru my brain. ‘I’ll be so glad to get back to the dorm room tonight and take off my
shoes.’ This trip was the one and only such chance for me during my
boyhood. I think it most regrettable that for hours each day I had to endure
such exquisite pain that could have easily been prevented, by
simple better parenting.
Firstly: At
the start, the wise thing would have been for Daddy to have taken me with him
when he bought the shoes, let Mr. King measure my feet and let Mr. King pull
out the size shoe he thinks best (considering my age and how fast I am
growing). Then I’d try on that shoe to make sure it was somewhat loose, because
my feet will grow as I wear these shoes. Daddy did not take me for such a
fitting because it was his nature to do such things alone (and also, because he
wanted me working on the farm while he was in town buying the shoes). Thus,
I suffered.
Secondly:
When I first tried on the shoes at the house and told Daddy they were too
small, he should have diligently felt the toe end of the shoes to see that my
toes were crammed in tightly (and considered that my feet are steadily growing
longer). We should have gone right back to Mr. King’s store and exchanged the
shoes for a larger size. But, NO. I suppose I was fated to suffer so, in order
to now urge you parents to do better.
Parents,
you are
doing a lot better than that, aren’t you? Please tell this story to every
parent you know. Spread it all around the world. When I get to Heaven, may I
meet a multitude of little China girls who were made so happy on earth when
their painfully bound feet were loosed from their bounds when their parents
heard this story!
Daddy’s
nature of a loner resulted in insufficient
communication and interaction with his children, which resulted in more than sufficient pain for me
during the week I wanted to enjoy being at Auburn, and more than sufficient unpleasant memories on other occasions.
Please
don’t go to sleep on me now, parents. I have one more valuable lesson
while we are in parenting class.
‘Here’s
my report card. I need you to sign it.’
During
each of my six years of junior hi and hi school, six times each year I said
that to Daddy as I handed my report card over to him. Each time, Daddy took my
report card, opened it up and looked at the grades I had received on that most
recent reporting period, closed the report card, signed it in the designated
place on the back of it, and handed it back to me. That was a total of 36 times in six years that my
Dad looked at my grades and signed my report card in my presence. He did that in complete silence approximately 35 of
those times, saying nothing to me!
Many
times I made straight A’s (likely a majority of those 36 times). I don’t recall
Daddy ever commenting to me on such a report. I do recall that he was usually
silent about my straight A’s. Time and again, this little boy stood before
Daddy with great anticipation as he viewed my straight A’s report, so hoping for a short word of compliment,
only to receive total silence. The one
time I recall him speaking up was when I had all A’s except for one B.
“Well,
you didn’t make all A’s this time.” (Short and not sweet.)
Daddy’s
silence and sternness toward me as a child resulted in me naturally not trying
to talk much with him. Each reporting period, I had good grades. Never had a D
or F. Almost never had a C. Had few B’s. Had straight A’s many times and mostly
A’s the other times. Thus, I would stand before Daddy in silence, hoping to
hear “Well done” or “I’m proud of you”, especially the many times I got
straight A’s. But no such compliment came.
I
only recall him speaking out once, and that upon me not making
all A’s. “Well, you didn’t make all A’s this time.”
“I’m
proud of you!” Daddy spoke that to me once when I was 31 years old. I am quite
sure that was the very first time he ever said that to me. As a 31 year-old
adult, upon hearing that, I smiled, said ‘Thank you’, soon finished bidding him
Farewell, and turned to board the airplane to head back to my mission field in
Japan (from whence I had recently come).
But
as I smiled and thanked him, the little boy inside me screamed out (silently), ‘Too late! Way too late! Twenty-five years ago, you should have
started saying such from time to time! Plenty of times I gave you good enough
reason to say such to me when I was a boy! Such a compliment would have meant so much
to a little boy. It’s just too late of a
start now, to mean much to me! It’s like an insult coming this late. If I
didn’t deserve to hear it one single time between the ages of 5 and 18, I just
don’t want to hear it now!’ That is what exploded in my heart.
So,
Mr. and Mrs. Parent, that’s your valuable lessons in parenting for today. And
it didn’t cost you anything. Aren’t you so blessed? So, now please listen
carefully to what God’s Holy Spirit is saying to you regarding these two
lessons, and obey what God teaches you to do in order to receive a “Well Done”
on parenting from your Creator! Then when I meet you and your children in
Heaven, all of you will have wonderfully good news to share with me regarding
those lessons. (Even while we are still journeying on earth, you might want to “make
my day” by writing to me of such.)
(Next
subject) This year, “Powers to be” in agriculture, government and business
built a pickle plant in Fayette and urged farmers to grow cucumbers to supply
to the factory. They tooted the cucumbers as a good money crop. This spring I
was in the 8th grade, Daddy planted 2 acres of cucumbers. As our
cucumber vines started bearing in early summer, light rains came often (above
normal for the summer). The frequent rains kept the cucumber vines green and
bearing cucumbers for a long time (just about all summer).
We
worked hard to keep up with harvesting what the vines just kept on producing. We hired my cousins, Bill and Fred, to help
us pick them. About every other day, Daddy would hitch that sturdy trailer
(filled with baskets and buckets of cucumbers) behind the car and tow it to
Fayette where a grading machine divided our cucumbers into 4 grades according
to size. The smaller ones brought the best price per pound. The largest of the
4 sizes was rejected as culls (too large for their use). We hauled the culls
back home and did our best to entice our chickens, hogs, and cows to eat them.
A
body has to stoop low to pick cucumbers, the vines being on the ground. (No way
could we have staked such a large field of them.) Picking them was truly a pain
in the back. The Friday afternoon I returned from Auburn, I quickly rejoined a
few others in the cucumber field and busily picked them for the remainder of
the day (and for days and days following).
When
school starts back in September 1960, I start the 9th grade and it
seemed great to gain the title of freshman. Through this school year,
I again study hard to make mostly A’s and enjoy school immensely. No major
school events occurred this year with which to bore you. So for brevity’s sake,
that’s all I’ll say about my freshman year of high school. I do not think I was
elected to class president this year. I may have been elected to
vice-president.
Speaking
of presidents, John F. Kennedy shocked a lot of citizens by winning the
presidential election in November 1960. That was a somewhat stunning election
that stunned our nation’s populace with great joy among many and deep regret
among the many others. You can read about this monumental election in the
history books. The U.S. of A. is arriving on the threshold of the space age
with a new, young president full of charisma. “Great and glorious things are
ahead!” That was the bright outlook.
Our
nation is also arriving at the stage where a large majority of its populace
daily stares at a TV. Young and handsome actor-like JFK sure looked more
appealing than bald headed ancient President Ike whom he replaced. Experts say
this “arrival of the TV age” gave little-known John F. Kennedy the edge over
better-known dour Vice-President Richard Nixon, and resulted in Kennedy’s
narrow victory over Nixon in the election.
In
January 1961, I turn 15 years old the month President Kennedy is inaugurated as
our nation’s youngest president thus far. ‘Why, he’s only 28 years older than
I. Am I getting that close to becoming President of the U.S.?’
“Drop
it, little farm boy! Just drop it completely!”
Throughout
each school year, I keep doing the routine seasonal farm labor each season, and
keep enjoying the holidays. I have repeatedly described such thus far. So I
will abruptly end my talk of my 9th grade of school that ended at
the end of May 1961. At the Vernon School, there was no junior high school
graduation ceremony at the end of grade 9. Seventh thru 12th grade
was considered as all being “high school”, with a graduation service for 12th
graders only.
Summer
of 1961 after my 9th grade, Daddy planted only one acre of cucumbers.
Last summer, we learned from experience that 2 acres of them just took too much
of our time to harvest, when there was much other summer farm work that had to
be done.
“Variety
is the spice of life.” It is most rewarding and fulfilling to do the work God
ordained for mankind in Genesis chapters 2 and 3, that of tilling the soil to
gain one’s necessary food. I enjoyed growing a great variety of crops,
especially the cotton and the “food crops” we ate and sold.
Daddy
would take the backseat out of that large old Nash and fill that area and the
trunk with watermelons, cantaloupes, tomatoes (and peas at times), and drive to
the nearby larger city of Columbus, Mississippi and drive around to cafés and
grocery stores, trying to sell all the load (with quite good success). Often
one or two of us boys got to ride along in the front seat. I enjoyed those
trips to Columbus.
We
set watermelons and cantaloupes on the front edge of our front porch. Even
without a “For Sale” sign, the souls in the slow moving, passing vehicles (who
took in all the scenery) knew they were for sale. People would stop and buy.
When we had much such produce in season, we would take it to Vernon on Friday
afternoons (payday), park under a shade near the Post Office and hope people
would buy much of what they saw on display. It was a most blessed boyhood for
me.
“Reading
of all that selling makes me think your family was getting rich, especially
using much slave labor for free!”
‘In
addition to selling produce listed above, yearly we took hogs to the market and
also sold the cotton crop.’
“Wow!
Super Rich!”
‘Regrettably,
No. Somehow we managed to stay in the poor house. That is one of the great mysteries
in the universe.’
Getting
serious now, much of the time, the profit margin was ever so thin. Ever since
borrowing the money to buy this farm back in the fall of 1946, every month Daddy has to make a loan
payment at the bank. When he built our house, and later when he bought the
tractor and equipment, no doubt each time he borrowed money for those expenses
at the bank, the bank mortgaging all of it and Daddy faithfully making the
monthly payments to the bank. We easily managed to remain poor.
The
one true joy and hope for us lay in the fact that the Yerby
adults were Christians and by the grace of God we children were becoming
Christians, daily journeying toward the eternal bliss of that Celestial City. “Come
thou with us, and we will do thee good!” For those souls who put
their faith and trust in the Saviour of the World, all life’s toils and troubles
will soon be past. Whatever you do on your brief earthly journey,
don’t refuse Jesus Christ as your Saviour.
I’ll
close this chapter with an important Spiritual lesson, so wake up now. On a
warm spring day, I was cutting bushes, and digging out their small roots with a
grubbing hoe (tiring, loathsome, boring work to me). I was working with Daddy
clearing off a narrow gentle sloping terrace area on the Thomas place that wasn’t
under cultivation. “We’ll plant turnip greens here”, Daddy told me.
Seeing
the area presently overgrown with bushes and such, I remarked to Daddy that it
wouldn’t make good farmland.
“Oh
yes it will. The soil is rich from years of leaves falling and rotting into the
dirt.” My remark showed Daddy how ignorant I was of such, causing him to add an important comment. “You’d better learn how to
do this (clear growth for planting new ground), so you can do it when
you get grown.”
I silently continued diligently digging
out roots with that grubbing hoe, not making any verbal reply to Daddy. But
deep inside me, my little ol’ heart was screaming out in reply to me. ‘No way will I choose a life of farming! I will seek the best paying
job with a steady paycheck every week or two, and thus have enough money to
live in comfort without having to toil so hard!’
My
eyes and ears were wide open to (and keenly observant of) what the populace
around me was doing. Most of my uncles were not farmers. I saw the
comfortable life their steady wages or salaries gave them. Some of Mother’s
brothers started out as farmers. Some of Mother’s sisters married men who
started out as farmers. Over a period of a few years, this little boy observed
each of those several uncles of mine (one by one) cease farming, to take on steady
employment with steady salary or wages instead (construction, building,
factory work, maintenance work, etc.). I saw the “better” life that
resulted.
In
my local town of Vernon, I saw how nice a living the merchants and office
workers had. And though they possibly had many “business headaches” (problems),
they didn’t have to physically toil as we had to on the farm. Thus, my little
heart was going away from the farm. It would gladly accept most any available
course and direction (job), any job but farming.
Three
goals stirred in my heart.
1.
To have good regular income in order to live comfortably.
2.
To experience great adventure. I dreamed of various types of great adventure,
one of them being a military jet pilot.
3.
And to become great in some area; rich, famous, etc.
I
knew that the key to gaining any one of those goals (to any
degree) lay in becoming as highly educated as possible. Thus I doggedly
determined to study hard and make all the A’s I possibly could the entire time I
attend any school.
With
the arrival of 1960, the winds of change are fiercely blowing in the farming
areas of our nation. A spirit (both spoken and unspoken) was strongly stirring
(especially in the local schools). Set this generation of poor “small family
farm” kids free from that poverty and life style! Get as many of them as possible into colleges and universities. As for
the ones who lack the book sense to handle that higher education, let’s bring
into our farmland regions enough factories and such to give every one of them
the chance of fulltime employment.
This
little farm boy writer was purposely created at the exact crucial time
on a “pore” farm to observe all this and then to pen these words
of wisdom just to you.
“Thank
you, little farm boy! How blessed we all are!”
‘You’re
most welcome.’
Heavenly Father, much sinful
selfishness, sinful vanity, and sinful worldly pride were mixed into those
three boyhood goals of mine stated above. Thank Thee for thoroughly teaching
that truth to me in my 70 years (thus far) on earth. Please work within me a
heart that is truly repentant of all sins
that were mixed into those motives. I have learned how exceedingly gracious
Thou art, in that Thou gavest me a comfortable living upon leaving my boyhood
farm. Later, Thou didst allow me to enjoy many thrilling adventures, parachuting,
piloting an aircraft, and such. And most important, in the end, Thou didst
elevate me to the highest rank on this earth that a human soul can achieve: that of being the lowliest servant of all, to Almighty God in
Heaven, my Creator, and a servant to all mankind also. Truly, Thou hast blessed me more than any other human soul that has ever
walked on earth. Now please bless all souls presently on earth in this like
manner, in accordance to Thy Divine Will for each of them, I plead. Amen and
Amen!