Discipline in School

Our school had an elementary building which was quite large, but the high school building had only four rooms. Our seats in high school had a shelf beneath the seat where our books were stored. There was not much to store. A big tablet of paper which cost a nickel, a penny lead pencil and if you were taking the maximum subjects, four books. We usually carried it all with a belt strapped around the books and slung over our shoulder. The library consisted of about fifty books which included a dictionary and map of the world. Our physical activities equipment was an open 3 acre field. If we wanted to play baseball, we filled bags with dirt for bases and chose sides. For football we used the natural boundaries formed by the vegetation beside the field. We had one basket ball goal for the ones who wanted to play basketball. Imagine my surprise when I found later that two goals were used in basket ball. A high school teacher (Mrs. Milam) invited us all to her house one night and taught us to dance. The room that we danced in had the furniture pulled out and meal sprinkled on the floor to make it slick. We learned the Virginia reel and square dancing. The principal taught classes, along with three other teachers. He was a neat person and wore a coat and tie. He kept his desk setting at an angle in the class room, with his chair beside the window. Winter and summer he kept the window raised about a foot. He would rock back in his chair, turn his head to the side and spit a stream of tobacco juice out the window. He kept us on the straight and narrow but he was fair and he made the punishment to suit the misbehavior. Sometimes he would make us set our own punishment, which was worst. Fighting was taken care of in the same manner always, and at lunch break. He would put a pair of boxing gloves on the two who were caught fighting and have them settle their difference fairly before all their peers. This was good psychology. My choice was talking the other person into seeing things my way or leaving them alone. There were twelve of us children and it seems that no new kid in school could resist picking on one of my brothers or sisters. This was the one thing that would make Mama angry. When any one bothered my sisters or brothers, she wanted me to teach them a lesson the following day. She would even make a trip to my class room and call me outside. Mama would say to me, “Albert, you beat that boy up at recess or I’ll have your daddy tan you when you get home." " But, Mama why don't you let my brother do it" I would ask. "Because the boy that is picking on him is a big boy," my mother replied. I never weighed over 125 pounds until the day I was married but I knew it would do no good to remind my mother. At recess I would work him over, then I would explain that this would be routine if he ever bothered any of my brothers or sisters again. This would save me the embarrassment of having to do it again. I take credit for building a good portion of our school drive way. One spring morning, when snakes had just started crawling, I caught a big king snake and wrapped him around my waist inside my shirt. When class started, I eased the snake out and lay him on the floor. After awhile that snake got warm and started crawling between the rows of seats. It wasn’t long before the girls started screaming. In five seconds I was the only one left in the room, so the principal guessed right off who brought the snake. I hauled forty wheel barrow loads of cinders and put them on the drive way for that little laugh. Another time I enticed another a boy and two girls to skip class and we go down on the river bank. We went down to the ferry on Roanoke river. To cross over the river from North Carolina to the Virginia side, you had to take the ferry. A house sat right beside the river crossing and the ferry man lived there with his family. When you needed to cross the river, you went up to the house and called him out. He would then place you on the flat bottom ferry boat and pole you across. This principal knew boys and girls. He had missed us right off and when we reached the river bank, guess who was sitting there waiting, the principal. I hauled another forty loads of cinders for the drive way. Our four room high school had the outhouses back of the school. I don’t know what the girls outhouse looked like inside, but ours was an eight holer. There was a strict rule to keep the lid down so we wouldn’t have flies. There were no screens on the school windows, which were kept open in the summer, so flies were a nuisance. The girls outhouse had tall metal sheets for the back. I think that was because you can’t cut little holes in metal. We used to wait around the corner when the girls went in and give them time to get comfortable. With a big rock in each boys hand we would count three and let go, ko-whoom against the back of the outhouse. I don’t think the noise bothered them as much as waiting for those old metal panels to quit shaking. I don’t understand how kids from a four-room school, with pencil and paper being the only learning tools, learned and retained more than the kids in school today. There was no truant officer. Kids stayed home and helped with the harvest in a pinch and caught up with the class when they returned. If a kid couldn’t pass his subjects he repeated the class until he could. We had one boy shaving in the fourth grade, which was his learning limit. Now, I think you should respect the learning limit and not con the student by social passing him on to another grade. That's something that you just can’t hide forever. Sooner or later some one is going to look at that boy and say, “Poor thing, that boy just doesn’t have both oars in the water.” Not only is it bad to fool the student by passing him when he can’t do the work, but you punish the person who hires him. When you hire a high school graduate, you should be able to count on that person knowing how to read, write and do some math. Not now. Kids are passed up from grade to grade according to age. Anyway, I did a little calculation and found that I could (using this passing method) graduate a chimpanzee in twenty-two years. Can you imagine a chimp applying to college? Our taxes would go up immediately. You would have all kinds of organizations being formed. One group of liberals would want him in, less his rights be abused. The minority's group would want requirements lowered and the politicians would want credit for the whole thing. Somehow we need to stop this social passing of students to another grade.

Making Lemonade

Summers were hot in the 30’s and air conditioning hadn't been invented. Various things were tried to get a reprieve from the heat. One favorite was cool lemonade made with water from a deep well. Now Lem was a hard working man through the week and a good family man, but he loved his alcohol on week ends. He would come in to Haithcock's store ( a combination grocery, pool hall and beer joint) to buy his groceries for the next week. He always did this on the week ends and stayed, drinking beer, until the wee hours of the morning. His wife always put lemons, sugar and ice on the grocery list but Lem would wait to pick these up last, as he was heading home, so the ice wouldn’t melt. Lem always forgot these items after drinking, which had been ongoing all summer. One night we reminded Lem about the Lemons as he was preparing to leave. ”That’s right” Lem said.  "I’ll go get the ice and load the lemons on when I get back, I’m going to make the little lady one happy girl.” Off went Lem to the ice house and in a little while he was back with 300 pounds of ice on his pick up truck. ”Now” said Lem ”give me a bushel basket of lemons (which is all we had) and a 100 pound of sugar.”  We helped him load them on his truck and off Lem went. When he got home he backed that pick up truck up to his screened in back porch and unloaded. He cut the lemons up in large wash tubs, poured the sugar in and mixed it thoroughly. Then he took it out in the yard and dumped it in the well. Going to the truck next, he wrestled the 300 pounds of ice off the truck and pushed it in the well. Then into the house (it’s now 3 o'clock in the morning) he awakens his wife and five kids. ”Come on out and get your lemonade” Lem announced with glee. Of course the lemonade remained in the well for a couple of weeks, gradually getting weaker. They drank lemonade, washed clothes in lemonade and yes, had to bathe in lemonade. The boys pants legs were so stiff from sugar lemonade that they hardly bent when they walked.

Musical Refinement

We had a soloist come to at our seventh grade graduation. We were all dressed up and about as uncomfortable as you can get, while we waited for the soloist to come on stage. I want you to realize that we were not music critics and music was not taught in school at that time. We had heard the grand old opera, barber shop quartets and folk songs. We were not prepared for the high brow music that we were about to receive, nor the delivery. This lady was one very prim and proper lady. She was going to uplift us into the world of real music and we were to listen carefully, to appreciate this art that had taken years to perfect. Our teachers had really lectured us hard on this great opportunity to listen to a maestro. Finally, about five minutes late, the big red curtains were pulled on stage and there stood maestro, beautifully dressed, with a huge, wide brim hat on. The hat was decorated with flowers and stuck out about six inches in front. Air conditioning had not been heard of back then and it was some kind of hot. We sat with Sunday best, afraid to move less we wrinkle something and waited for her to begin. She finally nodded for the piano to start, after clearing her throat a couple of times and patting her lips ever so gently with a little pink hanky. Well, she started singing and ever so often her voice would start higher, quivering, and her head would bob up and down in a little tremor with her voice. With each little tremor the hat slid lower on her forehead and just before it reached her eyes, she would take her hand with all fingers closed except one little pinky, which she pointed straight up, and push the hat back in place. The next high note, down would come the hat and up would go the finger. We elbowed each other to watch and held our laughter as long as we could, but it had to happen. Some one snickered and everyone let go laughing at once, going into hysterics with laughter. Of course this ended our great opportunity at musical refinement.

A Part Time Job

I was fourteen now and was sure that I was old enough to do anything I wanted to. My brother-in law gave me a job at his place on week ends. This place consisted of two large rooms plus a small room in the back with a bed. I was later to get a job sleeping in this little room to prevent theft. There were no policemen for our little town and only one sheriff for the whole county. The sheriff had no deputies as they do now. What I’m saying is that you had to look out for your self. I received a very liberal education in people at this place. A pool room was in the larger room with cases of beer stacked high all around the room. The place had been built one foot across the town line so beer could be served on Sunday as well as week days. This was where all the married men or men without dates gathered on the week end and stayed until the wee hours of the morning. Cars were beginning to be plentiful. Half the families owned cars of some description, but the favorite was the Model “A.” There were still a fair number of model “T”s. They were good cars for the farm because you could drive them right across the corn rows with the high axle and tall skinny wheels. Dating couples parked their cars outside and the boys would come inside for cola and peanuts, taking them back to the car. No girl would come in the place, because girls shouldn’t hear the profanity or see the pool ( billiards ) playing. Couples from the entire county stopped by after the movie for refreshments before going home. The boys usually stopped by again, after taking their girls home, to compare notes. Every one knew what every one else was doing or thought they did. Now I can tell you I heard a few exaggerations told in that place and they got bigger with each telling. I worked every week end at this place, while going to school week days. I occasionally took off on a night for a little recreation like the night we invited an elderly fellow named Lem to go with us on a chicken fry. We did this once in awhile and always at some woods across from Mt. Zion Church. There was several reasons for this choice. A large clearing was perfect for building a little fire to cook on and there were many roads leading out from that circle, so no one could block you in. Down the road a piece was a creek where we could pick the feathers off the chickens and wash them off by dragging them through the water. This was a first chicken fry with the elderly fellow, Lem, but we needed him that night. It had been drizzling rain earlier but had stopped now and it was as dark as Egypt. Well we circled around a while in the model “A” ford before stopping at this ditch. The ditch was wet, about three feet deep and three feet wide. We knew it led up to a chicken house a hundred yards away. We had our guest Lem ( who being an adult had taken a few drinks) take a flashlight and crawl up to the chicken house. In just a few moments we could hear him sliding back to us with a chicken in each hand and the flashlight in his mouth. He moved pretty fast for an old fellow of forty years. After a bang up chicken fry we all went home. At school the next morning one of our group signaled me over. I asked him what was going on. He said, ”I just want to tell you to stay clear of Lem for a few days, he found out this morning, when he got up, that he had stolen his own chickens.”

Summer Baptizing

This little creek, that I was telling you about, below the church. Well this is where the Negro church held their baptizing. They would shovel some dirt in a narrow part of the banks, to form a dam. This would get the water level up to about four feet. We went to these baptizing, strictly as spectators, and we usually climbed a tree with a big comfortable limb to sit on. The church members would all crowd around that creek, up both sides of the banks and on the bridge that passed over the creek. The preacher would get down in the creek, ”Praise the Lord, and pass em down to me." A song would start and a baby would be passed down to the preacher. Then another would be passed and the song would get louder with some “Amen's” and “Jesus have mercy” thrown in. Then a teen age girl would wade in and be dunked by the preacher and raised out of the water with her white dress clinging skin tight. By this time everyone is worked up and some of the women climb up on the bridge railings and with a “Jesus save me” they sail off of that high bridge into the water. Now between trying to baptize and pulling the zealous out of the water the preacher is pretty busy. You don’t dare come down out of your tree until the baptizing is over. When the last one is dipped they all file back up to the church and when the church door closes we climb down from our tree. We go up and sit on the outside of the church and listen to the prettiest music I have ever heard. I sure would like to be black for just one more baptizing. There is no music that matches the Negro music (not to be confused with the present rap junk, which I dislike with a passion). The best is spontaneous, like in the cotton fields when a group is picking. A low hum will start and then another joins in. A song starts with one leading, then another joining in, and they stop while another sings a bit. Then they all come in and harmonize. This was probably my favorite time on the farm. My job was to weigh the cotton and pay the pickers, but I would have picked cotton just to hear them sing.

Making spending money

I can’t leave here without telling you about the exorbitant salaries I made with my other part time jobs. My first part time job, away from home, was working for Mr. Cole. I would take a hoe and walk down all the cotton rows chopping any grass or weeds. The day's work started promptly at six a.m. and you worked until twelve noon, before stopping for two hours. I would eat quickly, so I could stretch out on my back on the front porch and rest for two hours. This was luxury, laying there with eyes closed and not a muscle in the body moving. You were so tired that your body seemed to melt onto the wooden boards of the porch and a gentle breeze blowing just enough to keep the flies away. I know heaven has a front porch. At two o’clock you were back chopping weeds and continued until six p.m. For this ten hours of work I was paid twenty-five cents. Broken down hourly that comes to two and a half cents an hour. You can understand why I allotted myself just one Pepsi-Cola a week and it lasted until all the fizz was gone. My second job escalated to fifty cents an hour. (I could pour a bag of peanuts in the Pepsi now.) This job was handing tobacco leaves. Pay levels on the tobacco farm ran according to how hard the job was and what expertise was needed. It started with the water boy who carried a bucket of water with one common dipper, to the workers in the field. It paid 25 cents a day. The workers at the barn got their own water. Handing tobacco leaves to the wrapper paid 50 cents a day and the wrapper made 75 cents per day. The person driving the dray that carried the tobacco from the fields to the barn was also paid 75 cents a day. The primers ( Men who selected the ripe tobacco leaves and pulled them) got the highest or $1 a day. Every one participated in hoisting the tobacco into the barn at day's end. Growing tobacco was no picnic in my day , which was before all the modern conveniences. People call them necessities now. You begin in February by “cleaning up some new ground." This is merely going out into the woods, chopping down trees and pulling up all the roots to begin with. When this is finished you are ready to prepare the plant bed. A bed size is laid off according to how many plants you will need to plant this years crop. After digging the ground about a foot deep and removing every root and stick, you are ready to mix fertilizer in the soil. The reason new ground is chosen is because there are no old grass seeds or diseases from prior growth. Tobacco seed has to be sowed next. Tobacco seed are so small that I could carry enough seed to plant the state, even Texas. In order to get an even distribution, some people mix the seed in a bucket of sand and scatter the sand, which would contain some seed throughout. Other people put a tin pan under one arm and throw the seed against the bottom of the pan, scattering the seed over the bed. After the seed were sowed we trample, bare foot, over the entire bed, packing the seeds firmly. On each end and across the sides we placed logs. A fine , porous cloth, called cheese cloth would be stretched across the bed and tacked to the logs. This would protect the young plants from sudden changes in temperature and prevent freezing. Once, usually, we hand picked the bed of all grass or foreign matter. In the fields, ground is plowed, rows are run and fertilizer sowed. Rows are long mounds of dirt about a foot high and four feet apart. Next we pat the hills. Using a hoe, you brush off about an inch of dirt from the top of the row and pat a mark with the bottom of the hoe. This marks the spot where a tobacco plant will go. These spots are about twenty-nine inches apart or the length of a normal step. We are now ready to start planting. Assembly line like, there are people pulling plants from the bed, another carrying plants to the field, another dropping one plant on each hill, and the planter putting them in the ground. The planter uses his own planting peg, sometimes passed down from his father. A planting peg is about eight inches long and made from pine lightwood. It is pointed at one end and rounded on a slant (to fit the palm of the hand)on the other end. Planting consist of three definite strokes. First hole is pushed straight down and the plant dropped in the hole. The second hole is angled downward from about two inches from the side of the plant to the bottom of the first hole. The dirt is pushed up against the plant with the second hole, then the peg withdrawn and the third stroke knocks dirt to cover the second hole. This is repeated for each hill until you reach the end of the row (without straightening up from one end of the row to the other end). It takes a good back.

Introduction to Spirits

It was at one of those tobacco planting sessions that I had my first drink of spirits, although at the time I didn’t know what spirits was. If I had known, then things would have been entirely different. It was on a Saturday afternoon, cold and drizzling rain. I was missing the Saturday cow boys movie. It had all the conditions to be miserable and I was. I had to take arm loads of wet, cold tobacco plants and walk down muddy rows carrying about five pounds of mud stuck to each foot. I was ripe for any suggestion that would bring me relief. To make conditions even more intolerable the grown ups were laughing and singing. I was only eleven years old at the time, but fifty years couldn’t make that much difference. I asked the planter behind me what he had to be happy about. He replied that the answer was in that brush pile and pointed toward it. I didn’t know what was in that brush pile, but I did know I was going to have some of it. When I went to get a fresh arm full of plants I detoured by that brush pile. Sticking under that brush pile with just the top showing, was a gallon of (I found out later) peach brandy. I sat myself down unscrewed the cap, turned it up, and drank all my stomach would hold. I put the cap back on and carefully placed it back exactly as I had found it. That should to to do It, I said to myself. And it did. I quickly got my arm load of plants and started back. This little warm feeling started up my legs and things were beginning to look brighter already. I started dropping the plants, one on each hill, then I decided why not throw three or four and get rid of them. So I did, and the planter yelled, ”hey what goes on with you boys?" I just laughed and took a hand full, slinging them across the field. The planter looked at me kind of odd and motioned my daddy to come over. My daddy walked over, looked at what had happened and picked me up. He leaned over and I thought he was going to kiss me, and you just don’t do that to a big boy like me. Instead he sniffed my breath and turned toward the house with me. I couldn’t believe this. Not only was I allowed to stop working, he was carrying me to the house. Well, about the time he got me home and laid me on the bed, a different picture was beginning to form. That bed started spinning and I hung on for dear life. Then I got sick and there is no way I can make you understand how sick I was. I first thought I was going to die, then I was so sick I was afraid I wasn’t going to die. When I thought I could bear it no longer, I passed out. I guess all things have to pass and they did. My stomach was so empty it couldn’t even growl. To this day, I don’t like alcohol.

Working the tobacco field

Now that we have the tobacco planted, it has to be plowed and worked with a hoe. I didn’t like plowing because of the monotony of looking down in one spot all day. It worked all right when I was learning to smoke. My daddy would be plowing in front of me and since he couldn’t look up, I could walk at a distance behind and smoke. I had to be sure I was down wind so he couldn’t smell the smoke. The first plowing was siding up tobacco. You plowed as close as possible to the plants, leaving a narrow line that could be worked rapidly with a hoe. Done correctly, it took four strokes to the plant with the hoe. Later, after this plowing, a cultivator would be run through to get any grass and freshen the soil. And last plowing would be with the buzzard wing plow right down the middle, leaving a nice smooth place to walk. Now you have to remember, we used a mule or horse with a single plow. It was slow compared to today's standards. I believe it is said that you plow as much in one day with a tractor as it took a month to do with a mule. As the tobacco grew we had to pick the worms from the leaves, drop them on the ground and step on them. We also had to top the tobacco, which is breaking the top of the plant and removing it so the plant will grow larger, heavier and have more body. The tobacco is harvested in late Aug. and Sept. Now we come to my second job at fifty cents a day. Saving tobacco (harvesting) required primers in the field to pick the ripe tobacco. Usually this meant taking two or three leaves from the stalk at a time and placing them in the dray (a conveyance about two feet wide by ten feet long and three feet high). One person then slides this to the barn (pulled by a mule) and unloads the tobacco on a bench. Here I come in. I hand the tobacco to the wrapper (the person who ties the tobacco on a stick in order to hang it in the barn). I hand two big leaves or three if they are small to the wrapper. A wrapper can tie the tobacco on the stick as fast as two people can hand it to her. The barn has to be filled the same day you begin. I don’t know why. When the tobacco had all been wrapped, we hoist it up into the barn, placing it on tier poles. Tier poles are poles about five inches in diameter, extending from one end of the barn to the other end and placed just about as far apart as my legs will stretch if I was doing the split, Which is the way you hoist tobacco. With one foot on each of two tier poles, you bend over between your legs and take a stick of tobacco from the person below you. After placing the stick of tobacco on the tier pole, you adjust the width from the previous stick and this is repeated 500 to 700 times. Some barns are larger than others. The temperature up in that barn is pushing one hundred with the perspiration dropping from you onto the person below you. Not to mention that the top of that barn is six to thirty feet from the ground. After getting the tobacco in the barn, we can all sit down on the wrapping bench and rest a bit. And while we sit with small talk, we roll the black, sticky tobacco wax from our fingers. The wax covers your hand, wherever the tobacco leaves touch and is the consistency of wet molding clay. Some of the workers roll the wax into a little ball and add to it each day of work. The wax leaves a dark stain on the skin which we try to remove with green tomatoes, leaving a green stain. I don’t know which is worse. All tobacco was cured in a barn fired by wood at this time and had to be checked on, every twenty or thirty minutes. A large stack of wood (logs, six to fourteen inches in diameter and ten to twenty feet long) was stacked upright around a large pine tree and used to fire the barn. The temperature had to be kept just right to get a good color in the tobacco. A thermometer tied to a string in the barn was used to keep correct temperatures. You slid a log into the furnace atop the other burning logs a certain distance to change the temperature, or sometimes pulled a log back to lower the temperature. You would leave the temperature at eighty to one hundred degrees until a nice yellow color was obtained, then up it to one hundred thirty to set the colors and start drying the leaf. Watching the texture of the leaf, you would bring the temperature up to one hundred sixty or seventy until the leaf was dry. When this was finished, the temperature would go up to one hundred eighty and dry the butts (Stems). Day and night the barn had to be attended, so we took turns and still had to put in a full day's work. We had little diversions to pass the time. My girl friend would spend the night with my sister and after everyone was asleep, slip out of the house and over to the barn to keep me company. I had a record player and some country records at the barn. . A big spring in the phonograph had been broken for years, so we turned the record with our fingers. It takes a little practice to get smooth music. One other disadvantage, I might mention, is that you don’t know what song you are playing because the labels have long since been worn off from turning them with your finger. But the most frustrating is having to check the thermometer in the barn every twenty or thirty minutes. Between turning that record with your finger and checking the temperature every twenty minutes, there is not much time for conversation.

Rainy day work

When the tobacco finished curing, we packed it in the pack house, which in turn had been used to store corn during the winter. The corn was stored here until we had shucked it all. This took awhile because we only shucked on rainy days when we couldn’t work in the fields. The door wood be left open, for light, when we shucked and chickens would wander in to peck the scattered kernels of corn. On one of these occasions my brother hit one with an ear of corn, breaking his leg. He took that portion of the chicken's leg off and we made another leg from a maple stick. By drilling a hole in that stick, then splitting the end, we were able to snap that stick onto the chicken's leg. Now the chicken had a peg leg. The peg stayed on permanently and we always knew when she was close because the walk was a swish-tap, swish-tap sound. The tobacco stayed in the pack house until we could catch the work up enough to process it. Tobacco from the pack house is to dry to handle so we hang it in the steam room. This is usually a cellar with a pipe running into the room from outside. On the outside the pipe is connected to a large steel drum, filled with water. A fire is built under the drum creating steam which enters the cellar and softens the tobacco, making it easy to handle. The tobacco is then taken upstairs to a room with windows all the way down the wall on one side, giving as much light as possible. The tobacco is then placed on a long narrow bench running almost the length of the room. Chairs placed with your back to the window give adequate light to separate the tobacco leaves according to quality. Here the tobacco is graded into several piles. You will have a best, a green, seconds, sometimes lugs ( bottom primings) and worst (we called this trash which was used to make snuff). Having separated it into marketable categories, it could then be tied into bundles. This was a work of art . You selected a small hand full, by the butt ends, and smoothed the ends together. Then taking a single leaf of tobacco and folding it length wise, you wound it around the butt very smoothly and tight, and finished by pushing the butt end of the leaf through the tobacco bundle. A good tie produced a smooth shiny surface. My grandpa, with his strong hands was particularly good at this. I was fair to middling good. When enough tobacco has been graded to make a load, it will be loaded on a wagon to sell and we will see the fruits of our labor soon. The tobacco is taken to the warehouse and placed in long rows of baskets. The various tobacco companies will buy the tobacco by bidding against each other. A professional auctioneer will walk up and down the floor between the piles of tobacco, chanting the bids received from each company in a rapid, loud voice. The highest bidder will have his name placed on a tag and laid on the pile of tobacco. The farmer has the right to reject the bid if he chooses. If he rejects the bid, the tag is turned over and he will pick the tobacco up, later to be sold at another warehouse or sometimes the same warehouse. I can’t leave this until I tell you about the pin hookers. A pin hooker will bid and buy a pile of tobacco when he thinks that he can resell it at a higher price, next sale. Even the same sale sometimes by dragging the basket over to a row the auctioneer hasn’t reached. I would like to give you some of the other names that pin hookers are called but I don’t know who might be reading this later. The farmers classed a pin hooker as some one who sat around all year doing nothing but waiting like a vulture to make money from their hard earned crop. They also accused him of having friends from the tobacco companies who would purposely bid low to give him a good buy. A tobacco warehouses was a favorite place for people trying to make a fast dollar off of the farmer, who suddenly had a pocket full of money. There were always some women with sad, down on their luck stories that would bring tears to your eyes. Yep, you could buy a grave plot in the National Confederate Cemetery, and guaranteed to be buried with honors, if you believed them.

Saturday Evening Movies

People were not working on Saturday afternoons, now that the work week was cut from 72 hours to 68 hours. This meant that we could finish chores by noon and go to the lone movie house in Warrenton on Saturday afternoon. The movie house sat on a quiet shaded street almost in the center of town. A block away was the court house with a statue of a confederate soldier. The statue was honoring the many that died during the civil war including my great grand father his two brothers and many relatives. The town buildings were built for the most part during the ten years following the war and haven’t changed much since. The railroad company wanted to run the railroad through town back then, but the residents voted no and so the tracks were laid about two miles away. The town then built their own railroad tracks out to the main line. This way they could move freight during the day time and not disturb any ones sleep. Warrenton was the county seat and quite a socially prominent town at this time. Some of the first debutante balls were held here. Horse racing was in vogue here also before Kentucky. Nearby was hot springs resorts that attracted visitors worldwide. Robert E. Lees daughter, Annie Lee, contracted fever while visiting here and died. She was buried not far from Warrenton, although there has been talk of moving her body now, some one hundred plus years later. The court house covered one block with a nice concrete ledge about a foot high across the front, which made a nice seat. You could sit here and watch the people walk up and down the street greeting each other and gossiping about the latest events. The buildings were all old and structured similar, since most were built within ten years of each other. Robert E. Lee could walk down the street in Warrenton today and not see much difference from the last time he was here, which was in the 1800’s. Ancestors of the people living here dated back to the 1600’s almost without exception. Occasionally people moved out but rarely did people move in and the town didn’t change. It gave you a sense of security and belonging, along with safety. Every Saturday afternoon the children would trickle in to the movie house. A lone pop corn stand about 2 foot by 2 foot in size stood at the door, where you could buy a nickel bag of pop corn as you went in. The movie cost a dime and you could sit through it as many times as you liked. There was a set routine of a cartoon followed by the movie. The first movie I saw was Steam Boat Around The Bend playing Will Rogers. Tom Mix, Johnny Mack Brown, Abbott and Costello and Bob Steele were among other favorites. Continued movie bits always left the hero in a precarious situation, which we discussed during the work week and couldn’t wait to find out what would happen. This is similar to the women with soap operas today. I have never seen a line of more than ten people so you can estimate the town size. This was the only place to take your teen age date as none of us at this time had cars. Later we would be old enough to borrow our parents car, if we were lucky enough to have one of the few parents with cars. In retrospect, I’m sure this was the best way to grow up learning the opposite sex gradually on week ends only and strict moral codes. When taking your girl into the movie, you would try to get an inconspicuous seat to be alone as far as possible. Everything was done very gradual and hesitant when being with your best girl. You would sit with your hand resting on the seat between you and if she wanted you to hold her hand she would absent mindedly put her hand in the vicinity of yours. The next time an exciting event happened on the screen you would accidental place your hand on hers. It might rest there for 30 minutes before you got up enough nerve to curl your fingers in hers. Sometimes you would casually drape your arm around the back of the seat and wait for her head to slide back and rest on your arm. Oh but how you could get your ego deflated when she would remark, ”would you mind moving your arm, I can’t watch the movie”. The trials of growing up. One Saturday Henry and I were planting corn and had been told by papa that it had to be finished before we could go anywhere. We worked hard and furious but we could see that it would be impossible to finish and still have time to go to the movie. Henry came up with the idea that if we gave out of seed corn we would have to quit. Henry dug a hole at the end of the row and poured the bucket of seed corn in the hole and we left for the movie. As you probably have guessed, in a week that corn all came up, including the corn poured in the hole, and we were asked to do some explaining.

Smoking as a Past time

Any boys that didn’t smoke were looked on with suspicion when I was growing up. I never touched anything with alcohol because I had already discovered the evils associated with drinking. Smoking was something you did while sitting around the barn swapping stories and blowing smoke rings. It was something that you generally had to work at to learn. If I had known then what I know now the situation would have been different, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble. We started smoking rabbit tobacco first. This is a weed that grows about two foot tall with silvery leaves. We would strip the leaves from the stalk, roll them in a little circular rod, then wrap them in pieces of brown paper bag. Not having the nicotine content we could inhale rabbit tobacco. Now I had tried inhaling from a regular cigarette first, only to have my breath cut off and a terrible coughing spell afterwards. After smoking rabbit tobacco for a while I learned that you could dilute the nicotine in tobacco. As nicotine is soluble in water, immersing the leaf in water, then drying, cuts the nicotine content in half. I didn’t know the technical reason at the time, I just found out by chance that it happens. Having this knowledge I would dip and dry, dip and dry until it reached the point where I could inhale. We would smoke in our upstairs bedroom by sticking our heads in the big open fireplace chimney. The draft would suck the smoke right up the chimney. We didn’t have the money to buy cigarettes so we crumbled the dried tobacco that we raised and wrapped it in brown paper. On occasion we would buy a bag of R.J.R. smoking tobacco, which came with free wraps. It only cost a nickel and would last a month. On special occasions with our girl at a Sunday ball game we would pull out a tailor- made cigarette. (This is what everyone smokes today, if they smoke, and its getting tougher by the day) I would casually pull that cigarette out, cross one leg over the other, culp a hand over the end of the cigarette (even if there was no wind) and light up. I always waited until no other boys were near to ask for a cigarette and embarrass me. You see I only had one which I had bought special for this occasion for one cent. Cigarettes were sold loose out of a box for a penny apiece then and I figured one would impress as much as two. Cigarettes were made for asthma patients with all kinds of medical claims. And what about that cough in the mornings? Oh that you are told, is the tobacco smoke dissolving all those poisons in the chest so you can cough it out. Well hind sight is a lot more accurate, especially if the person telling you came along at a time when knowledge was more accurate. And if that person has never smoked, don’t expect any sympathy. I tried chewing tobacco for a little while because I had an uncle who chewed. He liked to chew when we were rabbit hunting and could hit a rock ten feet away with a stream of tobacco juice. He could most blind a frog or rat with one stream. I had reached the point where I could put a hunk of tobacco in my cheek and was feeling pretty good with myself. I lay down in the hammock beside the tobacco barn one day, stuck a big hunk of tobacco in the cheek of my mouth and dropped off to sleep. When I woke up I rolled my tongue around in the cheek of my mouth but the hunk of tobacco was gone. Whoever said when its gone, its gone and you can’t get it back, was in error. I got mine back plus. I gave up chewing after that.

Animals on the farm

City folks life is incomplete. I learned this a long time ago. You have to grow up around animals to see unconditional emotions. Take a dog for instance, it doesn’t place any strings on it’s love for it’s owner. Whatever you do, the dog says “I’m still with you”. Animals are much more predictable than people too. If they are mean, they are predictably mean. If they are good they are predictably good. With animals you get what you expect. We had a sheep dog when I was growing up, named him Carlos. He was given chores to do just as we kids were. We raised a garden in the summer and also had a lot of chickens. Papa didn’t worry about the chickens eating the garden plants as much as he worried about the chickens packing the soil. Chickens walking on the ground will pack the soil so tight that you can hardly get a plow through it. Horses and cows don’t pack soil that much. When we planted the garden, papa would chase the chickens out while Carlos watched. After that, for the remainder of the summer, Carlos wouldn’t let a chicken in the garden. Carlos also had the responsibility of bringing all the horses and cows from the pasture at dusk and placing them in the lot. The lot was about two acres fenced in with the barn in the center. Even on Sundays when we played ball, which Carlos loved, he would leave us just before dusk and head for the pasture. The cows were never ready to come in because (I guess) there was no corn waiting for them to eat in the barn. We had a bell on at least one cow so they could be located. Carlos would go down through the pasture stopping to listen every so often. The cows would hear him coming and freeze, stark still, waiting for him to leave. Carlos would drop down on his stomach with his ears perked up and wait. Eventually the cow gave up or the may flies biting her ears would make her move and the bell would tinkle. Carlos would circle them in a flash, nipping their heels to move them. He would bound from side to side driving them in a straight line to the lot. When they were in the lot he would go back for the horses and mules. Mules are stubborn and some times they were bound and determined to finish eating a little plot of grass before coming in. Carlos wouldn’t put up with this. He would circle the mule, then dart in biting the mules heels. This used to worry me because a mules kick could take his head off. I needn’t have worried because Carlos knew his business. He would bite the mule's heel, and drop flat on the ground. The mule would kick with both feet and the feet would fly over Carlos' head by inches. Even a stubborn mule can’t stand still long with a dog chewing on his heels, so the mule gives up and comes in. One horse, Bob, had his leg hurt on the sagging gate as he passed through one day and from then on Bob would stop and make the mules go through the gate first. Fixing the gate didn’t change him either. On rainy days we had to walk the fence around to mend any breaks. It would take all day and Carlos accompanied us. On this particular day my daddy had a big ring of keys fastened on his belt. We worked all day and got in and was seated at the kitchen table before my daddy missed his keys. Somewhere out there beside that fence that had taken a day to repair lay those keys. We didn’t know what to do but daddy had to have those keys. My grand daddy went to the pantry and took the keys that were hanging in the pantry down. These were keys that were hanging there when we moved in and no one knew what they were for. Anyway my grand daddy took the keys and had my daddy rub them a little bit. He then opened the door, called Carlos and said fetch. Carlos immediately turned and took off for the woods. We talked about it awhile and went to bed. Next morning we were sitting at the breakfast table when we heard a scratching at the door. When papa opened the door there stood Carlos, wet, muddy, with cockle berries stuck in his fur, but he had the keys in his mouth.

Garden Preparation

Henry ( my brother) and I had our bedrooms upstairs. There was one advantage of living upstairs, particularly since we had two trees growing up above the window. My brother, Henry, and I could crawl out on the roof, shimmy down the tree and walk down to Mr. Tuckers house. Something was always happening at Mr. Tuckers. You could depend on that. His family consisted of him, his wife and the children. There was Wilson, Beulah, Pearl, Herbert and Tommy. They were always ready to play cards, checkers, you name it. Any one that says you can’t raise a large family and not work, didn’t know the Tuckers. They hunted in the winter, fished in the summer and kept the trees clean of fruits and nuts' year round . They didn’t work-ever, it seemed to me, at that time. The closest they ever came to work happened every spring like clockwork. Henry and I never missed it, even though we knew beforehand what would take place. Mr. Tucker had a steer that he kept, he said , to work his garden. Each spring he would harness that steer to the plow and head toward the field with all of us trailing behind. ’”Gid-ap Bessie “ Mr. Tucker would yell and the steer would hunch down and start a furrow down the field. After about a hundred feet that steer would get tired and stop. ”Gid-ap Bessie” Mr. Tucker would yell, but that steer wouldn’t Budge " Get a switch Pearl and you Beulah, pull that steers head. Herbert, you git behind that critter and push." Nothing happens, so Tommy, Beulah and Pearl get switches and commence to lay it on that steer. At this point the steer just lays down, harness and all. They then send Tommy for a board to try and pry the steer up. Now I could have told them that wouldn’t work but it wouldn’t have changed anything. Mr. Tucker had done the same thing last year and the year before with no success. With the two by four piece of wood in his hand, Mr. Tucker eased it under the steer and raised up on the stick. The steer just sighed and closed his eyes. I believe he thought Mr. Tucker was scratching his side "We need a block to put under this stick, so we can lift him higher" Mr. Tucker directed. A cinder block was fetched by Pearl and placed under the stick. Mr. Tucker spit in his hands, rubbed them together, then on his overhauls and grasp the two by four stick. With a big heave, he jerked down on the stick and the steer moved slightly at the same time. With no resistance on the stick, it went flat to the ground and Mr. Tucker flat on his face. There was a muffled snicker from some one. ”Pearl, go in the house and get me some newspapers” Mr. Tucker directed, ”I’ll get this critter up if it's the last thing I do." Well she brought the newspapers and Mr. Tucker carefully packed them under the steer. “Everybody back” yelled Mr. Tucker and set fire to the newspapers. The steer bounded up and crossed the field dragging plow, harness and Tommy, with Tommy making steps about ten foot apart. ”Turn em loose Tommy, turn him loose” hollered Beulah “he’ll stop". Tommy let go the plow, falling and rolling about ten feet. After a couple hundred feet the steer did stop and started grazing. Mr. Tucker said ”put him in the barn Tommy, I’m worn out. We’ll finish another day.” And that ended the garden preparation for another year.

Farm Animals

Horses or mules were a necessity when I grew up. If you lived on a working farm, as I did, you needed a horse, mule or both to do the plowing and pull the wagons. If you didn’t like to walk, a horse came in right handy. You could ride a mule, but they were slow and cantankerous. The mental attitudes of mules and horses are quite different. For example, if a horse gets spooked he will run with plow or whatever is hooked to him and sometimes hurt himself. Not so with a mule. A mule will run when spooked, but at the first sign of danger, he will stop and start grazing. A horse will watch you and take an interest in what is happening around him. A mule could care less. He has made up his mind to exert as little energy as possible and nothing will change his mind. Papa had bought three horses before we moved into the house we now lived. In retrospect, I guess that accounts for us not having the model “A” Ford when we arrived here. Papa must have sold the car (“old blue heaven”) to buy the horses for the farm. Well, Mr. Cole (who lived across the road and about a 1/4 mile away) had a “T” model ford and one car was enough for a neighborhood. Papa had purchased the horses before we moved to the rental farm. When the purchased horses arrived in a rail road car from the west, they were not broke (trained is another word for it). My daddy and the hired hand spent many hours showing those animals how to pull a plow and that they were supposed to wear a bridle. Hamm, the hired hand, would lead the horse, holding his head. Papa would hold the plow, sinking it as deep as possible in the soil to tire the horse down, making him manageable. It worked on two of the horses named Red and Pearl but the third horse, Bob, just wouldn’t go for any of it. That horse, Bob, came out of the stables standing on his hind legs every morning. He would bite, kick, paw and chase you right out of the lot. People in the neighborhood agreed that Bob was a maverick and couldn’t be broke. When we arrived at our new farm, papa didn’t bother unloading Bob. He just took him on over to my uncle Wallace's. I heard papa say that uncle Wallace was a maverick too, so they would be good for each other. Uncle Wallace was a favorite with all children. If you went to his house on Sunday and wanted to shoot marbles, he would drop everything and shoot marbles. He would draw a big ring in the dirt, get his bag of marbles and play as long as you wished. If you wanted to go hunting, he knew where the animals were. He enjoyed having friends drop by and made home brew for the adult friends. He kept the home brew in the water at the bottom of the well to keep it cool. He did this by tying a string to a large bucket and lowering it down to the water. The string was then tied to a nail hid under the top, out of sight. Sometimes, when we were playing in the yard, a bottle would burst with a loud pop. We were careful to act like it wasn’t heard by us. Uncle Wallace was so happy and care free that sometimes my daddy would counsel him on working hard and getting ahead, but my uncle Wallace never paid any attention. When we arrived with Bob, uncle Wallace walked around Bob slowly and grinned. “That’s a prize animal you got there” he told my daddy. “Well you just keep him and feed him awhile and see what kind of prize he is” my daddy replied. We got in the truck and went home. I could see it irritated my daddy and I knew uncle Wallace needled him on purpose. We were busy putting in crops so it was about three months before we got back over to uncle Wallace's. We had walked through the woods and crossed the big log over the creek as a short cut, so we came up back of the house. I knew papa wanted to get a quick look before uncle Wallace knew he was there. I also knew you couldn’t sneak up on uncle Wallace. He was aware of even the bird's movements. As we rounded the corner uncle Wallace called from the horse lot and said “if you’re looking for me, I’m out here." We walked out to the lot and I thought papa was going to have a stroke. Wallace was sitting on Bobs back, turned the opposite direction from his head, eating an apple. As we walked up, he slid off the horse and gave Bob the apple core. He crossed over to the gate and that horse padded along right behind him like a pet dog. Now I knew uncle Wallace had an uncanny way with animals but we’re talking about a wild maverick or at least I thought so. This horse acted like a pussy cat. My daddy said “all right, tell me how you did it. ”My uncle said “or he is as tame as a cat.” Then seeing the temper start in my daddy's face he agreed to tell him what took place. Each morning as he walked past the horse's lot, he lay a lump of sugar on the gate post. He had seen the intelligence and curiosity in the horse so he felt sure he would inspect what he left. This went on for about a week then uncle Wallace begin offering him the sugar from his hand. Next he introduced him to apples, all the while talking to him and rubbing his nose. Finally he let the horse out and the horse would tag along behind while uncle Wallace worked. He would give him an apple at break time and the horse would follow him back at dusk. He said, ”to make a story short, I didn’t have to train him. I simply showed him and he would do it.” We spent the entire afternoon as uncle Wallace showed us what that horse could do. He put a bridle and saddle on the horse, riding him around the yard then jumping the fence. He told my daddy not to ever let anyone put a bit in Bobs mouth that would hurt him. If they do, he said, Bob has a surprise for them. He didn’t say what it was and papa didn’t ask. Wallace hooked him to the plow and plowed a few rows, all the time talking to the horse. Then summed it up this way. That horse is no ordinary horse, he can and will do any thing you like, but you had better not insult him. Say gee and haw to guide him, never pull on him with a rope. If you ride with a saddle on him, when you get where you are going, get off. Bob doesn’t allow you to sit on him if you’re not moving. Whatever you do, don’t dare hit him with a switch or anything. We took Bob home, going the longer route so we didn’t have to cross over that log at the creek. For a while we were in awe of this horse that was so different, but we soon settled in to treating him as advised. After all, this was easier than yelling at the pesky mules. It became a habit to treat Bob like one of the family. Bob was full of curiosity and nothing escaped his eye. My mother didn’t pay any attention to the horses or mules generally but Bob was an exception. When she hung clothes out to dry Bob would come up to the fence and shake his head for attention. My mother was a fun loving person and liked to tease Bob. She would start out to the clothes' line, getting Bobs attention, then slip around the wood pile and come up behind Bob. Then jumping out from behind the wood pile she would say Bo-o-oey. Bob would jump like he was real surprised and my mother would laugh. On days when she put the baby mattress on the wood pile to sun and freshen she really had fun with Bob. Taking the mattress on her head, she would dart out from behind the wood pile, Bob would snort real loud, lift his tail high in the air and run behind the barn. Mama would laugh so hard that she had to drop the mattress and end up sitting on it with tears of laughter running down her cheeks. All the while Bob is peeping from around the barn with only his ears and eyes showing, which added to the laughter.

A Neighbor borrows our Horse

A neighbor ( Mr. Hicks) came up to the house one day and wanted to borrow one of our horses. Something had happened to his horse or he needed an extra. I can’t remember the details, but papa said sure, go out to the barn and get one. We kept on working for about an hour before we heard some on yelling and calling for papa. He was coming across the plowed field toward us yelling at every step. “Come quick, your horse has done gone crazy." Daddy said “by gosh, that fool took Bob." We followed the boy home and Bob was standing at the neighbors door and the plow with harness was strung out behind him. He stood at the door with his ears laid flat back on his head and was pawing the ground with his front feet, watching the door. Mr. Hicks stood behind the door, peeping over the top. Papa just walked up to him, disconnected the harness and said, ”go home Bob."  When Bob was gone the neighbor came out and went to where papa was looking at a whip lying on the ground. Papa just looked at him and said “Don’t ever ask me to lend you another horse." Then papa turned and I followed him home. Another peculiarity about Bob was that any horse or mule would follow him. This was a kind of novelty and interesting at first but the word got around and was causing me problems. Whenever somebody's stock got out, I was the one that usually had to ride Bob and bring the stock in. It got to be real irritating with an old bachelor named Mr. Hicks. He lived alone and in my book that was puzzling. Everyone is supposed to have a wife and kids or why would you even work. Not only this, but he didn’t take a hammer with nails to repair his fence, the way we had to. He just took a forked stick and propped the fence up. Sundays, when the old mule wasn’t tuckered out, he would get curious as to what was on the other side of the fence and walk right over the forked stick. It got to messing up my Sundays right regular and I decided at the first opportunity to do something about it. Well, the opportunity came on a Saturday. Every one had gone to town except me and I was getting ready to go when I heard Mr. Hicks coming. This meant getting Bob out of the stable and leading that bag of bones that Mr. Hicks called a mule, home. I would also be late, if I made it at all, to the picture show. In order to see the movie I would have to walk the two miles to Macon then catch a ride five miles to Warrenton, so I knew day was spoiled. I got Bob, while Mr. Hicks went on back home. It was easy for him, just give me the word, and go home like I was supposed to take care of his mule. I intended to do just that this time. I rode Bob to where the old mule was standing in the field and turned, but instead of taking him home I rode straight to my house. Bob was particular about his lot. This was his domain and he didn’t allow any other animals in his lot. I knew this, which is why I led that old mule right in the lot and put the draw bars up so he couldn’t get out. Bob would teach him a lesson, then I would take him home and hope he stayed there. Taking Bob around behind the stable I turned him loose. He lay down, rolled over a couple of times and got up to stretch. The mule had meandered around the barn and Bob saw him. Bob snorted a warning for that mule to go but the mule was either stupid or stubborn. You never can tell about a mule. Bob started after that mule with ears laid flat back on his head and nostrils flaring. I was beginning to have second thoughts about this but it was too late now. Bob rushed that mule, biting him on the neck then whirling to kick with both heels into the mules side. I jumped down from the draw bars to let the mule out then jumped back. The fight was too fierce and I didn’t want to get involved at this point. It was over in a few minutes and Bob trotted off. I had never seen an animal killed that way. Papa had to get Mr. Hicks another mule, so he gave him “Jerked The Foot.” Jerked The Foot was the name of an old mule of ours that had suffered an injury, making him jerk one hind foot up after each step. He was still a better mule than the dead one.

We kept Bob as long as he lived. After he was too old to work, papa retired him in style. He gave him to a family, where he was treated as a pet. Once a year he was used to plow the garden then put back in the pasture. He remained there until he died. Children could walk between his feet and he watched, carefully placing his feet so as not to hurt them. If you ate an apple, he nudged you with his nose wanting part of the apple. When I rode him with a saddle on Sundays, I guided him by pressure with my knees, or just talked to him. No one ever touched him with a switch or line after he chased the neighbor. He just wouldn’t tolerate an insult. Until the day he died, he would still come out of the stables in the morning on his hind legs snorting and proud. I never saw him when he was old as my daddy had made arrangements with a man to take Bob and keep him the remainder of his life. This was because my Daddy was retiring from the farm and couldn’t keep the horse at home. The man and his wife were animal lovers and gave Bob a fine home with care and affection.

Socializing

Walking or riding a horse was the only way to get anywhere. I chose to walk unless it was over five miles. It was just too much trouble to catch and saddle a horse. Horses also have to be tended if you rode them. An all day trip meant that you had to water and feed them. When you got back home you had to rub them down and put the saddle gear away. When I rode one of the horses, I had to check every thing before getting on the horse, if other boys with horses were around. If you didn’t check you had a good chance of having a prank played on you, particularly if there were girls present to impress. Some of the tricks could get you skinned up. For example, a cinch loosened, a rope tied to the saddle and then to a post. This could leave you sitting on the ground while your horse galloped merrily on his way. The most embarrassing is the cockle berry under the saddle. Boys would show off by running toward the back of the horse, placing both hands on the rump of the horse and bounding over the back of the horse into the saddle. With a cockle berry under the saddle, when your seat hit that saddle, the horse just bucked you right over his head. You really never quit moving, just a momentary pause, and you was on your way again, over the horses head. I walked or rather ran in a little trot every where I went. Being only about two and a half miles to school I could be there before the school bus, which had to travel about twelve miles, picking up kids along the way. I trotted in a steady dog trot that didn’t tire me. Some school nights we would slip out of the house and go visit for a while. Slipping out of the house at night was no problem, as a tall crepe myrtle tree grew at the corner of the porch with its limbs extending over the porch roof. We would raise the upstairs window late in the afternoon ahead of time to prevent any squeaks that night. Come night, we would step through the window unto the porch roof and climb down the crepe myrtle tree. Tipping through the yard until we reached the dirt road we would be on our way. Henry ( my brother) and I always made these little excursions together. In the winter when shoes are worn, we tied the laces around our neck letting the shoes hang over our back as we climbed down the tree. After we were away from the house a bit, we sat down and put the shoes back on. Some dark, moonless nights, we would talk about the ghost that was supposed to be around this area. A cemetery that had to be passed was watched cautiously, as mysterious lights sometimes rose above the graves. There was also the “no-headed man” to keep a watch for over your shoulder once in awhile. The railroad was at least three miles away, but a no-headed man could get lost and wander over our way. Better to watch and play it safe. The story of the origin of the “no headed” man concerned a real happening some years in the past. A young train conductor was on his way home on a Christmas eve. This was his last trip before the Christmas holidays and he had all of the presents for his children in the train behind the baggage. He had purchased them a few at a time between trips. He was excited and could hardly wait to get home to the children and wife. It was a very foggy, dreary night with length of vision only a few yards. The young conductor stood on the steps between the rail road cars and would frequently lean his head out from the side of the train to see how close they were to his destination. A steel post with a beam protruding outward to catch mail bags was just the level of the conductors head when he leaned forward and it severed the young conductors head cleanly from his body. For some reason the head was not found and the body was buried with no head. On some dark foggy nights it is said that a light can be seen following the railroad tracks and that it is the young conductor looking for his head. My older brother, Willard, the practical joker, who got his tongue stuck to the ax, was a great one for scaring you. We didn’t take a shower every night as people do now. For two reasons, that come to mind. First, it would have taken all night for twelve people to take a shower. And second, we didn’t have a shower. Houses were airy back then so nobody noticed. This Saturday night I was taking a bath with the tub backed up against the stove, to cut down on the chill, and it happened. I heard a low moan and glanced out the kitchen window just in time to see a red neck slide down out of sight. I thought, you are imagining things. After a couple of seconds I heard the low moan again so I reached over and picked up a piece of stove wood about a foot long. Here comes that low moan getting a little higher this time. I drew back that stick of stove wood in the ready position and watched. Up started something in the window and I let go with the stick of stove wood. Willard's forehead and that stick of stove wood came into that open window at the same time. The next moan had meaning. Willard had wrapped some red yarn around a stick to look like a bloody neck and make me think it was the no-headed man. After pushing it up to the window a couple of times, he had raised his head to take a peep to see if it worked. It just happened that he picked the wrong time to peep. We usually walked short distances to visit and left early because we always got up at the crack of dawn. A couple of miles was considered a short distance by us. Sometimes if we had something really special, a walk of five miles to the next town was done. Vaughn was a little town five miles away, with three of those miles on a dirt road having trees hanging over head. You walked for about a mile down the dirt road in the moon light, then down a steep hill into the bottom lands. It was dark with shadows on all sides and you had to walk over a wooden bridge that creaked, letting anything around know you were passing. On the way home you had to pass the same way and chance that nothing heard you the first trip and sat waiting for your return. The last two miles were on the main highway, which was paved, so we could run better. A blind man and his wife lived on this road and sometimes we would go by when it was pitch dark and the man would be splitting kindling wood. Of course being blind, it didn’t make any difference with him if it was dark. Neighbors complained that his wife treated him terrible and being blind he had no defense, so he cut wood at night to get away from her. This turned out to be different one night. The old man got fed up with the mistreatment. With his hand he could feel the heat from the oil lamp and had no trouble blowing the only light in the room out. Placing a broom by the table one night, he reached over and blew the light out, leaving the house in total darkness. Taking the broom up, he pounded his wife all over that house. The neighbors said that, strangely, they both seemed to be much happier after that.

Helping A Neighbor

Baseball was our favorite past time. We played ball in some fashion every opportunity. For practice we had a spot beside the house that was equal to the distance from the pitcher's mound to the batters box. Batters box was backed up against the smoke house to stop the ball when we missed it. This was a necessary arrangement because it was only Henry and I playing most of the time. I would pitch until I struck him out, then the positions would be reversed. In the cow lot, we made a small base ball diamond and played string ball. String ball is by the same rules as baseball only we use a string ball. This ball is made by winding tobacco twine around a solid rubber ball, if we are lucky enough to find one, otherwise we use any small ball available. Sometimes we even use a small steel ball that makes that old ball pop when it hits the mitt. Taking a mattress needle and a pair of pliers, we sew back and forth through the ball, securing the thread on it nice and snug. Most of the time we didn’t have enough people to play baseball so we played two eyed cat. Two eyed cat is simpler and can be played with four players or more. Two bases are placed about one hundred feet apart with a batter and catcher at each base. If the batter misses the ball and you catch it on first bounce, or in the air before it bounces, you get a turn at bat. The other players scattered about in the field could catch the ball like wise or throw the ball between the batter (who had to run to the next base) and the base, getting a turn at bat. Playing ball on Sundays was the most fun because there were always enough players to form a team. It took about a ten-mile radius to get one team that meant that we would have to travel at least five miles to play an opposing team. We were very lucky to have this man with a big truck who took the whole team places to play. Now, I don’t know what the law says about how much time can pass before a little mistake is forgotten, so I won’t mention his name. This fellow, who was so nice about taking us to all the games, also happened to be a boot legger. I’ve heard both sides of the boot legging story and there happens to be a little wrong on both sides. As I understand the situation, the government made a law against anyone making whiskey for sale, except the ones that they licensed. Common sense would say take the old experienced whiskey makers and give them the license, but the politicians awarded the contracts to their favorites. Families who had been making whiskey for generations were suddenly told it is against the law to make and sell your whiskey. No mention was made as to how they would feed their family. The governments side of the story skips the preliminaries and says they are selling non-taxed whiskey, therefore breaking the law. Now I’m a firm believer in obeying the law or waiting until it can be changed, but the way congress hastens slowly along, waiting is not always possible. That’s exactly what happened here. I overheard an older brother say that the government men were going to raid a big still in the neighborhood. Everybody knew there was only one still, run by a family for generations, which took great pride in good whiskey. I stayed around and listened until I knew which night was set for the raid. This bothered me because I had never broken any law that I knew of. I say that I knew of, because I’m told they have so many laws that you can’t go to through the day without breaking at least one. Anyway, I gave it considerable thought and worry before deciding that just maybe I could get the job done without breaking the law. It may not be exactly right, but then it wasn’t exactly wrong either. That night I stayed awake until I knew everyone else was asleep then eased out of bed. Being barefooted I made no noise walking and was soon at the stable. I got the horse, Bob, out of the stable and led him, walking for about a quarter mile before climbing on his back. No saddle was used because it makes noise and if anyone heard me I wanted them to think it was a stray horse. On entering this neighbors yard, which was about three mile from home, I started whistling a song as loud as I could. I didn’t want to be mistook for a revenuer. The moon was as bright as day and I knew that he was watching me. In a minute he asked “What do you want boy, you can’t play baseball at night." I said “no sir, I heard the government people were raiding a big still tonight and thought you might know someone who was interested." He thanked me and said he would see me Sunday at the game. When I got close to home I slid off of Bobs back and walked him on the softest ground I could find until I got him in the stable. I slept good the rest of the night knowing I hadn’t broken any laws, just passed on some gossip. About a week later papa asked my brother at the breakfast table about the raid. Papa didn’t like it, but he always said the law is the law and if you don’t go by it, we will all end up in a sorry mess. My brother told him that there had to be a leak of information, because when the government men got there, only a couple of old mash barrels were left. Papa gave me a funny look and I looked down at my plate, eating like I hadn’t heard. Nothing else was ever said about it.

Strictly Boys Games

The Hight"s house was about midway between farms and a good place for us boys to meet and play. The Hight family had twelve boys and every one of them was born at home without a doctor. Mrs. Hight told me so herself. This was quite impressive to me and I figured made her about as smart as any doctor. Joe Hight was the only one in our age range. Across the creek about a mile away lived the Stegall"s giving us Sunny and C.B. to join us. Closer to our house lived Wilbur Gray but he didn’t play with us. His mother was a real nice lady, living by herself with just the children since her husband died and I thought that she wouldn’t let Wilbur play with us because she didn’t want any more problems. Being in the twelve to fourteen year range I guess a boy is susceptible to most any fun suggestion or dare. Counting Henry and I, we had five regulars and sometimes a visitor. Visitors were always good for a few laughs. Visitors always had to be taken on a snipe hunt. Picking the darkest night, we would take the visitor down in the deepest, darkest part of the woods we could find and place him at the end of a ditch with a bag. Telling him to be real quiet and especially patient, while we slipped through the woods and drove the snipe to the bag. After positioning him we would slip up through the woods, go home and to bed. Since it was usually warm weather, he took it pretty good. Other times we would take a visitor to rock a hornet's nest, if we could find one. A hornets nest is a big, gray, paper like nest filled with bees and it really hurts when they sting. If a rock is thrown close to the nest, a hornet will fly back, right down the line the rock made going to the nest. If you are still on that line he got you, but good. Visitors never noticed that when we through a rock we dropped down on our stomachs. When the hornet flew back down the line the rock had made we wouldn't be there. We were letting the hornet continue over our head. Visitors would get off three or four throws sometimes before the hornet got his range. Mrs. Hight always fixed the sting up with baking soda. The Hight"s had a large apple orchard and a cider press. They do go together nicely. The cider press was a large wooden barrel with a thick top. Through the top ran a large screw shaped piece of iron with handless extending about three feet on each side. We would gather a bushel of apples and pour them into the large barrel. Taking turns, we would position one person on each side of the barrel and grasping the handle, walk around the barrel. This forced the screw, with the wooden top, down and pressed the juice from the apples. We would then collect the juice, add a little sugar, and store it to rest. In a few days we had apple cider. Most of the time we played cow boy and Indians or cops and robbers with sling shots and green plums. We didn’t shoot too hard because if we did the return shot would be hard, leaving a red whelp. It was a spacious area with lots of stables, barns, and storage houses so the shooting was done from a distance most of the time (if you was careful). Taking a little bottle of cider ( really apple juice) we would choose sides. After going to the plum bushes and filling our pockets we were ready to play. We would separate, one side at the barn and the other side at the stables about a hundred yards away. The game usually lasted all afternoon without a winner. You had to touch an opponent before he was considered dead. With been shooters and green plums no one wanted to get that close. Every summer we dug and hauled dirt to dam up the creek making a swimming hole. There were no trees around and no bull to chase us in this pasture as it had been at the old house. We wore no clothes because there were no girls within miles. A mistake was made one year in the location and the muddy bottom had leaches. We didn't know until we had been in the water for awhile, just splashing and getting used to it. Joe Hight crawled out of the water first and we saw black blobs on his legs. When he pulled the blobs off, blood ran down his leg. We all scrambled out then and checked our legs. Almost all of us had leaches stuck tight to our legs. We had to build a second pool which took the rest of the week. . I learned to swim in the ponds we built, as did every other boy in the neighbor hood. With no instructions, the only stroke we used was a dog paddle. The Hight"s also had a “T” model ford that we took turns steering around the yard while the other four pushed. In fact, this is where I learned to drive. The first time I drove any thing with the motor running, was the day I picked up the school bus. I took the job as school bus driver for the year. By the time I drove the five miles home I had experimented enough to have it down pretty pat. My aunt had signed my mother's name for me to get the drivers license because I was afraid if I asked my Mama, she would say no. I was only fifteen so I added another year to make me sixteen. No test was required and the license was supposed to be good for life. It didn’t take long for that to change. The school buses all had governors on them so you couldn’t go over thirty-five miles an hour. On the long hills I would take it out of gear and let it roll faster. There were no discipline problems to speak of. Any one misbehaving much could be put off the bus and had to walk home. When he got home his daddy would tan his hide and he knew it. It made a person think twice before misbehaving . Besides, I think people were more tolerant in those days and I know the teachers were more respected.

Neighborhood Eccentrics

All of the people in the area where I grew up were neighbors, I guess. Least wise they all knew each other, as well as every body’s cousin. Actually I lived more than two miles from the town, but you have to tell people something when they ask you where you are from, so I always said Macon. Macon, North Carolina was the towns name and it had a post office, even if Nick the postmaster, did have to operate it without pay when money was tight. Highway 58 ran east and west with Haithcock's service station on the west end. Going east, on the right was a house where fish was sold on the week ends. Fifty feet further across the road was a service station and then the railroad depot. The other public places were on the right, being Charlie’s Service station, Gilliam's Store and Russell's Store. All within a couple of hundred feet. One other highway crossed in the dead center of town, between Charlie’s Service Station and Gilliam's Store and ran south to Embro, which was about five miles. All towns seem to be about five miles apart if you check your map. I don’t know why, maybe due to the distance a person would drive his wagon and return in a day, but I could name at least seven towns in a row on highway 58 that were five miles apart. The government will probably do a study on this after they finish the one on the mating tactics of the whooping crane. We really didn’t need but one city limits sign in our town but we had two anyway. One on each end of town about a half mile apart. Some salesman sold the idea that our town needed a stop light to really put it on the map. Considering that only fifteen or twenty cars passed daily, and that's counting both streets in twenty-four hours, you can appreciate that mans salesmanship. A stop light was erected at the intersection of highway 58 and Embro Rd. It was in the weekly paper, published in the next town, Warrenton. Front page, with the law stating that you must stop on red and go on green. We would have probably put up another, but that is the only intersection in Macon. Mr. Gilliam's Store blocked the view when stopping at the light if you were on Embro road. Mr. Robertson would pull his old truck up to the intersection, with his view to the right completely blocked by the store, sit there a couple seconds and say “Well if anything was coming it would be gone by now” and drive on across. There was less chance of two cars meeting there, at any given second, than winning the sweep stakes. The light in the stop light burned out one night and was never replaced. It just hung, inactive, swaying in the wind until someone finally removed it. Getting back to eccentrics, which is what you are if you are different and have money. If you don’t have money, you are just odd. Per capita, Macon had to rank near the top of the list for odd people. Professor was a quiet, shy person who never engaged anyone in conversation. He would always answer politely and to the point if asked a direct question, but chances are you wouldn’t understand him. Every morning he would cross the railroad tracks going to Mr.Gilliam's store for a coke. Without moving or speaking, he would drink his coke, place the bottle on the counter and leave. At the railroad he would stop, take out his pocket watch and check the time. Then he would cross the railroad tracks for home. Now, this fellow was some kind of mathematician. He could take four rows of figures, run his fingers down the list and write the answer at the bottom. Some strangers came down to Macon one day and talked the professor into taking what they called an accuracy test. I think they wanted to prove him a hoax. Elaborate preparations were made while some of the townspeople watched. Two tables with a chair at each were placed out next to the railroad tracks about thirty feet apart. A man with pencil and pad was placed at each table and the professor stood in between them. They were going to have each of the men setting at the tables write down the serial numbers of the freight train as it passed through. Each man would select every other train to insure time enough to get the whole number. The professor was to stand between them and mentally add the totals of all serial numbers of all the freight cars. Ridiculous, I thought not even the professor can do this. The train was right on time, as they always were then. As the train clattered by, the men copied serial numbers while the professor stood with folded arms as if sight seeing but never taking his eyes off the train. When the caboose passed the professor reached over and wrote down a number on a little piece of paper. The two men spent about an hour, chewing on pencils, comparing notes, checking and rechecking. Finally with big grins they lay their paper down beside the professors. When they leaned over and looked, the grins faded. The numbers on both papers were identical. Our telegraph operator was an exceptional fellow too, I thought, but never having known another telegraph operator I couldn’t be called an expert. He could and did frequently send and receive messages at the same time while listening to gossip from whoever was present. He would jiggle the keys with out- going messages while writing messages received with his other hand. Another eccentric was a fellow that lived in Warrenton. His family had left him adequate money and appointed a guardian to look after him. This wasn’t a tough job because all this fellow wanted to do was pretend that he was a policeman. Arriving early every morning, he would spend the day walking up and down the street pretending to write license numbers on a little pad that he carried. Since every one knew him and ignored the pretend tickets, there was no harm done. That is until one Christmas rush season some one got the bright idea of giving him a police whistle. Where did he head for the first use of it but to the main intersection. He really snarled up traffic until some one retrieved the whistle and gave him back a pad and pencil.

Uncle Luke

We had a guest to arrive at our house one day. He was down on his luck, he said, and wanted to spend a few days until he could work things out. The few days turned in to weeks and then into years. He lived in a trailer on the back of our lot (temporarily) until he died of old age. He was a distant relative, not really my uncle, but we always called him uncle Luke. When younger, he had been paid by his brother, to serve in his place, during world war one. He claimed to have been shell shocked and gassed, with mustard gas, during a battle, which prevented him from working. I don't know about being shell shocked but I do know that he never worked. He would tell us children tales of his war experiences with such exaggerations even we didn't really believe any of it. At one time the government paid the World War 1 veterans a lump sum of money for some reason and uncle Luke bought a model A ford with his share. Now uncle Luke had never driven anything and had no license to drive, so papa took him to get his license. There was no driving test required at this time, so papa was going to teach uncle Luke to drive after he got his license. There were some questions that would be asked by the examiner, before selling him the license, and uncle Luke would have to answer those. The questions would determine if a person was old enough, reasonably good mental condition etc. There was no concern over an adult getting a license we thought. Late that afternoon we heard the model A ford coming down the road and ran into the yard to greet them. We waited on the porch until papa cut the car motor off then bounded out to see uncle Luke's new license. "Show me your new license uncle Luke " I said. "Didn't get them" said uncle Luke. Every one was out in the yard by then. “Why didn’t they give uncle Luke his license papa” I asked. “Well he answered their questions honestly, but it wasn’t the answers that they wanted” Papa said, glancing at uncle Luke. He didn’t want to embarrass uncle Luke, so he waited until Uncle Luke was in the house, then said, ”I’ll give you some of the examiners questions and uncle Luke's answers. Examiner: Mr. Spain, Luke Spain is your name isn’t it? Uncle Luke: Yes sir, all of my life I have been called Luke Spain. Examiner: And this is your first license? Uncle Luke: Never needed one before, because I didn’t have a car. Examiner: Now how fast would you go on the open highway? Uncle Luke: Fast as the car would go if I was in a hurry. Examiner: Now wait a minute, you couldn’t go over 55 MPH on the highway. Uncle Luke: That car of mine will do 70 MPH and I can show you. Examiner: I don’t think you understand. Did you know that at 70 MPH it is like driving your car off of a four story building? Uncle Luke: How would you get my car on top of a four story building? Examiner: This is just theoretically speaking. Uncle Luke: Well I ain’t driving my car off no four story building whatever you call it. Man, you must be crazy. ”With that, the examiner got up, looked at uncle Luke and said “I don’t believe you are ready for a drivers license”. Papa looked at us and said “So I just brought him home” Years later "uncle Luke" died. Some distant relatives, whom we had never seen before, came down home but after finding that "uncle Luke" had died destitute they left. Papa had "Uncle Luke" buried, paying all expenses himself. The Model "A" ford, that Luke had purchased with his World War 1 pay, was still sitting in the back of the house, on blocks as it had been for years. Unable to get a drivers license, Luke had taken the wheels off and set the car on concrete blocks. On Sunday afternoons Luke liked to start the car and listen to it as he revved the motor faster then slower. We children would trip along behind him, sitting on the grass beside the car, and talk to him as he pretended to drive. "When are you going out to drive your car"? my brother Henry asked of Luke. "As soon as my dinner settles" "Uncle Luke replied. After waiting a few minutes to make his point, Luke would get up and head for the car. "Can I sit on the seat with you today"? asked my brother. " Why yes, just give me plenty of elbow room" Luke admonished. We get out to the car and every one settles in their chosen position. " This is a fine car Uncle Luke" proclaimed my sister Lucile. " Yep, bought her brand new and it's never been out of the yard since, but one of the days I'm going to take it on the road". And with that Luke started the car. " Listen to that motor boy's, she runs like a sewing machine" said Luke as he revved the speed of the motor up and back a little. With these memories of Luke in our mind, we got the 4 wheels of the car from the pack house, where they had been stored these many years, and put them on the car. "Well I guess I can sell the car and recoup some of the funeral expenses" Papa said. " There are lot's of people in Durham looking for old cars" I remarked. "Will you take it up there and give it a try" Papa asked. " Sure " I said "but I would like to have it myself if you would sell it to me". " Give me a $100 and you can have it" Papa replied. I bought the car which was really priced considerably below what I thought it worth. I took it home to Durham and installed all new red upholstering. I was right proud of it but my wife didn't like it parked in the drive way so I eventually sold it to a Duke University ministers son. Not wanting to go through the red tape of title changing for a dead man, I simple signed Luke's name. A letter, with the title, arrived from the NC State license board about a month later stating " You could neither read nor write when you purchased this car. Have you since learned"? I just made an "X" on the title and returned it. No more was heard from them but I was some what relieved when the boy destroyed the car in a wreck.