The First Time I Saw My Daddy Cry

The afternoon had slipped into early evening. The sun was just a glow that hovered above the treetops, waiting to say goodbye to yet another day. Gently the wind stirred, rustling the branches of the big, old pine tree that dominated our front yard. But that pine tree was more than a fixture in our front  yard; it was where three little girls spent most of their day, playing. There underneath its canopy we marked off rooms for our playhouse, dug roads for our cars to ride on, and gathered up cans, jar lids, and anything else we could find to outfit our pretend world. No cares, no worries, no concerns; just complete peace and quiet.

But, the world my parents lived in was not as restful. There were cares, worries, and concerns, and this day was a particularly worrisome day. There was no food. Nothing. The food had run out and it was still days before they could expect any money. Somehow three little girls needed their supper.

Daddy had a special place out in the woods beside the house where he went to pray. So when daddy came out of the house and turned toward the woods, I knew he was going to his special place. I started after him, but he stopped, looked at me intently, and said, “No, you can’t come this time.” About that time mother came to the porch and one of us asked when supper would be ready. Quietly mother said, “When your daddy gets back. Just play a while longer.” So we did.

Maybe 30 minutes, maybe an hour went by. I don’t really know, but after a while, daddy came walking back toward the house. Peace occupied the place worry once held. He walked with more energy and confidence. Even to an 8 year old something had noticeably changed.

“Look, daddy. Look at all those cars turning off the highway.” Car after car drove into our yard. It seemed as if the entire church made up that caravan. We stood captivated as each family brought baskets and sacks of groceries and goods into the house. The church had decided to surprise us with a “pounding.” When the last sack was unloaded, food covered our dining table, the chairs, and lined the walls of the dining room and kitchen. Smoked hams hung on the back porch. I remember a 50-gallon can of lard (we don’t use that now) that sat just inside the kitchen door.

I will never forget the look that passed between my mother and daddy. With tears streaming down his face, Daddy told mother, “I told you the Lord would provide.”  It was the first time I saw my daddy cry.

Grams

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

We were not referred to as the youth group back in the 60s. We were simply the young people at church. We had a Sunday School class, a teacher, and a church-elected volunteer youth leader. No salary, just someone who loved kids and wanted to help keep them in church. Often as not, it was the preacher and in my case it was my daddy.

Television had been part of the average household for only about a decade. Video games were not even a glimmer on some geek’s brain. And who knew what a geek was? So youth activities would be tame compared to today’s ski trips, white water rafting, etc. But we were experts at planning “get-togethers.”

A “get-together” took on the character of the one who planned it. But, usually we just ended up hanging out together, eating, playing games, maybe even listening to music. There was something special about just being together. We belonged; we were part of something larger than ourselves, even if our numbers were small.

When you think about it, that’s not much different from what kids do today. The youth leader is usually paid a salary, the activities may be on a larger scale and more expensive, but kids still seem to like just hanging out. They still need to belong to something larger than themselves.

Ever notice that the more things change, the more they stay the same?

Grams

When the Goat Balked

Mother had finished with me; she had two more to go. I was told to sit in the rocker on the front porch and not get dirty. This was the usual routine when getting ready to go anywhere, especially to church. Sometimes I was told to sit in the living room on the couch or a chair, but seldom was I allowed to go outside while mother bathed and dressed my sisters. For some reason she thought she could trust me to do what she told me to do. And for the most part I did. But this time it was different.

This was not our porch; this was not even our house. Back in the 50s whenever a preacher “ran” a revival the entire family went along. There were few hotels, at least where we were, so we always stayed with a family in the church where the revival was being held. This particular family eventually became lifelong friends of our family, which made it really neat to stay there. You didn’t have to always be on your very best behavior, and that made it especially nice for me.

So there I sat, starched dress and slip, hair fixed just so-so, and those dreaded patent leather shoes. Johnny (not his real name) came around the corner of the house. I asked him what he’d been doing? (He was about me age.) He told me he’d been riding a billy goat. He cocked his head to the side and said, “I bet you can’t ride him.” Well, that did it. Of course I could ride a billy goat. If he could, I could and I told him so.

We went around to the barn and the goat was penned up in the barn lot with other animals. Actually, they were pigs. Anyway, Johnny caught the goat and held him while I got on. I grabbed hold of the horns, Johnny let go of the goat, and he took about three steps and balked. I didn’t know that’s what you called it but I learned quickly what it felt like. Over the goat’s head I sailed, right into a hog wallow. Know what that is? It’s a muddy hole a hog has wallowed out and it stinks worse than anything you can imagine.

When I hit the ground I remembered the starched dress and the patent leather shoes, and mother. Too late! I had to face her. That most definitely qualified as doomsday. Needless to say, mother was none too happy. Neither was I when she finished with me, again.

Grams

Who Got Queen?

Queen had never been shampooed nor taken to a vet for shots. She had no special kind of food filled with vitamins and minerals, formulated to cause her to live beyond the normal life span of a dog. But she was healthy. She ate good; the same food we ate, supplementing her diet with a rabbit or two. And if she got hurt in any way, my dad took care of it. He always knew what to do for cuts, ticks, even snake bites. Queen was a working farm dog.

I really don’t know how old she was, but I remember her standing guard at the gate to prevent strangers from coming into the yard. I was three at the time. Queen’s chief responsibility was to watch over my sister and me when we were in the yard playing. When anyone came to the gate, even if mother said it was OK to come in, Queen always stayed between my sister and me and whoever had come to the house.

Queen was not a pretty dog and I don’t remember having any particular feelings one way or the other for her. I was only three and she was the watch dog. She was not a pet that was allowed in the house. She had a function and she performed it very well.

Daddy needed one more crop and he’d have the farm paid for; it would belong to him, all of it. But God had other plans for him. God had called him to preach! He faced a major decision in his life. Owning his own farm had been a life’s dream for him and he was within one year of reaching that goal. But, now God was redirecting his life, and ours as well. I don’t remember how long it took him to decide what he would do, but I do remember that soon we were driving 100 miles to Bibb County, Alabama for daddy to preach.

After about a year, daddy became pastor of a church and we had to move. The farm had to go. He was a preacher now, not a farmer. The crop that would have paid the farm free of the bank was ready to harvest, but daddy didn’t have time to gather it. One Saturday there was a big sale. The crops, the farm equipment, the mules and other livestock, and the land were all sold. We had burned our bridges behind us. From here on out my daddy would be a preacher and I would be a PK, a preacher’s kid.

I never did know who got Queen.

Grams

The Preacher and the June Bug

We had heard about it and had been in a few places that had it, but air conditioning was only a dream for most poor folks in the deep South back in 1953. Maybe lack of air conditioning is one of the reasons most of us kids stayed out of doors as long as we could.

Southern Mississippi steamed. People, animals, even plants sweltered in the heat. The only reprieve was a vagrant breeze or when the sun went behind a cloud. The occasional summer shower cooled the air just for a bit, then the heat would return. There was one thing worse and that was being inside.

I squirmed; my mother glared. Nothing was stirring but me and the June bug that flew in and out of the open window. There were no screens so the insects had free range. Adding to my discomfort were the starched dress, slip, and patent leather shoes mother insisted that I wear. There seemed to be an unwritten law that girls had to suffer unbearable torture in order to become a lady. But being a lady was not what I was interested in. I wanted out of there. I had heard a bunch of boys talking about playing baseball. I could play ball just as good as any boy there and I intended to prove it. I sighed. Would he never get through?

What was that? Sounded like someone was gagging. My dad had stopped talking and was choking on something. I looked at mother; she seemed a little concerned but she didn’t go to him. Dad turned his back to the audience, walked to the window behind the pulpit, put his finger down his throat, and pulled out the biggest June bug I’d ever seen. That was the end of the sermon for that day. The June bug had scratched the back of my dad’s throat and he was not able to finish preaching. Even today, June bugs remain one of my favorite bugs. I’ve always wondered if that June bug thought dad’s mouth was just another open window.