A Hundred Year Story

By Elton Camp
The main part of this account deals with the period from 1909 to 2009. The first
year refers to the birth of my father, Bergis Howard Camp, and the second to the year of
completion of the first draft of the book.
In the case of my father, the events and circumstances prior to his high school
graduation, are detailed in The Granny Room: A Story of a Southern Family. Many other
family members are discussed here, including my wifes relatives. This is intended for the
use of my daughter, not necessarily for publication. Although sometimes enhanced with
fabricated dialogue, it is essentially nonfiction.
Howards first name, Bergis, was picked by his parents to honor a Preacher
Bergis. It was a name that he hated because of its strangeness. His option of being able to
use a normal sounding middle name didnt move him to extend the same opportunity to
me.
"I want to give him names nobody else has," he insisted. He succeeded. Weird
names are a special curse that only a parent can pass on to a child.
Howard was a mere six years old when his Mother, Miranda, died during
childbirth. He barely remembered her. His father, Milas, was a distant, uncaring parent
who played his role particularly poorly. This created an emotional void in his life that
may well account for some of the worst aspects of his later inadequacies and behavior. A
young stepmother, Belle, did little to help him, although she was hardly given the
opportunity.
Chapter 1: An Unlikely Union
Howard attended a series of elementary school in the rural areas of Marshall
County. For the upper grades, the family moved into town. After finishing high school in
Albertville, he enrolled in college at Jacksonville, Alabama. His father agreed to help
with expenses as long as he didnt marry.

Albertville High School

"Onst ye marry, ye air on yore own," Milas warned.

At Jacksonville, Howard lived in Forney Hall, the only boys dormitory at that
point in the history of the college. He also worked part-time on campus to meet part of
his expenses.

Forney Hall at Jacksonville State

It was at Jacksonville where he met Eloise Morris who was to become his wife.
The match was one-sided from its beginning. She was far more intelligent and came from
a solidly middle-class background. As is sometimes the case with undergraduate females,
she apparently married the first man who asked her.
My mother was trying to overcome the trauma of the break-up with long-time
boyfriend, Wood Cooper. The two apparently had taken for granted that they would wed
after finishing high school, but a serious disagreement ended the relationship.
"I want to have five children," Wood insisted emphatically. "Ive always wanted a
big family and thats something Im going to have no matter what."
Equally adamant, she declined, "Wood, I just dont want to have that many
children. It wouldnt be fair to them or to us."
Unable to resolve the impasse, they agreed to part on friendly terms. It was a
decision that bothered her even into old age. There is little doubt that Wood was the "love
of her life." She thought and spoke of him often and was sorrowful at learning of his
death decades after their breakup.
My parents traveled to nearby Anniston where they were married without
ceremony or rings by a judge at the courthouse. Neither notified their parents prior to the
wedding.

Courthouse at Anniston
"The judge was so cross-eyed that I wasnt sure which of us he was talking to
when he performed the ceremony," she reported. "Sometimes I wonder if were even
legally married," she joked.
He moved from the dormitory and she from an apartment in town that she had
been sharing with relatives. They took a small apartment in one side of a house on
Mountain Avenue. She was not an experienced cook.
"I put sugar into the coffee instead of salt," she said. "And I burned the bread. It
was a rather bad first breakfast."
With good cause, she dreaded the first trip to her parents home with her new
husband. She knew that they wouldnt approve.
"This is my husband, Howard Camp," she said.
"Youre married? Why didnt you tell us?" her father, Thomas Jefferson Morris,
asked with surprise.
Later that day, her mother, Josie Gaston Morris, admonished her, "I cant imagine
what you were thinking. Hes from a bunch of dirt farmers. Youll live in poverty and
have one baby after another. Hell be just like that father of his." She had learned his
background from her daughter. "Itll never work out. Youll be crawling back to us in a
few months. Mark my words."
"Thatll never happen. Ill stay with him no matter what," she responded angrily.
It was a resolve that she stuck with despite many tribulations brought on by the
unwise selection of a spouse. Only when she was in her early eighties did she seriously
consider divorce mainly because of his excessive drinking, but ultimately decided against
it.

For a short period of time, they lived at Fayetteville on her parents farm which
was located about two miles from the homeplace. Her father had built a small frame
house in the event that either of his two children should happen to need to live in it.
Howard became a sharecropper to his father-in-law for part of one year.
While at that place, they had a dog named Penney. It was a particular favorite of
them both. The dog developed what were then called "running fits." Such cases were
common in those days. People incorrectly thought that the dogs were becoming rabid and
had to be destroyed. It was years before they were willing to take on another pet.
The couple had finished the minimum two-year certificate then required for
Alabama teachers. In time for the opening of school in the fall, they moved to Marshall
County where they obtained employment at Lattiwood School near High Point. It was a
frame two-room schoolhouse without plumbing or adequate heating. He was designated
the principal and she a teacher, although both actually taught students in several grades.
"It sure doesnt pay much, but they are going to provide a house right next to the
school. Thatll help since we dont have a car," Howard remarked to his young wife.
Until the cottage was completed, they rented a room in a private home about a
mile from the school.
"Fifteen dollars a month for me and twenty for you, Mr. Principal," she returned
with a rueful smile.
The pay was provided only during the months school was in session.
Even with such low salary, the board of education paid in what was called "script." It was
a written promise to pay and could be used as currency only with merchants willing to
accept it on the basis of the credit of the State of Alabama. It was during the depression
when jobs of any type were scarce. They took what they could find.
Judged by current standards, it might appear impossible to live on such low
wages, but the cost of necessities was far lower and their standard of living meager. They
grew much of their food in a garden. Parents of students sometimes gave them produce.
My parents "made out" with what was available.
Over the years, they worked at various schools. She was never unemployed, but,
periodically, he was. At times he worked at jobs of various merit outside education.
That winter, one of the heaviest snowfalls in the history of Marshall County
blanketed the ground with nearly two feet of heavy, wet snow. It fell on already frozen
ground and the temperature remained well below freezing for days afterward. Eloise had
been unaccustomed to seeing snow as anything but as scattered flakes in the air where
she had grown up. Her unfamiliarity with Marshall County enabled her husband to have
fun at her expense.

"It snows like this a whole lot. Ive seen it even deeper and itll stay most of the
winter. We wont be able to get around. And you will go for months without seeing your
parents. You might as well get adjusted to it."
It was only after hours of upset and crying that he admitted the tale was untrue.
She related the incident to me years later with obvious annoyance and resentment. It was
funny to him, but not to her.
The following spring, they had another unusual encounter with severe weather.
One day had been distinctly cool, but overnight a warm front abruptly moved into the
area. The sky grew threatening. Lightning flashed repeatedly. The thunder from close
bolts vibrated the windows of Lattiwood School. The two had combined their students
into one room so they could provide joint protection for the youngsters. As the teachers
looked apprehensively out the window, they saw a dark, funnel-shape drop down from a
wall cloud.

Tornado passes near the school

"Its a tornado," Howard whispered. "Theres no storm pit anywhere that will hold
this many people. Even if there was, we wouldnt have time to get to it. Well have to ride
it out where we are."
"Were going to play a game," Eloise called out to the children with as calm a
voice as she could muster. "Everybody get down on the floor under the desks and cover
your head with your arms. Anybody who moves or talks loses."
The children obeyed but giggled at the strange instructions. While the adults
watched out the window, the tornado passed on the opposite side of the road from the
school. A dense debris cloud of dust, leaves, limbs, and pieces of tin arose as it roared
along. Since it moved parallel to the building, they escaped injury.

"We got lucky on that one," Howard remarked. "It could have hit straight on."
For a time he worked at the City School in Guntersville while she worked at
Hebron School. As a joke, it was often called "the Dam School." The name had to do
with its supporter, the Tennessee Valley Authority, part of Franklin Roosevelts "New
Deal."

The City School in Guntersville

The Tennessee River had a long history of regular, devastating floods. At such
times, boats navigated the streets of "North Town" in Guntersville. The area also was in
dire need of additional, inexpensive electricity. These factors were believed to be among
the reasons that Alabama was an embarrassment to the Nation as a pocket of dire poverty.
Along with a series of others, a large dam was to be constructed near Guntersville. This
required a small army of both skilled and unskilled workers. A village for housing the
skilled people was constructed. This required acceptable schooling for their children.
Huge amounts of money were poured into Hebron. Eloise was among the teachers
employed.
Prominent visitors sometimes visited the school, as well as teachers from other
institutions who came to observe the innovative, experimental teaching methods being
employed. On one such occasion, among the visitors was a very fat woman. Part of the
days activities were conducted outside. The large lady started to sit down on the schools
concrete steps to watch.
"Just a minute," the principal said. "I wouldnt want you to get your dress dirty."
He half unfolded a newspaper and started to lay it on the steps. He hesitated, took
an appraising look at the womans broad posterior, and opened the newspaper fully
before he laid it down.
His look and action hadnt escaped her notice. The woman jerked up the paper,
folded it smaller, and sat down. It was a favorite story for months by the teachers who
saw the entire episode. The administrator went on to make even worse blunders.

"When the dams finished," the principal explained in a faculty meeting, "a great
wall of water is gonna rush behind it and fill the lake within an hour or two."
The lake actually took many months to fill. His dearth of factual knowledge was
on a level with his lack of ethics. My mother, along with several other teachers, left
Hebron because of inappropriate political pressure from supervisors, including the
principal. At a faculty meeting, the principal issued instructions to the teachers as to just
how they should vote in an upcoming election.
"Do what I say if you expect to hold your jobs," he threatened.
At the next meeting after the election, he stalked to the front of the room. "You all
knew how you were told to vote," he commenced. "You also knew what would happen if
you didnt."
The man then called each teachers name and announced how he or she had
actually voted. The principle of secret ballot obviously meant nothing. When a big
portion of the faculty resigned in protest at the outrage, the principal himself was forced
from his position.
"I just did what they told me to," he protested. "I didnt expect nothing like this."
He felt that he had done no wrong.

I didnt expect nothing like this!

After leaving Hebron, Mother took the only teaching job she could find. It was at
the DAR school located at Grant, Alabama. Mr. Solley, the county superintendent, made
the offer.

Kate Duncan Smith DAR School

"Eloise, yall got a bum deal at Hebron. I have a job for you, but you may not be
too happy with it," he said, reluctant even to offer her the position. "Its at DAR in
Grant."
The isolated mountain community was one of the very few in the South named for
Ulysses S. Grant who had taken the lead in defeating the Confederacy during the Civil
War. The residents, none of whom owned slaves, had favored the Union. For this reason
they named their town after the famed general. The school was located on the edge of
Grant Mountain. It afforded a spectacular, miles-long view of the valley.

View from the campus of the DAR School

The superintendent continued, "I know youre married, but if you take that job,
youll have to live on campus. They supply nice houses for all the teachers. Howard cant
stay there with you, but you can go home on weekends."

After discussing the offer with her husband, he concluded with resignation, "We
need the money so bad, I guess you better accept. Take the coupe with you. I can walk to
work and anywhere else I need to go. Maybe next year you can find something better."
This resulted in Mother being in a remote mountain area, able to see her husband
only on weekends and vacations. Times were hard, jobs scarce, and her salary essential.
There was no realistic choice. Between them they would have enough income to get by.
"Lots of mornings, when I look out over the valley, the clouds are below us. It
looks like a vast sea of snow. Other times, the fog is so dense, I cant see more than a few
feet. Ive never felt so isolated in my life. I hate that place," she complained to Howard.
The campus itself was splendid, with numerous well-built structures. It looked
more like a small college campus than a grade school. The institution was supported by
the Daughters of the American Revolution. There were similar schools in other places
that those super patriotic old ladies viewed as backward and poor. The grand dames
sometimes visited. They would stalk uninvited into classrooms. They were both
condescending and overbearing.
"One of those old witches opened the door and barged into my room today. She
acted like I wasnt even there," Eloise confided to Mary Beth King, a teacher her age.
"Shes the one who carries a walking stick with a huge diamond stuck in its top. I
cant stand the fat heifer."
Her friend responded sympathetically, but added, "It wouldnt do to say anything
about it. Theyre the ones who pay for everything. If we cross them, well get the axe."
While teaching there, Eloise had the only case in her career of attempted
classroom violence. She had to correct a boy named Ruben. He dug into his pocket, drew
out a large knife, jerked open its longest blade, and muttered, "You aint gonna talk t me
like thet. Ill cut you good an proper."
"Grab him, fellers," yelled one of the youngsters in the room. At that, several of
the boys in the class wrestled Ruben to the floor and disarmed him.
Despite its problems, the school actually accomplished a great deal for the area.
Most of the students lived in extreme poverty and suffered from the fanaticism of
religious fundamentalism.
Mother believed that mountain religion accounted for the strangest family name
of any of her students. There were twin boys in class with the name Verlon and Vernon
"Godbehere."

At other schools in the future, she had children in class with such family names as
"Roach," "Bugg," and "Fulks," but none of them equaled that name for oddity.
Years later, at Albertville, she had, in the same class, four boys all named
"Douglas MacArthur Smith." Confusion reigned until she assigned each a distinguishing
name.
"I divided the name among them so that they became Doug, Douglas, Douglas
MacArthur, and Douglas MacArthur Smith," she later remembered.
During December 1940, Marshall County experienced a record snowfall,
especially on the mountain at Grant. This was the indirect cause of the birth of a child to
Howard and Eloise after nine years of marriage.
"Looks like were snowed in for the duration," the principal announced. "The
highway patrol has closed the roads all over the county. We have everything we need so
we can stay right here through Christmas."
"Im not spending the vacation here," Eloise told Mary Beth. "No matter what
anybody says, Im going home. Want to go with me?"
The campus was a dream-like, white world. A sharp wind made the alreadyfreezing temperature even less bearable. Her old Chevrolet coupe was a mound of white
under a snowdrift. The two enlisted the aid of other trapped faculty and laboriously dug it
out. At that time, the road down the mountain from Grant was crooked and steep, far
worse that the one that has since taken its place.
The two bundled up and climbed into the car. The cold battery groaned lazily, but
barely managed to start the motor. After tire spinning and a push from the other teachers,
they managed to reach the main road.
"Watch out, Eloise," Mary Beth cried out with alarm each time the small car
skidded. On one side was a ditch and on the other a sheer drop toward the valley. "We
were crazy to try this!"
After numerous close calls, they reached the foot of the mountain. Highway 431
to the left led into Guntersville. A highway patrol car with a flashing red light was parked
at the intersection. When the two slowly skidded to a stop, the officer walked over to
their car.
"Im sorry, ladies, but all the roads are closed," he said. "You need to go back
home if you can get there."
"We just came down Grant Mountain," Eloise responded with determination.
"You cant tell me that I cant drive on into Guntersville. Im going no matter what you
say."

"You came down that road?" he said with amazement as he glanced at the
mountain. Two deep ruts in the snow confirmed their claim. "If you have that damn little
sense, then go on. Good luck to you. Youre gonna need it." He waved them ahead as he
shook his head in dismay at their lack of judgment.
"How did you get here?" Howard demanded angrily when she opened the door of
their apartment. When he heard the story, he continued to be outraged at the foolish
chance she had taken, but settled down within an hour or so.
This trek resulted in her being at home for an extended period with little to do.
Hospital workers reported that there was a spike in the birth rate nine months later in that
part of the state. In her case, also, that snowstorm resulted in a pregnancy. Near the end of
February, Howard received the news angrily.
"I want to know if that babys really mine," he demanded with an accusing glare.
He hadnt wanted children and had taken means throughout their nine-year
marriage to prevent pregnancy. But by following the advice of her doctor, Eloise had
managed to outsmart him. However unwillingly, he had become the father of a child.
Once satisfied of his paternity, he accepted the inevitablea baby was coming into the
world.
The couple were living in an older frame house owned by Mr. & Mrs. A.K. Bragg.
Their house was considered large by the standards of that day, although it would now be
thought of as a very modest indeed. It still stands near South Town on the first street to
the west, parallel to the main street.
When the Braggs rented to them, they cautioned, "Now we are old and dont want
any children living here. Were letting you have the apartment under those terms. No
children allowed."
Mrs. Bragg was a humped, shriveled little woman with many deep facial
wrinkles, who had a distinctive Appalachian drawl and accent. She often spoke at length
about her favorite grandson, George Arthur Bragg. It sounded for the world as if she was
saying "Joy Jother."
The Bragg living room featured heavily upholstered Victorian furniture with
mahogany trim. It was far finer than found in most houses of the time. Their bedroom had
dark, ornate furnishings. The eat-in kitchen was large and featured only the most basic
appliances. The spare bedroom they rented as an efficiency apartment.
The fenced part of the grounds had a walk gate . The latched gate opened to the
side yard which merged into the back yard. The back yard had an extensive, well-tended
garden. A second gate at the back of the garden, opened into a narrow, unpaved alley.

A path led from there to the rear entrance of Mr. Braggs realty office in Southtown.
Amusingly enough, his realty firm was named for himself and his partner as "Cheatham
and Bragg."
"Surely he must know how that sounds," Eloise said,
"If he does, apparently he doesnt care," Howard remarked.
The couple shared a bath with the Braggs. The bath was to the right, off the
hallway. Their room was heated with an unvented kerosene heater. Winter, unfortunately,
corresponded with the early part of her pregnancy.
"I cant stand the smell of kerosene," Eloise stated. "It makes morning sickness so
much worse."
For the rest of her life, she couldnt tolerate the odor of kerosene since it triggered
such unpleasant memories. "It makes me feel sick every time I smell it," she said.

Since the Braggs had specified "No children," they moved just prior to the birth,
much to the chagrin of Mrs. Bragg. She had been eagerly looking forward to having a
baby in the house again, but failed to share that change of view with her renters.
"I wud ave been like a grandmother to hit n helped ye wif hit," she said. "I wish
yed tole me ye wuz goin t move," she lamented.
Throughout the remainder of the Braggs lives, Howard and Eloise continue to be
friends with them.

Chapter 2: A New Phase of Life Begins

At the time of my birth they lived in a frame duplex in Guntersville in sight of the
National Guard Armory, a forbidding stone building that still stands. The other couple in
the duplex were James and Opal McCain. Mrs. McCain, years later, was for a brief time
my third grade teacher.
A minor fire broke out in the duplex. Howard carried the newborn in a basinet to
the sidewalk and then rushed back for his wife. He carried her out encased in a thin
mattress.
"Howard, put me down. I can walk," she protested.

"You know your feet arent supposed to touch the floor for ten days after you have
a baby," he responded. It was the standard, but mistaken, medical opinion of the time.
Although my birth certificate indicates that I was born in Guntersville, Alabama,
the actual delivery took place at a small brick hospital in Albertville. The building stood
for many years. The attending physician was Dr. Scarborough who was one of the few
doctors in the area who delivered babies.
Early in September, 1940, Mother said, "Howard, its time. Get me to the doctor."
She was mistaken. It was not yet time for the birth.
"Im not putting up with this," the doctor spit out with irritation. His voice was
slurred due to too much alcohol consumption. "Ive got a round of golf this afternoon and
Im not sitting around all day waiting for some damn baby."
The doctor forced the birth and jerked the infant out with forceps. This resulted in
the delivery of a bruised, premature infant of little more than five pounds. His reckless
action also resulted in significant injury to my mother. The injury he inflicted caused her
significant problems throughout her life. This was in the days before malpractice
lawsuits, so he "got by" with it, except that my Father adamantly refused to pay him for
the delivery. In addition to general dissatisfaction with his services, he was irate because
the doctors nurse refused to file the claim on insurance. His name regularly appeared on
a list circulated as a warning to merchants of deadbeats who wouldnt pay their bills. He
only laughed about it.
"Maybe we should just pay it and forget it," Mother suggested.
"No, hes not going to push me around. I dont owe him anything," Howard
countered.
Years later, Dr. Venning, their family physician, said, Its a disgrace what
Scarborough did to you. If he was still living, Id help you sue him." Doctors seldom are
willing to testify against another physician. The damage was unusually severe.
The first five years after my birth was the period when the United States was
involved in World War II. That conflict had a considerable impact on our family since my
Father was of draft age. Jobs were available, but not to men in his shaky situation.
Men of his age, who were not in the military, existed in a sort of limbo. They were
virtually unemployable except at a job directly related to the war effort. Such jobs were
nonexistent in Marshall County.
"Im sorry, but I cant hire you. You could be called into the army at time and Id
be left holding the bag," was the basic story of potential employers.
"Its just not right," Howard fumed to his wife. "I cant support my family even
though Im able and willing to work."

Months passed as he waited for the expected summons from the draft board. He
made repeated efforts to clarify his status, but only got a "run-around." The Selective
Service never contacted him again.
Adding to their dilemma, Eloise was unable to obtain a teaching job because the
sexist policy of the board of education.
"Im sorry, Eloise," the superintendent said, "I know you are qualified and would
do a good job, but the board says that women with children cant be hired until their
youngest child enters first grade."
"Thats just not fair," she protested. "My husband is at home and take care of our
child. I need the work."
Mr. Solley explained, "I know, but even teachers already employed who get
pregnant are let go as soon as they began to show."
Of course, this policy didnt apply to men teachers with underage children. There
was one standard for males and entirely a different one for females. Gender equity didnt
come to be taken even remotely seriously for years to come.
During this time Howard and Eloise fell into dire financial straits to the extent that
they had to fish daily in order to have meat to supplement vegetables from the garden.
They had no choice but to fish from the bank, so most of their catch was small fish. When
fried crisp, they were tasty as well as filling the need for protein. When I ate fish, I
usually got small bones caught in my throat. The resulting feeling of choking terrified
me. Although I liked fish, I cried in dread each time I saw it on my plate. Mother
compensated by pinching up my portions into small bites to check for bones. The
problem was solved.
Fish, vegetables from the garden, and pablum cereal for me formed the main part
of our diet. Nobody went hungry, but if the fish werent biting, we had to make do
without meat.
Years later, Eloises father learned what they had endured. "If Id known it, Id
sure have done something about it," he said as he shook his head with regret.
The Move To Fayetteville
While perusing the Birmingham News, Father found an announcement of
potential employment.
"The government is looking for workers at the Powder Plant at Childersburg," he
told his wife. "Thats where they make gunpowder for the war, so they should be willing
to take me on. It might even make it less likely that Ill be drafted."

What he didnt learn until several years later was that he was in no danger of the
draft. The records of an entire group of men from Marshall County had been lost by the
Selective Service. None of them ever heard a word from the government. Bureaucratic
bungling had caused them to vanish. I doubt that any of them objected.
The powder plant employed him as a guard. Little in the way of housing was
available in the Childersburg area. Such rentals as were available came at a prohibitive
cost to the young family.
"I know one thing we can dostay with my parents," Mother reluctantly offered.
"Theyve got a big place with plenty of room for us." Neither of them liked the idea, but
it seemed to be the only feasible alternative.
Thomas Jefferson Morris and Josephine Irene Gaston Morris lived at Fayetteville,
only ten miles from Childersburg. It was at that house that my personal memories started.
The first several months of my life are a total blank.
"I remember drinking from a bottle, getting around in a baby walker, sleeping in a
crib and lots of other details starting less than a year old. I have a clear recollection from
that point onward, but not every day since there was a sameness to life."
In his fireside chats, President Roosevelt had assured the public with the words, "I
have said this before, but I shall say it again and again and again: Your boys are not going
to be sent into any foreign wars." He pronounced "again" in the manner of the upper class
to which he was born as "a-gain." Later events showed that he was lying to the public.
The United States was neutral in name only as it was supplying war materials to
the Allies under the guise of "lend-lease." It was steadily building up its armed forces by
means of the draft. Involvement in the War was inevitable.
The powder plant had strict security rules, especially against cigarette lighters and
kitchen-type matches. A guard at the main gate screened both visitors and employees
before admitting them. A single spark could have set off a catastrophic explosion.
When he confiscated a box of matches from an employee, he warned, "This is your first
offence, but if it happens again, Ill have to put you on report. Youll most likely get
sacked."
The pretense at neutrality changed abruptly when Japan made a "sneak attack" on
Pearl Harbor in which it destroyed a goodly part of the American naval fleet.
"It is a day that will live in infamy," Roosevelt announced.
Thomas Morris recalled a line from Through the Looking Glass. "Words mean
what I choose them to mean. No more and no less."

In later years when the USA itself made sneak attacks, they were described as
preemptive strikes. It was only a matter of semantics. There was no difference to the
people who lost their lives.
Immediately, FDR induced the Congress of the United States to declare war on
Japan. The proclamation flooded the airwaves. Upon hearing it, Mother drove to the
power plant to notify her spouse.
"I guess you can go on inside," the guard at the front gate said uncertainly. "Weve
had no orders to the contrary."
Within minutes, he received word of tightened security so that she was the last
civilian admitted to the grounds until the end of the War.
Chapter 4: The Morris Family and Home
The Morris house, which decades later burned to the ground, was a large
Victorian style that was common when it was built in 1914. Thousands of similar
structures still stand throughout the South. T.J. Morris, usually called Tommy, did much
of the construction himself. Although far from an expert carpenter, he built a sturdy house
that lent itself to additions and improvements over the years.
He described its appearance when he completed it. "There was a dog trot through
the center. That was a hallway open at the front and back. You could see straight through
the house. Most built houses that way in 1914."
Josie added, "I liked the dog trot. It was a breezy, comfortable place to sit in
summer, but you couldnt get from one side of the house to the other without people
seeing you. And in winter, it was cold."
Mother related details about the place where she had lived from early childhood
onward. "The house, like most, didnt have a drop of paint. It was high off the ground on
the front, rested on support pillars, and was completely open. Underneath the house made
a good place for Brother and me to play. Years later, my father erected a wooden lattice to
make it look better. When he installed water pipes, he closed it with brick so they
wouldnt freeze."
The house sat a good distance up a steep hill which gave it an expansive, rolling
yard. Across the road was a view of meadows, fields, and distant woods. After prolonged,
heavy rain, creek flooding created a temporary lake.
A short distance up the road stood a white church with a cemetery which held
graves which dated well back into the 1800s.
To make the yard easier to mow, it was divided into upper and lower levels. When
the house was constructed, a stacked stone wall divided the levels. Spaces among the

rocks attracted snakes so it was replaced by a steep, grassy slope. I loved to roll down the
yard.
"Id start at the steep place to build up speed. By the time I rolled into the lower
yard, Id be dizzy. It was fun to see everything around me seem to whirl. Its something
Id like to try again if I could be sure nobody was watching."
The road in front of the house was unpaved. Besides the need for constant
maintenance, lack of pavement caused a serious problem.
Josie described it. "A dense cloud of dust rose up every time a car passed. Itd
stay in the air plumb to the house. If I left the windows open, it coated the furniture and
floors. It was so thick that you could smell and even taste it. I usually kept the front
windows closed which helped. But when it was hot, we needed the ventilation. It was just
something we had to put up with."
The yard had several immense oak trees and a fir tree with limbs all the way down
to the ground. The last of those oaks survived until killed by flames when the house
burned. in the 1990s.
"Those oak trees were here as saplings when Indians roamed the land," Tommy
speculated.
The main foundation plants were Abelias and boxwoods. When the abelias
bloomed, they gave off a pleasant, sweet fragrance. Landscaping in the modern sense
didnt yet exist except on elaborate estates. House foundations looked bad, so the bushes
kept them out of sight.
Tommy described the striking set of steps and walkways from the road to the front
porch. "We didnt really need them. Nobody came to the front door, but I wanted it to
look like somebody lived there who cared how things looked. It was so far down to the
road that I put steps at the road bank, a sidewalk, then a second set of steps, and then a
walk to the high steps to the front porch. Its no wonder that nobody used them."
The construction added impressively to what would later be termed "curb appeal."
Some of the steps and sidewalks survived the fire which ultimately destroyed the
residence. They can still be seen from the road.
The driveway approached straight from the road and then made a sharp left turn
toward the garage and house. It was surfaced with loose, brown river stone which made a
satisfying crunch under car tires. I enjoyed searching among the rocks for smooth brown
stones that were circular. I had a sizeable collection of them.
"These are buddy rocks," I stated as I placed the best examples into my side
pocket.

"Why do you call them that?" Father asked.

"I dont know. Thats just what they are," I replied. When asked about the name
years later, I still could provide no explanation. I was disappointed in later years when the
driveway was surfaced with white, crushed marble. What would have been an incredible
luxury most places was abundant and cheap in the area. Extensive deposits of high
quality marble came from nearby Sylacauga. I would have preferred to be able to pick up
an occasional buddy rock.
"Sylacauga is an Indian word that means Land of Great White Rock," the mayor
often related when he made trips to promote the area. His hearers were duly impressed.
Residents, however, knew that the name actually meant "Buzzard Roost."
To the right of the driveway stood the single, detached garage. It was built into the
hillside so that it was partly underground at the back. The structure faced the road,
parallel to the house, although around 50 feet away from it. The lower sides and back
were of poured concrete which still visible. The rest was of frame construction, topped by
a shingled, house-style roof.
At the back, the roof came right down to the ground. I was able to step up onto
the roof to play all over it. I felt big getting on top of it like that. The garage didnt have
any doors. Above were open beams with all sorts of stuff balanced on them. I thought
someday that junk would fall on the car, but it never did.
The garage was built to accommodate the model T Ford. Over the years, newer
cars stuck out farther and farther since the garage was never enlarged to contain them. By
the late 1950s, their mammoth Buick Super sedan extended several feet outside.
To the right side of the garage, a pipe lead into an underground storage tank for
gasoline. I was fascinated with it. Id take off the lid and smell the gas although it had
been out of use for many years. The old gas pump had been taken down. It was lying in
the barn, all rusty.
A home supply of gasoline was essential when the Morris family first had cars
since service stations were few and far between. They were the first in that part of the
state to own an automobile. Tommy began carrying the mail using a horse. Later he
graduated to a horse-draw buggy. When cars became available, he switched to them.
The closest gas station was Josephine Polks store in old Fayetteville at the intersection. It
also carried a small line of groceries. Years later when I visited there as an adult, I
sometimes bought gas at that same station.
Josephines son continued to operate it after her death, but in recent times he was
murdered in that building. He had a large amount of cash on his person. Somebody knew
about it and killed him to get it. The criminal was never caught.
The Morris family had one of the first cars in their county. During the transition
period from horses to cars, people often had to stop and cover the horses head when a car

approached. The sight and sound drove some horses into a panic. They might bolt and run
away. A number of people were seriously injured as a result.
"Look at that, Tommy," Josie called out in alarm when they rounded a curve on
the way to Sylacauga. They were driving a Model T Ford.
The horses pulling a wagon bolted abruptly. The speeding wagon was about to
overturn. The road bank was at about the level of the bed of the wagon. The frightened
couple on board leaped out of the wagon and onto the bank.
"Those cars ought to be outlawed," the husband fumed after he regained control
of the horses. "They never will replace horses. All they do is scare folks and give off a
stink. Mark my words. There wont be a car running anywhere in Talladega County
inside of five years."
The Morris cars were mainly Fords, but an early one had a home-made body
attached to a chassis. The family called it the "cut down." It was unsightly and attracted
unwanted attention when they drove into unfamiliar territory.
"Tommy, get rid of that car," Josie demanded. "It embarrasses me every time we
go anywhere in it. People laugh and point at us."
The cut down soon disappeared. Tommy replaced with a more respectablelooking vehicle.
When Mother began to drive, there were no tests of knowledge, vision exams, age
limit, or drivers licenses. Anybody who could make a car go could legally operate it on
the roads. The new technology was unregulated.
The only serious wreck she had ever had was during her teenage years. When she
and her family were about to leave Sylacauga, a car abruptly pulled from a side road
directly into their path. She tried the avoid hitting it in the side, but was unable to do so.
A man hitching a ride stood outside on the running board. Carrying a passenger in that
manner was a common, but dangerous, practice in that day. He had to jump for his life.
The accident destroyed both cars. Although the incident occurred in the days before
accident insurance, her father said nothing critical. It was in no way her fault
It was decades later while living in Russellville that she had a couple of tiny bump
ups. She struck a car in an intersection and caused a few dollars damage. In an attempt to
turn around in a tight space, she knocked in the fender on a tree in her own driveway.
Mother was always a much better driver than Father.
Between the Morris house and the newer part of Fayetteville, an unpainted
covered bridge with a rusty tin roof spanned the creek. It was one-lane, but my
grandfather claimed that he and another man may be the only persons to pass buggies in
it.

"I was coming toward the bridge when a heavy rain started. I made the horse trot
so we wouldnt get wet. But old Mr. McPherson had done the same thing from the other
end with his buggy" he recollected with a mischievous grin.
When the rain ended, McPherson said, "I guess one of us is going to have to back
up." Of course, by "us" he meant for Tommy, a much younger man, to make the difficult
maneuver.
"Maybe not. Get as far to the right as you can and Ill do the same," he suggested.
By jerking and tugging on the wheels of the two buggies, the men managed to pass in the
narrow space. That gave them bragging rights for years to come.
I remember the covered bridge as it stood well into the age of modern cars, but
progress eventually resulted in it being torn away to be replaced by a nondescript
concrete and steel structure. A bottleneck was eliminated, but at a significant historical
and esthetic loss.
Close to the covered bridge is the church that Josie formerly attended. She
belonged to the Methodist Church whereas her husband was a member of the Baptist
Church that stood in sight of his house. Both attended regularly and supported them
financially.
"When I came into contact with the Truth, it really upset them," Tommy recalled.
"For one thing, they didnt want to lose my money. I had always believed in paying my
way."
"What can we do to keep you in the church, Brother Morris?" a group of deacons
asked.
"Just show me from the Bible that youre right and Im wrong. Thats all itll
take," he replied.
"Give us some time. We can certainly do that," they asserted. "Well be back to
see you," the men promised. They never returned.
As a young man, Tommy had belonged to the Masons with their secret rituals and
handshakes. The group met upstairs in a building near new Fayetteville. Even as an old
man, he wouldnt reveal details of the organization.
"Tell me some of the secrets of the Masons, grandfather," I urged. being merely
curious and having no genuine need for the information.
"I swore not to," he explained. "If there were some vital reason to tell, I would,
but not casually. Theyre nothing but a religious organization."

He would sometimes quote what they had said regarding resurrection, proving
their endorsement of the unscriptural doctrine of the immortality of the soul, "We doubt
not, by the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, that our bodies shall be raised and become as
immortal as our souls."
That statement was in publicly-circulated Masonic publications, so he didnt
violate his oath of secrecy. Of course he left the Masons upon learning the Truth.
Josie was a bit slower in fleeing from Babylon the Great than he. Her church
members were her friends and associates. It was hard to give them up. Once she made the
change, however, she never looked back.
The newer part of Fayetteville was built near the railroad and school. At its height,
it was a prosperous rural village. The first time Im sure that I remember it, I wasnt yet
in school. Mother and I rode the train from Gadsden to Fayetteville. Most trains still had
passenger service in those days. It stopped in Fayetteville only if there were passengers to
discharge or pick up. We were the only ones riding that day. There were several stores
and a post office.
When I was ten years old and spent the summer with my grandparents, we often
shopped in Fayetteville. At that time it had a variety of stores and its own tiny post office.
For years my grandfather carried mail out of that office. After it closed, he worked out of
the one in Talladega Springs. The biggest establishment was a country store that sold,
among other offerings, canned goods, fresh produce, and meat. That was the first place I
ever heard of sow belly. My grandmother used it in cooking and even fried it like bacon. I
got the impression that she was a bit embarrassed to buy it because teats were on it."
The main Fayetteville High School building, for decades, was the same one my
Mother attended after they closed the school beside her house. She recalled helping move
from the old school to the new. The children walked and carried teaching materials. The
original building have now been replaced, except for the auditorium.
Eloises best female friend was named Louise, but they became estranged. Josie
overheard them talking about Louise feeling unwell. Somehow, she got the idea that
Louise was pregnant. After Louise left, she began intensely questioning her daughter.
"Shes pregnant, isnt she?" Josie insisted unreasonably. "Im going to whip you until you
admit it.
"She isnt pregnant and Im not going to say that she is," Mother replied.
Ultimately, Josie got what she wanted. Like everybody else, Josie made mistakes in her
life. That was a major one with far-reaching consequences.
"All right. Ill say it, but it still isnt true," Mother said to get herself out of the
untenable situation.

Of course Louise found out about it. "How could you have told such a lie?" she
demanded. "If my Father hears that story, Ill be in real trouble." That ended their
friendship.
My mother called Louise decades later, after moving to Russellville, but it was
unmistakable that there was still a coldness on her part. I think that there were fewer than
ten in their graduating class. Mother had several chances to attend class reunions and
seemed to want to go, but never did. I think it was mainly because she was worried about
meeting Louise.
There is a still-standing large frame house at new Fayetteville where the Morrises
and their daughter lived for a short time. For many years, the buggy that had been driven
by Razz Gastons father rotted away in a shed on that property. He had some sort of
mental problem as well as a physical disability that made it difficult for him to walk, but
he used to play a fiddle. That same instrument I once saw mounted on the wall of Ware
Gastons house in Sylacauga.
"Cobwebs. I see cobwebs," the old gentleman repeated over and over the last few
days of his life. He raised his hands to his eyes and attempted to brush away the
nonexistent strands.
The house where Mother was born was in old Fayetteville. It was moved to
another location far out in a field, but is no longer in existence. While their final house
was being completed, The Morris family lived for a few months in a small frame house in
old Fayetteville that is now a store.
It was at this house that Mother, as a baby, sat in a tiny rocker on the front porch
when a rabid dog approached. When she heard a strange cry from her daughter, Josie
opened the door to check on her. The dog was standing only inches from the babys face.
"Oh, no," Josie said quietly. She didnt dare alarm the dog or it might attack. The
mother eased her hands onto the small chair and snatched it and her child inside in the
nick of time.
In those days, rabid dogs were more commonly seen than at the present.
Widespread vaccination of dogs was well in the future. Human bite victims had to
undergo a series of painful and dangerous injections that had been developed by Louis
Pasteur in France.
The Morris home place had other interesting features. To the left side of the
garage stood a pear tree which ultimately outlived all members of the immediate family
and survives in a diseased state as late as 2013. It always produced a bumper crop of
yellow, hard, grainy pears.

"Those pears are no good for eating," Josie remarked. "But if you cook them long
enough they sure make fine pear preserves." Visitors to her home agreed as they
devoured them with hot biscuits.
The pears dropped and rolled all over the ground, including the route to the house.
They created dangerous walking conditions and attracted swarms of buzzing yellow
jackets. As the pear juice began to ferment, it produced an aroma like wine.
A concrete sidewalk began about half way between garage and house. Sidewalks
werent usually seen at private houses. To the right of the sidewalk was a low concrete
wall, above which the "yard" rose sharply toward the woods where the barn was located.
The yard in that area was mostly dirt and rocks.
Many decades later, a set of marble steps was installed parallel to the house in that
steep part of the yard. Marble steps would be an extravagant luxury had it not been for its
easy, inexpensive availability in that area. The steps survived the fire, along with the
sidewalk, fireplace and chimney, to mark the location of the house.
"I had to put in a sidewalk," Tommy explained. "The soil is that sticky, red clay.
When it rains, you get taller at each step. And it sure is hard to get off shoe soles."
I, as a child of four or five, went through a spell of seeking various sands and soils
to mix with water. I enjoyed the colors produced. The red clay was a particular favorite
since it gave a dull orange hue. That type clay wasnt found in North Alabama where I
lived. My parents would sometimes stop alongside the road when I would spot some
promising soil or sand. Eventually, I lost interest in making the mixtures.
To the left of the Morris driveway was a striking feature. It was pyramid with a
door and windows. Rather than stone, it was frame construction and roofed with greenish
house shingles. The pyramid covered a deep, crudely excavated pit. A sturdy hand-made
metal ladder led down into the pit. The ladder was constructed from debris from a highpower line tower that had been destroyed in a tornado. The pyramid was in plain sight
from the road. Unlike anything else in the community, it generated idle speculation and
foolish talk.
"Theyve got twin babies dead and made into mummies inside it. Ive seen them,"
lied one of their neighbors who disliked and feared what was, in Talladega County called
the "Morris Religion." He wanted to do anything he could to discredit them. The wild tale
soon spread throughout the area.
The story was exciting, but the pyramid served no such macabre purpose. It was
merely a place to store Josies extensive collection of ferns so they could survive the
winter. The windows were for light. The pyramid is gone now. Only a square depression
marks its former location.

The side entrance into the Morris house led into a screened porch. Straight ahead
was the door to the kitchen which also functioned as the main entrance to the house. For
decades, they locked the door when they left, but laid the key on top of a high ledge to
the right of the door. Anybody could have found it.
To the right, the porch continued into what was called the "well shelter" with good
reason since it covered a large, deep dug well. The well was surrounded by a circular
concrete wall and topped with a heavy, concrete lid with a circular hole in the center with
a moveable wooden cover.
Above the well rose a windlass with attached well bucket. The mechanism was
operated by a hand-turned metal crank. The chain clanked onto a large wooden spindle.
The well bucket was an ordinary white enamel bucket, not one of the slim, cylindrical
buckets of unfinished metal used in a drilled well. I loved to draw water, but it was an
onerous chore for the adults that they gladly delegated to me.
I had to be careful to keep from getting hurt so I had to lower the bucket slowly. If
it fell of its own accord, the spindle would keep turning after it hit the water. A bunch of
the chain would roll off into the well. Also the crank handle was heavy metal. It would
turn so fast that it could break a hand or arm.
After the bucket sank as it filled with water, it became heavy so that drawing up
upward slowly was then necessary for that reason. Attempts at rapid cranking could cause
the bucket to swing wildly and slam against the sides of the well. The container could be
damaged. Water could slosh out of the bucket. Nobody wanted it half-empty.
The water was not tested for purity. The fact that it didnt make the family sick
was assurance enough that it was safe. This was, of course, before groundwater became
polluted. Nobody would dare take such a risk now.
It always scared me to look way down into the well. It seemed very deep and it
was. I could barely see the glimmer of water at the bottom. Unless an adult had a good
hold on me I never looked in. Nobody today would have a well like that in a house with a
child, but it was common at that time. There was a moveable cover over the opening
which protected the water supply and gave a little bit of assurance against a youngster
falling into it.
Apart from its main purpose, the well shelter served as family sitting area when
weather permitted. It was screened on both open sides to keep out insects, but it was only
partly effective. Tommy had installed the screen wire horizontally without a support
where the pieces met in the middle. This resulted in large gaps which allowed mosquitoes
and other pests to enter.
"Tommy, I know you can do a better job than that," Josie remonstrated. "Why
dont you fix that so it keeps bugs out?"

For some reason didnt try to improve the make-shift construction until many
years later when he enclosed the room with walls with regular windows. It became a
"den," or family room, yet it was still called "the well shelter." During the conversion to
a den, the well curb was removed. More floor space was needed. The opening to the well
was covered with a concrete lid reinforced with strong metal bars. Then carpeting was
installed over that. Aunt Minnie Morris Anderson, one of Tommys sisters, refused to
walk over it. She took a round-about route to cross the room.
"Minnie, that floor would hold up an elephant," her brother teased.
She wasnt willing to risk it, despite family amusement at her abundance of
caution. She seemed to fear that she might plummet into the well if she dared stand over
it.
The well was the source of drinking and cooking water. Water pipes extended
from a cistern to the bathroom and kitchen. The rain water in the cistern was collected
from a series of gutters and pipes from the roof of the house. Although it was crudely
filtered as it rushed into the cistern, that water was not deemed safe for drinking or
cooking. It was used for washing dishes and bathing. If anybody ever got sick from such
a seemingly unsanitary arrangement the family never knew of it.
The concrete cistern had been improvised from a storage cellar. The area of rough
concrete where the cellar door had formerly opened into the well shelter was still evident.
"I remember playing in the cellar when I was a child," Mother said. "It was damp
and cool. We kept vegetables in it."
Tommy explained the reasons for adding the cistern. "To begin with, all the piped
water came from the well, but it didnt have enough water during dry spells. After we
started using the cistern, the well water was only used for drinking and cooking."
The way the well water, and later the cistern water, got into the house through
plumbing is interesting. Tommy was something of an inventor or perhaps more accurately
an improviser. The well bucket rose high into the then-open attic of the well shelter. The
room had no ceiling. It hit a trigger and dumped into a reservoir for a gravity flow
through pipes into the house. This was really advanced for its time and quite rare.
Running water and an indoor bathroom were unknown in rural areas. Many city homes
also lacked those basic conveniences.
When the first cistern came into use, he installed a manual pump to draw the
water into the reservoir for distribution through the pipes. It was very difficult to operate,
but when the reservoir was finally filled, they had running water. Years later, Tommy
used an electric pump.
One actual invention of Tommys was far ahead of the time. If he had patented
and marketed it, he might have become wealthy.

"I guess you could say that I invented the sling blade," he later recalled. "People
came from other places to watch me use it to cut weeds on slopes. I never tried to market
it, but guess I should have."
The sling blade is a tool that is now obsolete, but for decades was widely used to
cut tall grass in places that couldnt easily be mowed. It served the purpose that is now
filled by a string weed eater. His was homemade, but much like the ones that came to be
sold worldwide. Opportunity knocked, but he didnt recognize its call.
Despite its inadequacies prior to being converted into a den, the well shelter was
the best place to sit in hot weather. It was partly underground and open to the outside,
therefore cooler than the rest of the house. This was many years before air conditioning
was even imagined for private homes.
The floor of the well shelter was of concrete so it usually felt cool. There was a
"new" patch of concrete where Eloise and Gaston had, as children, placed their hands and
feet. This fascinating relic of family history existed until many years later when the well
shelter was extensively remodeled in the late 1950s. A new, smooth layer of concrete was
poured atop the old, uneven one.
"I wish wed broken that piece of concrete out and saved it," Josie lamented.
The well-shelter furniture was far from luxurious. The best seat was a metal glider
with cushions. Nevertheless, the room made a place for family conversation, naps, and
hot food until it cooled sufficiently to be placed into the refrigerator. Nobody seemed to
get sick from such a risky way of handling food. Hot items stayed out for hours before
being put away.
The area couldnt be used for sitting during most of the winter due to lack of heat.
During those months the family sat in the living room at the front of the house.
A tiny, windowless room within the well shelter originally housed a stairway that
led into the attic. This stairway had been necessary as a way to reach the manual pump in
the days when the gravity water system was in place. I liked the dark, mysterious-looking
room. I recall seeing the wood steps, but they werent in use. They were so dirty and
steep that I wasnt allowed to climb them. I thought of it as a secret staircase. At that age,
I didnt know where it went or why it was there.
The damp, cool room came to be used for the making of winean illegal practice.
Alabama was a "dry" state. Home wine-making was so common that, while technically
prohibited, it was regarded as acceptable as long as the wine was for personal use only.
When I got old enough, my grandfather would give me a few sips. It was always good
because it was sweet wine. When I got older, I drank from the "Jackass glass" thats now
on the shelves in our den in Russellville. Every time my Grandmother saw that glass, she

laughed. Different levels were marked with the top mark showing a picture of a drunk
jackass.
Josie rightly had a low tolerance for alcohol abuse, although she didnt object to
its moderate use. One time before my birth, Mother and Aunt Edee played a trick on her.
They drank wine and pretended to get drunk, carrying on with laughter, slurred speech,
and crazy actions until they saw that she was getting seriously angry. They laughed about
that incident for years afterward, but she never found it amusing.
A screened side door led from the well-shelter to a tiny screened porch. The porch
remained well into my teenage years. I still recall a compulsion to latch that screen after
dark to provide just a bit of additional security. Somehow, I never could remember to do
it during the daytime. Some of the nights were really dark since there werent security
lights. I had to force myself to reach out into the inky darkness to hook the latch. It was
so scary that I still occasionally have dreams about it. Nobody made me latch the door or
even knew that I did it. I always felt better when it was done.
The well shelter was one step down from the level of the rest of the house. A door
led directly into the large country kitchen. The stove was straight ahead, the refrigerator
to the left, and a single sink to the right with windows which faced the side yard opposite
the garage.
Mother commented, "Nobody ever thought about a kitchen work triangle being
too big. The kitchen just grew without a plan. My parents added appliances as they
became available. There was a lot of walking to that kitchen."
Kitchen storage consisted of a shallow set of shelves with double doors, space
beneath the sink, and two large cabinets with clear glass doors. One of the glass doors
was broken from top to bottom. A big piece of glass was missing. It stayed that way
permanently. It was unlike Tommy to leave something in poor condition, but in that case
he did.
Mother remembered, "In winter a freezing blast of air came from the broken pane,
but the same thing was true when the other cabinet was opened. There was no insulation
anywhere in the house, so it hardly mattered, I suppose. We froze during the worst of
winter and burned up in the hottest part of summer."
Overall kitchen light came from a ceiling fixture with a hanging cord which ended
in a push switch with a satisfying click when pressed, an arrangement Ive never seen
anywhere else. The ceilings in the kitchen and throughout the house were ten feet or more
high as was common in houses built in the early 20th Century. The water heater was to the
left of the stove. A door, in later years replaced with a swinging door, led into the
adjoining formal dining room.

The breakfast room was a cramped alcove off the kitchen. Despite the fact that
there was barely space to squeeze around the table, thats where the Morris family ate
most meals.
"If youre sitting at the back," my Father complained, "and want out, you have to
get everybody to stand up, crawl under the table, or just stay where you are."
The breakfast room was enlarged twice over the following decades. It finally
became a good-sized room partly at the expense of the well shelter. The spacious formal
dining room was reserved for special occasions.
For many years the breakfast room table and chairs were wooden, but when my
parents bought one of the newer style dinette suites of metal, my grandparents had to
have one too. The set was bright yellow, had chairs with yellow plastic cushions, and
bright metal legs on all the pieces. The set stayed in the house until after Tommys death
in the late 80s. It was then sold in good condition to a local used furniture dealer. That
type furniture was practically indestructible.
My grandparents bought that dinette suite in Guntersville at the same store where
we had bought ours. They had to haul it all the way to Fayetteville. I always wondered
why they didnt buy it in Sylacauga.

Josie was universally acclaimed as an outstanding cook, although she always

protested that dishes hadnt come out right. My grandfather often told her, "You condemn
it [the food] and we will execute it [eat it]."
Breakfast featured the normal fare of the day. The eggs were home raised (both
chicken and Guinea eggs were used) and the butter freshly churned from a cow milked in
the barn up the hill behind the house. Biscuits were baked fresh daily. After breakfast,
the family read the daily text and then a chapter from the Bible. Usually they read the
chapter from which the daily text was taken.
Typically, Josie would have, at the evening meal, three different meat dishes,
several vegetable dishes, and a dessert or two. The best dessert was an iced walnut cake
made "from scratch," but we seem to have lost the recipe if it was ever put into writing to
begin with.
The usual practice was to eat breakfast, a light snack in the afternoon, and then a
large family meal around 8:00 p.m. This eating pattern was partly due to Tommys work
schedule as a rural mail carrier, but that alone didnt account for the relative lateness of
the meal. Perhaps it just took that long to get things ready. After the evening meal, the
entire family remained at the table to talk for an hour or more.
"I hate sitting around the table like that," my Father fumed.

He had grown up with the necessity to wolf down his food and leave the table to
go back to farm work. Slow eaters in his family would have found nothing left within
minutes.
Josies place was at the head of the table to the right. Her husband sat to her left.
That made it easy for her to get up and see to things. After she died, he moved around to
her place without comment. None of us expected him to do that. He never mentioned it,
nor did any of the family.
He had taken her death very hard so it surprised us that he didnt want her seat left
vacant. I suppose it was his way of saying that he had to move on with the remainder of
his life.
The formal dining room featured dark wood furniture with a table that hid extra
leaves underneath. It could be expanded to quite a large size. When Tommy, decades
later, converted the dining room into a bed room for himself, he gave Mother that table
and chairs. She didnt want it, but felt she couldnt refuse. Because it was a gift from him,
she kept it for years. It wasnt usable and took up space in her house that was needed for
other purposes. Eventually she sold it to a used furniture store in Russellville.
The centerpiece of the dining table, when it was in Fayetteville, was the orange
carnival glass bowl and cups which are now on the shelves in our living room in
Russellville. Most likely the glassware was a premium given when they bought
something else. There were only four cups, but we have managed to complete the set
from antique stores. The bowl had a base, but it was broken long ago. I found a makeshift base, but still hope to find one like the original.
Over the dining table hung a large brass and glass chandelier with many light
bulbs. In addition to the table and chairs, there was a matching buffet on high legs, an
unattractive, too-small wall-mounted framed mirror above it, and a matching china
cabinet. The furniture was shiny because Josie gave it periodic coats of shellac. That was
a common housekeeping practice, done because it was thought to make the furniture
appear new. The buffet and china cabinet, in 2005, we sold with my parents house in
Russellville. We didnt have room for them in our house and already had better quality
items.
There was a brick fireplace with a beautiful white marble mantle, although it was
not used to heat for decades. An interesting old Oriental-type rug partly covered the
wooden floor but it was faded and worn from decades of use. In later years a large gas
space heater was installed and vented through the fireplace. Since the dining room was
near the center of the house, that heater served as the main source of heat. It was not
adequate to the job. Only the seldom-used dining room was actually warm, but comfort
standards were lower then.
The heating situation would have been even worse had it not been for the many
layers in the walls. Over time, whenever Tommy decided to improve the appearance of

the walls, he added to whatever was already in place. This made them grow in thickness
over the decades as layers of building material accumulated.
Nothing, however, could overcome the lack of attic insulation. The floor of the
attic was completely bare. If fiberglass insulation had been blown in, it would have
revolutionized the heating and cooling of the house. To do that was never discussed. Most
of the heat poured upward through the thin ceiling.
In the mid 1960s, the Morrises added a large air conditioning window unit in the
dining room. The air conditioner did a surprisingly good job of cooling the housemuch
better than the performance of the space heater in warming it. They added the air
conditioning mainly because of Josies failing health.
"I feel lots better during the summer with the house being cool," she reported. "I
hardly when its summer."
In the 1960s the aging windows became so loose and drafty that they literally
cried out to be replaced. They produced loud whines and roars when the wind blew.
Tommy removed the regular windows and replaced them with flimsy storm windows.
They were never designed for that use.
"I got a good buy on the new windows," he boasted. "I never knew you could buy
windows that cheap."
When the family tried to point out his error, he became indignant. "They are not
storm windows," he asserted. "I want yall to quit saying that."
He had made a mistake, but in an all-to-human inclination, wasnt willing to
acknowledge it.
When Mother later inherited the house, she was able to sell it without being
required to replace the missing windows. Strangely, the real estate agent even commented
favorably on the presence of storm windows in such an old house. He didnt seem to
realize that they were the only windows, not an extra layer of glass. Fortunately, the
contract specified that the house was sold "as is."
As a child, I became fascinated with secret doors and rooms. The Morris house
was the largest one to which I had access. I wished it had something like that, but knew
within reason that it didnt.
"Yall didnt happen to build any secret rooms or stuff like that?" I hopefully
asked my grandparents.
They assured me that they hadnt, but they had completely forgotten about a
concealed space between the dining room and living room. I learned of its existence only
when I noticed the thickness of the wall between the two rooms. I took measurements.

"I know the fireplace takes up part of that space," I insisted, "but whats in that
part over there?"
"That used to be a closet, but we closed it off years ago," my grandfather
explained.
Mother added, "When I was little, they sometimes put me in that closet and shut
the door to punish me when I did wrong." That was a common form of discipline in those
days. It was not viewed then as such a thing would be now.
I was delighted that I had, after all, discovered a hidden room in the big old house,
even if it had only been a closet and there was no way to get into it. When I visited, I
often thumped on the wall and tried to imagine what it looked like.
Since there were only two other closets in the entire house, its hard to imagine
what line of thinking led them to give up needed storage. Many houses of that era of
construction had no closets at all. Clothes were kept in cabinets.
Some years after the death of his wife, Tommy took the dining room as his
bedroom. In the process, he reopened the closet to provide space for a half bath. That half
bath was his last building project. It was almost too much for a man of his advanced age,
but he managed to bring it to a successful conclusion.
The task required multiple trips to the hardware store. When he ruined any of the
building materials, he bought replacements. If the second attempt failed, he would make
another. Eventually, the job was done.
A door led from the dining room into the formal living room at the front of the
house. The living room was used by family only when weather conditions made use of
the well shelter impractical. It had a beautiful brick fireplace with a white marble mantle.
In later years, they installed an unvented, thus very dangerous, gas space heater in front
of the fireplace. It couldnt be used at night because of the very real danger of carbon
monoxide gas.
The floor, which extended into the adjacent bedroom, was of the finest heart
loblolly pine without knots or imperfections of any type. In the mid 1950s, Josie fell on
that slippery surface and fractured her hip. The injury was so severe that she was unable
to get around for months. Afterward she had to walk with a crutch and had a noticeable
limp. This was in the days before modern orthopedic surgery and hip replacements. The
doctor pinned the end of the femur to the rest of the bone to the best of his ability. It
allowed her to regain a large measure of mobility and to continue living for years. Such
an injury was usually fatal in that day. Years later, the pins caused an inflammation and
had to be removed.

"Right theres the exact spot where she fell," I thought each time I passed the
place near the piano. I regarded it with a sort of horror.
The living room furniture was well constructed and the decorations quality so that
they outlasted Josie and even Tommys long life. An interesting set of bronzes consisted
of two bookends of "End of the Trail." Since she didnt know that they were
reproductions of a noted Frazier work, Josie called them "the dying Indian." Those
bookends are now prized family relics and on display in our den at Russellville.
The long couch had two matching stuffed chairs. The brown, velvety fabric was
worn, but still strong. When I laid down on the couch, I had to keep my face upward to
avoid the smell of a decades-long collection of dust. When my grandparents set up
housekeeping, vacuum cleaners didnt exist. When the device came on the scene, they
never saw the need for one. My grandmother kept the house clean with the equipment she
had always used.
The couch and chairs, still in sound structural condition, were sold to a used
furniture dealer when the house was emptied for sale. Everyone felt a bit sad to dispose
of them, but there was no place to use them. The only constant in life is change.
In later years, when I was a teenager, my grandparents purchased matching end
tables, a gossip bench, and a coffee table. On the end tables they placed a matching pair
of white lamps with gold trim. These lamps came to be referred to as "antiques" by my
parents. They mistakenly thought that they were valuable.
"I remember when they were bought. They arent old at alljust ordinary lamps," I
protested. My words fell on deaf ears. I eventually let them go with the sale of my
parents final house in Russellville.
The gossip bench was purchased specifically to hold the telephone. For years,
there was only one for the entire house. Eight households shared the single line.
"Listening in" was commonplace. Nobody could expect that any conversation was
private.
The living room had several large windows designed to provide abundant natural
light, but perpetually-closed Venetian blinds defeated their purpose . One end of the room
featured an upright piano made by the famous Jesse French Piano and Organ Company
based in Nashville. Two chocolate-brown ornaments, a pitcher showing womans head
and a vase showing grapes, were on opposite ends of the top of the piano. They qualify as
"antiques" at over one hundred years old. They were ugly then and theyre ugly now.
Id intended to get rid of them when they came into my possession in 2005, but when it
came down to it, I couldnt. They had belonged to my grandmothers mother. Theyre
probably close to 150 years old. The vases lurk in dark corners of our house in
Russellville.

Josie was an accomplished pianist and organist who was formally trained and
played from music. For many years she played for the Kingdom Hall, both in her house
and later at Sylacauga.
I used to bang around on the piano, but of course, no thought was given by my
parents to getting me any instruction in music. It would have been too expensive I
suppose, but then I never asked so they might have done it.
The piano represented bitter memories for my Mother. She recalled, "My Mother
made me practice piano when I wanted to be outside playing. It was used as an excuse to
keep me from doing nearly anything fun. I hated it." That feeling continued strong
throughout her life.
I had the desire to play, but no ability. I always wished I could play just one small
tune on that piano. When I was about ten, my father taught me a few notes of "Three
Blind Mice." I was thrilled even though I hit the keys with one finger. I mechanically hit
the notes in a memorized sequence.
My Father had natural ability in music. He knew little of notes, sharps and flats,
but referred to those terms with a voice of authority. He could play well just the same.
Unfortunately, that skill didnt pass down to me.
"Exactly what is a sharp and flat," I asked over and over. My father was unable to
define them and said something to the effect that a sharp is a sharp and a flat a flat. At
the time, I thought he knew, but was unwilling to help me. Later, I learned that he
actually didnt know. His playing was entirely "by ear." He punctuated his speech with
music terms of which he had no understanding. Such a talent is hereditary in nature.
The piano keys on the Jesse French were of genuine ivory. This caused them to yellow
badly over the decades. That discoloration wouldnt haven taken place if the keys had
been left uncovered, but nobody knew that simple preventive measure. The lid was
always pulled firmly into place. What was though to be protection ended up ruining them.
To the right of the front door which led to the porch was the wooden cabinet of an
old battery-powered radio. It stood on high legs and had multiple doors. The radio was
the first in that part of the state. People arrived in groups to listen to it, rather like
neighbors did with rare television sets in the early 1950s. The cabinet is now in the front
bedroom at our house in Russellville. The radio parts were removed decades ago.
The cabinet has an unusual feature of a secret compartment on the back. In the mid 1940s
when the Second World War was going on, there was terrible persecution of Jehovahs
Witnesses in the United States. Out of fear of having their literature seized, my
grandmother hid several Watchtower magazines in it. They wanted to have at least
something from the Society if authorities were to raid their house. Theyre still right
where she put them. After moving the cabinet to our house, we discovered a leather mail
pouch that my grandfather had used on his mail route. Its still there.

Oppression of an unpopular religion was common during WWII. Both Josie and
Tommy were imprisoned briefly in Warm Springs, Georgia by bigoted authorities who
opposed their preaching work.
For many years, the Fayetteville Congregation met in the living room. Around
1950, a congregation was formed in Sylacauga by special pioneers, but it soon got into
financial and other difficulty. As a result, the Society asked Tommy if he would be
willing to move his congregation there, become Congregation Servant (called
Coordinating Elder now), and try to save the operation.
"We hate to ask you to take it on," they apologized, "and will understand if you
dont want it."
Of course he readily agreed. That was when the living room ceased to double as a
Kingdom Hall. He had to take over the Kingdom Hall in a financial way as well. Tommy
became its sole, uncompensated owner for many years. Finally, a circuit servant
discovered it and insisted that the congregation make monthly payments until it bought
the building from him.
"An individual shouldnt ever own the Kingdom Hall," he said. "Its everyones
responsibility to help with expenses."

The front door led from the living room to the porch. It was large and comfortable
with small round half columns. Since it was unscreened, mosquitoes made its night use
unpleasant. In later years its decaying, bucked wood floor was replaced with concrete. To
reduce maintenance, Tommy had red paint mixed in with the concrete while wet. The
elegant-looking wood columns were replaced with cast iron. I remember one occasion, at
about ten years old, when my parents, grandparents, and Uncle Gaston and Aunt Edee
were all seated out there at night. I lay on the floor and thought how fortunate we were
that all members of the family were still living and in good health. I wished that it would
always stay that way, but knew it wouldnt. Now only I, at age 74, survive of that group
of seven. How quickly time passes. To me that was "only yesterday.
The porch furniture consisted of quality metal lawn chairs, one of which is in use
on the back porch of our house in Russellville. The others broke and were discarded.
After Delorise and I were married, we were seated on that porch when two male
deer with large racks of antlers sped by and into the woods. Id never seen large, mature
bucks that close in the wild and havent since.
Eloise and Gaston, as children, used to play on that porch. When a storm came up,
if a local man named Victor happened to drive by in his horse and carriage, they chanted,
"Let it rain, let it flicker. Nobodys out but old man Victor."

On the grounds, the two played in a cart pulled by a goat. The goat was mean to
the extent that it sometimes chased my Mother up onto the roof. The roof came almost to
the ground at the back of the house. The animal also eventually began to mount the roof.
"That goat is going to ruin the shingles," Tommy said. "I need to get rid of him."
The children didnt protest. Their fear of the animal was greater than any enjoyment they
got from playing with it.
They had a male peacock for about a year, but it became so vicious that they got
rid of it. Its beautiful display of its tail feathers couldnt make up for the bother.
For a period of time, as a sideline, the Morris family operated "Sunnycrest Egg
Farm," on the premises. They sold eggs over a wide area. Mother and her parents learned
the necessary skills, including how to "candle" eggs to be sure they werent ruined.
Visitors occasionally showed up unexpectedly.
"The name sounds so appealing, we just had to see what it was like," a middleaged woman explained. "We always buy your brand of eggs."

Adjoining the living room was the front bedroom. The shape of the room was
unusual since the front wall bulged out in three sections. For some reason, the family
always described the room as and "octagon," although it only had six walls. The furniture
was sparse, but high quality. There were three matching pieces: the bed now in our
bedroom in Russellville, the chest with mirror also in our bedroom, and a dresser.
The mirror spontaneously broke on the dresser and it was otherwise in bad condition so
we let it go in the storage building of my parents final house in Russellville. The top was
marred with numerous circles and residue of spills of cosmetics and nail polish. The
drawers smelled unpleasantly of face powder. Storage was quite limited. It wasnt worth
keeping.
The fireplace in the front bedroom had an elegant wooden mantle with a beveled
mirror. The fireplace hadnt been used for decades. The room, with no source of heat, was
bitterly cold during wintertime. Delorise and I usually slept in that room when we visited.
We slipped in an electric heater to keep from being totally miserable, but it was about like
fighting a forest fire with a garden hose. We still froze.
There was a widely-circulated myth in the community which claimed that
bedroom was fixed up with old-time furniture with the expectation, that in the
resurrection, my grandfathers parents would be coming back there to live. Supposedly, it
was equipped with old-fashioned things so that they would feel comfortable. The
fantastic story even included the idea that there was a buggy in prime condition stored
inside the room.
Mother commented, "That story was rubbish. None of us had a clue as to how
such a senseless notion had gotten started. Most likely it came from somebody who hated

the Truth. At some point, somebody must have started it and it grew each time it was
repeated."
For many years there was no closet in that bedroom, but at some point, Josie had a
door added to open directly into one of the closets in her bedroom. Her idea was go give
visitors a place to hang clothes. The closet was agonizingly small, with just enough room
for a clothes hangar between the two doors. As a child, I liked it. It created what I chose
to regard as a "secret door." I could go into the closet from either side, push aside clothes,
and find a door at the back which led into the adjoining room. That reminded me of secret
doors in closets in mystery novels.
The master bedroom where my grandparents slept was large, but had only one
other very small closet. The furniture was nondescript. The bed and dresser they used
were in a bedroom of Aunt Edees house in Fayetteville, but I gave them to Jean Watson
to sell. Mounted behind glass and enclosed in a frame were socks and booties that had
belonged to me. Pictures included framed oval photographs of Eloise and Gaston as
children. The photographer snapped her in a high chair. Those items are now stored in our
house in Russellville.
Leading off the back of the master bedroom was a folding door into what had
once been a porch. At some point Tommy had enclosed it and installed Pullman windows
which lowered downward into the walls so as to go completely out of sight. This room,
with slight modification, became a kitchen for my parents and me when we moved there
in the early 1940s. Tommy added a sink and they brought an electric stove, an oldfashioned type which stood on high legs. His bedroom became their bedroom/living
room. Tommy and Josie moved to the front bedroom for the duration of their stay.
That small room came to be called "Aunt Lulas room" when she moved in with Tommy
after the death of his wife. Aunt Lula Morris Skelton was his sister, so this arrangement
gave them both a home for several years before infirmity and advancing age of both
caused it to be discontinued.
During the lifetime of Josie, it was my bedroom when I visited. It had an old
fashioned iron bedstead which blocked the outside door that had been added when those
two rooms were used as an apartment. Tommy eventually did away with the door.
A single bare bulb in the ceiling was the light for the room. There was a pull string to turn
it on. The string ended in an animal form that glowed green at night. I had never seen
anything like that and found it fascinating. Their Guineas woke me up by beginning to
pot-a-rack loudly at dawn. It was a strange sound, but one that I didnt really mind and
would like to hear again. They kept the Guineas for eggs. It was from those fowls that I
learned that Guineas could fly up in the air like birds.
From the master bedroom, a door led into the hallway which originally had been
part of the dog trot. Turning to the right, the passageway led to what was for many years
the only bathroom in the house. It, too, had formerly been part of the dog trot. Its door
was very short and narrow. Men entering it were forced to stoop. Theres a door just like
it in the old bathroom at Aunt Edees house. What would cause anybody to put in such an

unsatisfactory door eludes me. The bathroom had a claw-foot tub. They added a shower
many years later. The lavatory had the faucet so close to the sink that it was hard to wash
hands. In later years my grandfather built in an old dresser on the right wall. It provided a
dressing area for my grandmother. The bathroom had a small, unvented gas heater which
stayed on low day and night during the winter. They called the place "the warm and
friendly little room" since it was the only place in the house with sufficient heat for
comfort. They could have afforded to have done better than they did with heating and
cooling, but just didnt. The only window was of frosted glass and of the Pullman type
found in Aunt Lulas room.
Leaving the bathroom, a right turn into the hallway led to a door half of wood and
half of frosted glass which opened onto the screened porch that sheltered the main
entrance. This and the living room door to the front porch were the only doors in the
house which were always locked. The keys were in the locks so that they could easily be
opened from the inside.
The house was broken into only once. A man stole some bottles of wine from the
area off the well shelter. The side door was locked whenever they left the house, but they
placed the key on a ledge over a closed up window to the right of the door, the first place
a thief would look.
Outside on the left side of the house was a concrete wall taller than the one on the
right side. Just beyond the end of the wall was a building that originally served for
storage, but came to be used as the wash house when they got a home clothes washer.
When I spent the summer with my grandparents in 1950, she and I regularly washed
clothes there and hung them on a line to dry. The washer was electric, but far from
automatic. We had to pull clothes from the tub after each wash and feed them between
two rollers which squeezed out excess water. It was possible to get ones hand trapped
between the rollers, so we had to be extremely careful. The clothes dropped into a tub of
rinse water and had to be reloaded for the next step. The wash and rinse water spilled on
to the concrete floor and flowed to the ground outside. There were openings provided for
that purpose. When they were clean, we pinned the clothes on the line outside to dry.
They became stiff and hard, but smelled so good. It was then necessary to iron
everything, even sheets. My grandparents bought a commercial-type ironer which was far
easier than hand ironing. Laundry day was hard work.
Just beyond the laundry building was an outdoor toilet, which had been out of use
for many years. It had become a place to dump trash until the pit underneath it was finally
filled. There was no rural garbage pickup. The alternative to a place like that was to toss
trash into the woods which, while not illegal, looked just as nasty then as it does now.
The toilet was torn down at some point in the early 1950s. If anyone had the stomach for
it, excavation would reveal some interesting artifacts.
On the grounds on the left side of the house stood a small wooden building called
the gas house. The gas house had been used to chemically create the gas that was piped
into the house to operate the gas lights before electricity was available. Gas lights were

hot and produced a bad odor. Yet, they were considered advanced for their time. Few
houses in Alabama had such a luxury. Electricity was a welcome replacement. The gas
house eventually was converted into a chicken coop. There was a good-sized area around
it fenced with chicken wire. This provided a home source of eggs and chickens for eating.
Because it wasnt readily available in the stores, chicken was a luxury meat. One either
chopped off the heads or twisted them off so that the head was totally removed. The
chicken, in either case, would flop around on the ground for a while and even
occasionally get up and run a few steps even without a head. It was a horrible sight, but
standard for the time.
When I was ten years old and spending the summer with my grandparents while
my mother finished her degree, they decided to have chicken for supper. I went with my
grandfather to do the deed. We caught the chicken and I held it while we walked to the
side of the yard to put the animal to death with an axe. The chicken continually cried out
in what sounded exactly like the word "help." I said to my grandfather that it was calling
for help. He sharply told me to hush. Clearly it bothered him too. Despite its protests, the
bird lost its head.
Immediately behind the house was the cistern for rain water which was described
above. I was told not to walk on it as it might collapse, but I often did it anyway. The
top was concrete and had a hollow sound when I tapped it. I thought I was being brave to
venture atop it. A short door led into the attic from the top of the cistern. I often opened
this door to peek at the collection of junk. The attic continued toward the front of the
house. It became larger and higher, but it was always hot and dusty. I wanted to explore
the rest of the attic, but didnt until decades later when we were clearing out the house
after my grandfathers death. I had imagined boxes or chests, but it didnt have anything
in it. I could see all the bracing my grandfather put when he constructed the house. It was
far in excess of any reasonable need, but he built to last.
Up the hill behind the house was the smokehouse. It had been a place to preserve
meat so it would keep in the days before refrigeration. The building naturally smelled like
smoked meat. There was a screened area near the back where the meat had been kept.
The screening kept out insects and rats. Few smokehouses were that carefully
constructed. I never knew it to be used as anything but a junk house. The most
interesting thing in it was a trunk with a high curved lid, but it didnt contain anything of
interest. To the best of my belief, the trunk was stolen by Ann Pitts, our wayward cousin.
Farther up the hill was the barn where they kept a single cow for milking. The
barn was only of medium size. There was no natural source of water for cattle. It was too
much work to carry water for more than one cow. The Morris family owned another farm
of over 100 acres with two houses and three barns. Thats where they kept a herd of
cattle.
The barn at the home place held a special memory for me. There was a large
metal wheel off a buggy which was kept in the barn. It was just right to roll down the
steep hill toward a dirt side road. It went a long way. I thought it was lots of fun to roll it

or see it done. Sometimes the wheel jumped the road and rolled onto the neighbors land.
Playing with the wheel was something I did with my father when young. The barn was
blown away by a tornado in the 1950s and wasnt rebuilt since it was no longer needed.
Quite a distance from the left side of the house, up in the woods, were a few
graves with expensive stone markers. They showed names and dates of birth and death
along with epitaphs. I found them gruesomely attractive and was fascinated with the idea
of having such a thing on ones private property. Nobody seemed to know why the graves
had been put in such an unlikely location. They were, of course, untended and unvisited
except occasionally by us. The area is so grown up now that the last two times I tried to
find the graves, I wasnt able to locate them. Im sure theyre still there.
Diagonally across the road from the house, adjacent to a white church, is
Fayetteville Cemetery where many Morris and Gaston relatives are among those buried.
The most lugubrious grave has a statue of a little girl stretched out in death on a funeral
bier. Somewhere in that cemetery a child was buried under questionable circumstances as
to whether she was dead. The child showed no visible signs of life such as breathing or
making a mist on a mirror held under her nostrils, but never stiffened as invariably occurs
in dead people as rigor mortis sets in. A doctor pronounced her dead and declared that she
should be buried. Her parents waited for a time, but finally gave up when she made no
change.
My mother reported, Ive always suspected that she was buried in a deep coma. I
saw the child and she looked like she was asleep rather than dead. It makes me shiver to
think about it even after all these years."
The land around the house had been purchased on two occasions. The lot to the
left of the house was called the "school lot" because the local public school stood there
when the house was built. Mother attended that school and helped move when it went to
the present site of Fayetteville High School. When she attempted to enter the first grade,
the teacher was indignant when she discovered that she could already read. "Go home.
Stay out a year while you forget how to read. Then come back," the woman ordered. She
already knew more than the teacher planned to cover. It intimidated her.
Tommy purchased the school lot, sold the building for its lumber, and
incorporated the land into the grounds of his house. A house close to the original Morris
home place is said to have been built from that lumber.
At one point there was a clay-surfaced tennis court that he built for his children on
the school lot. Down the hill from the school lot, toward a dirt side road, was a dug well
that remained open until the early 1950s. It would be interesting to excavate since it
became another dumping place for refuse from the house. One of the items reputed to be
in it is a pitcher showing a swastika. The swastika was an ancient symbol from long
before the time of Hitler. During the Second World War, Josie got worried about having
it. She recalled throwing it into the well. There is, however, a competing story from other
family members that she gave it away.

Even after the well was totally filled, a distinct depression showed its location. I
saw it on many occasions. Road maintenance and widening has obscured its location.
Only ground penetrating radar could locate it now. It may well lie under the roadbed.
The entire grounds of the home place were fenced with barbed wire except for a
good-sized area around the house. The fence was nothing more than three strands of
barbed wire attached to posts and/or trees. Its only purpose was to confine the milk cow.
The bell that hung around the cows neck is still in existence in our house at Russellville.
Mother had a strange experience with the fence at the back of their land. "When I
was a child, I saw the wire sliding slowly across the ground. I ran for my Father. He
found that a neighbor, Mr. Boykin, was stealing the fence. He was attempting to claim
part of our property."
The two men borrowed equipment and surveyed the line. Tommy operated the
sighting device and Boykin placed the pole. They undertook to locate the corner.
"Up the hill. Way up the hill," Tommy called out. Boykin reluctantly moved the pole
according to the determination of the surveying equipment.
"Thats it," Tommy finally called out.
"Well, you put it right on top of the stake," Boykin admitted sheepishly.
The corner marker and fence line that had been accepted for years were
demonstrated to be correct. He made no further attempt to appropriate his neighbors
land.

Chapter 5: Elton Recalls His Childhood

at Fayetteville
Its like I "woke up" at Fayetteville. I dont remember anything before that, nor do
I recall moving there. From that point onward, I retain a continuous memory, likely from
just under a year old.
Although I dont remember it, my mother tried to breast feed, but when I
continued to lose weight, her doctor told her that her milk wasnt nutritious enough and
that I must be bottle fed. Later, my father repeatedly smirked about it. "She was like a
cow that made lots of milk, but it was no good." He enjoyed any opportunity to demean
her. Putting her down was a means he used to elevate himself.
An informed guess tells me that the real problem wasnt milk quality, but that my
father insisted that my feeding be on a spaced-out schedule convenient to him. The result
was that I wasnt getting enough to eat to thrive. He adopted that same standard when I
was moved to bottle-feeding. I recall mother later telling me about it.

"He wouldnt let me feed you except at scheduled times. When you were hungry
and cried, I slipped and did it anyway," she said with barely-controlled anger even so
many years later.
"On demand" feeding wasnt acceptable to him. What he wanted overrode any
other considerations. In his defense, that was the example his own father set. People
usually imitate their parents child rearing practices, no matter how flawed.
I unmistakably recall drinking from a baby bottle. My parents used a large safety
pin to enlarge the holes in the nipple so I could get the milk more readily. Also, I plainly
recall moving around in a baby walker before I was old enough to walk on my own. Id
roll in it from our area of the house into my grandparents area, especially their kitchen
and the well shelter. Sometimes my Mother would borrow things from their kitchen. I
pestered her to let me return them on the walker. Somehow this seemed important to me.
I slept in a baby bed in the same room as my parents. It was one of those cribs
with vertical slats and a side that could be lowered. That model, in later years, was
recalled due to multiple deaths of babies who caught their heads between the bars and
suffocated. The bed was borrowed, over a twenty year period, many times by relatives
with new babies. Each time, it was returned in good condition. No child was ever
harmed. We left it in the barn loft at Mountain View when my parents moved to
Russellville. Looking back, we should have destroyed it.
Every morning my father walked up the hill toward the barn. I watched him as he
carried a heavy bucket, probably water for the cow. It was interesting to note how he
extended his left arm far out to balance the load on the right. Since I wasnt aware of the
weight of water, I wondered why he did that. My guess is that he fed the cow and cleaned
up after her, but that it was up to others to milk her. He was never lazy, but there were
some jobs he just didnt do. Milking was one of them.
I dont remember this myself, but have been told by my mother that my
grandmother sneaked and gave me coffee at way too young an age. "I came into the
breakfast room and there she sat, feeding you coffee by the spoonful," she reported. "Her
embarrassed look showed she hadnt heard me coming."
That violation of her specific instructions created ill will that lasted for several
days. She naturally resented such interference by her mother in her child rearing
preferences.
I cant help but compare it to what happened decades later. My mother slipped
and gave Maria bananas when she full well knew we wanted her to have nothing but
breast milk. Events tend to repeat. That time there were immediate consequences. Maria
cried for hours with an upset stomach. I doubt that the coffee did me any harm.
When my father was working the night shift at the powder plant he had to sleep
during the daytime. He used the hallway in an area that was as large as the original dog

trot from which it had been taken. It had no windows and so was dark and quiet. He
always snored extremely loud. I have been told that my grandmother led me where I
could hear him and told me in a scary voice "Bugger, bugger." She didnt like my father
and used that as a way to try to make me afraid of him. I retain no memory of her doing
this, but believe its true.
I distinctly recall Mother taking a dangerous fall in her kitchen. She was mopping
the floor so it was wet and slick with soap. My father was sick in bed with strep throat
and started demanding more crushed ice. In an attempt to rush, she took a very bad spill
which made it hard for her to get around for days.
It was during this time that my father, while he walked on the shoulder of the
road, was struck by a car. He and Uncle Gaston stopped to look at a wreck. A Negro man,
who was distracted by the crowd, struck him from the back, and threw him over his car.
He went home a bloody mess, but not seriously injured.
With his typical lack of couth, he planned out a scheme. He drew a glass of water
and went in to let my mother see him. Before she could say anything, he threw the glass
of water directly into her face. He had so little judgment as to think that he had done a
good thing. Years later, he continued to boast about how well he handled the situation.
Relatives often visited, but I remember mainly two of them: Uncle Harvey, my
grandfathers brother, and Aunt Ada. Uncle Harvey was mostly bald and very friendly
with a broad smile. For some reason I got to calling him "Puddin". This was the
nickname of a local Negro who was semiretarded, so somebody must have prompted me
to use that name. Whenever he came, somebody would ask me who he was. When I
replied "Puddin," they all laughed. I didnt get the point because I thought that really was
his name. It wasnt until decades later than I learned the identity of the real "Puddin."
Racial bigotry was all but universal in the South at that time, even among people who
should have known better. I dont recall seeing any Negroes until years later after we had
moved back to Marshall County.
When Aunt Ada visited, she always made a rush for me to pick me up. She had an
unruly mop of hair that stuck out in every direction. Her face was deeply wrinkled and
her eyes wild-looking. She was horribly ugly. To make matters worse, she continually
moved her lips in a strange way like she was chewing something. I thought of her as a
lion, although I knew full well that she was a human. I cried every time because I didnt
want her to touch me. She picked me up just the same.

My grandparents had a black and white dog named Pudgy. A family story arose
about the two of us that was almost entirely false. It made such a good tale that I didnt at
the time tell them any different. The fable was that I was outside on the sidewalk toward
the garage where I started to fall. Pudgy got under me to keep me from being hurt. A nice
story to be sure, but untrue. I remember the incident clearly. What actually happened was
that Pudgy got hold of one of my socks with his teeth and pulled at it. This jerked me off
my feet and I fell partly across him. For a long time, I didnt try to clarify what happened

because it was evident that they enjoyed telling the story. Decades later, I tried to correct
the story to my mother, but she didnt believe me. Sometimes the facts arent needed or
wanted.
My grandparents had their clothes washed, first at home by Negroes, and later at
the commercial laundry in town. Their first home washing machine appeared about 1949.
"Washing clothes is nigger work," even the less prosperous white people of south
Alabama declared. Only desperately poor whites washed their own clothes. In north
Alabama, clothes washing wasnt viewed that way. Families washed their own clothes in
a wash pot outside. That part of the State hadnt been the location of many slaves.
The offensive racial epithet, the so-called "N" word, for blacks was universally used at
that time, even by black people themselves. Its use didnt indicate the extreme bigotry
that the word reveals today. That was the normal term for black people. Their sensibilities
dulled by countless repetitions, the blacks apparently didnt take offense. It was just what
they were called even when there was no reason for indicating racial identity.
This was at a time when malefactors, who made the newspaper, were regularly
identified by race if other than white. Blacks who wrote letters to whites or to companies,
always wrote "colored" after their name. I recall the teacher telling us it should be done
that way when I was in third grade in about 1947. Black people looked at their shoes
when speaking to whites and never disagreed with them.
"Yesuh, yous right bout thet," was the only acceptable response.
There once was a person of doubtful racial ancestry in the Fayetteville community
who claimed descent from Pocahontas, the noted Indian princess. Local people smirked.
"Shes from "Niggiehontas."
Things like that have to be view in the context of the times. That part of the state
had more planters and slaves than had been in North Alabama. Speech of even the whites
showed clear Negro influence, with words ending in "r" usually pronounced as if the
letter was "h." Example are "cah" for "car," and "letter" becoming "lettah."
I recall only one occasion where the Morris family washed its own clothes. My
parents, grandparents, Uncle Gaston, and Aunt Edee all went over to the farm, built a fire
under a metal wash pot, filled it with water from the creek, and washed clothes. It was
undertaken more as a family outing than to get the clothes clean.
At that time there was a huge walking log across the creek. It even had a strong
cable to act as a handrail. To walk over it was scary, but fun. The log was flattened on top
to make it safer. That crossing was destroyed by a flood in later years. That day remains
one of my favorite memories of the Morris cattle farm.
Near the creek is a natural spring which provided a constant branch of water a
couple of feet wide. My grandfather had built a poured concrete wall around it, but left

space at one side for the water to exit. That protected the spring from pollution due to the
presence of cattle.
"What are those little snails all over the walls down in the spring?" I asked.
"Theyre periwinkles," my grandfather explained.
Their presence didnt stop people from drinking the water. It had to contain feces
from the snails, but nobody else seemed to consider that. When offered a drink, I always
declined.
"Im not thirsty," I responded. That wasnt exactly the case.
That spring was the source of drinking water for a house belonging to my
grandparents that stood up near the road. Uncle Harvey Morris, Tommys brother, had
lived at that location with his family. He stayed in a tent erected on a raised wooden
foundation rather than in the house itself. For most of its existence, the structure served
as a crude renter house. Only the living room was sealed. Other rooms had exposed studs
with the vertical outside boards plainly in view. There were substantial spaces between
the boards which provided glimpses of the outside. There was no insulation anywhere
other than yellowed newspapers tacked to the walls to help block the wind. No plumbing
existed. Such heat as there was came from a fireplace and a wood cook stove in the
kitchen. A tiny outhouse stood a few steps from the back porch. It was a woefully
unsatisfactory residence, but nearly always occupied.
"Mr. Morris, I needs a place t live. Kin I rent yore lettle house," a man asked on
behalf of himself, his wife, and their four children.
Tommy was embarrassed to rent it, but reluctantly agreed when approached by
someone without a place to live. It was hard to turn away a person in such dire straits. He
set the rent extremely low and often didnt collect anything.
"I wish that house wasnt there," he often told family members. "I ought to tear it
down."
The last several years, he installed a pump in the spring with a buried pipe leading
to the house. The Negro woman cried with joy when she saw that she had, for the first
time in her life, running water in her kitchen.
"Im not going to rent that place anymore, no matter who asks," he ultimately
explained to his children. "It just isnt a fit place to live." Only a pile of decayed boards
and stones from the chimney mark the location.
There was a sameness to life at Fayetteville and I was young, but I have a clear
recollection of that time period, just not every day. The last thing I recall there is the day
we moved back to Marshall County. I didnt realize at the time, but my mother was living

in her parents home without her husband. Hed disappeared and, because I was a toddler,
I didnt question it.
My father had gone to Washington State at the behest of the federal government.
It was his belief that it was to work at a powder plant at Hanford, Washington. I much
later learned that the facility he was to help guard was actually a part of the Manhattan
Project which produced the atomic bomb for use against Japan. Very few who worked on
the Manhattan Project had any idea of what its goal was. It was spread all around the
United States to maintain secrecy. Of course, he played no direct part in devising the
bomb. He was a security officer who walked and rode a bicycle along miles of tall
hurricane fence.
"It was cold, exhausting, and extremely boring," he later reported. "I hated
working there."
Mother was fed up with living at home. She actually never got along well with her
mother, although she had a good relationship with her father. According to her, the last
straw came when they went on a trip and left her with a flock of chickens to kill and
preserve for later eating.
She got Vada Gibson, later King, to come help her. I cant remember Vada being
there. Vada has said that it was a long time before she could stand to eat chicken again
after that experience. I wouldnt have known who she was at that time which is likely
why I didnt keep it in memory.
On the day that we moved away, Uncle Embry White came to help. I didnt know
who he was, but thought he was fun since he paid attention to me. We had so few
possessions that we loaded them all into an old Chevrolet coupe which had only one seat.
There was still room for three passengers.
"Tie my tricycle behind the car with a rope," I requested. "I want to ride there."
I was quite put out when they refused. That it would have been impossibly
dangerous never occurred to me and I thought they were most unreasonable. I still recall
my frustration and childish outrage that they wouldnt let me do what I wanted.
Fayetteville continued to be a big part of my life even after we moved away. We
made regular visits. I especially enjoyed the cattle farm. The creek that ran through the
farm was wide and deep enough to make it inconvenient to cross except at a log. My
grandfather knew places where the bottom was smooth rock and the water shallow
enough that he could, when wearing rubber boots, wade across. At other places there
were large, deep pools of water which provided excellent fishing for bream.
A fishing trip was a high point of almost every visit. My grandfather took me to
his creek to fish with poles and worms. He was a skilled fisherman, so we nearly always
had a mess of bream for supper. I caught far fewer, but enough to make it enjoyable.

Toward the end of his life, Tommy had a good-sized pond built near the spring. He
stocked it with catfish which he regularly feed. Feeding made them grow rapidly to a
good size. It also made them easy to catch. It seemed to me like fishing in a bucket.
"I like to fish, but I cant move along the creek bank anymore," he explained. "This way I
can sit in a chair and fish. It may not be the best sportsmanship, but I enjoy it."
On one occasion decades later, Delorise and I took him to the pond. Unfamiliar
with fire ants which had not yet reached north Alabama, she accidentally stepped on one
of their mounds. Hordes of the insects poured through the breaks in the ground, ready to
repel the invader of their domain.
"Theyre going up my legs. Theyre stinging me. Do something," Delorise
demanded. She escaped serious injury and has since steered well clear of the telltale dirt
mounds that announce the presence of a fire ant colony.
Those predatory ants were not native to Alabama, but had been introduced at the
Port of Mobile. Slowly but surely, they spread northward. Their march accelerated as the
climate changed due to global warming. Now they are far up into the South where they
present a menace, especially to animals and to small children. Their stings raise painful
blisters.
The farm originally covered over 100 acres, some of it steep hills. It was
necessary to check on the cows periodically. I often went with my grandfather to do that.
He had a herd of black Angus serviced by a massive Angus bull named Pete. Pete became
something of a pet of his and laid lazily on his side to be scratched while his owner sat
atop him.
By that time, I had a graduate degree in biology and was on the faculty of a small
college. Nevertheless, I made a sudden discovery in practical biology. The bull has a
small sack and teats. I couldnt have been more surprised even though I should have
known. There are at least nipples on males of other mammals. There was no reason why a
bull would be any different.
Pete was docile. He stayed apart from the cows until one came into heat. Only
once did the bull get out of the pasture. He caused considerable damage when he
trampled down Doc Daniels garden.
Grandfather kept Pete as long as he could, but too much inbreeding eventually
began to produce genetically defective calves. He had to dispose of Pete. After that, the
neighbors white bull began making conjugal visits to the herd which damaged the black
beauty of the Angus breed, but kept the herd growing.
Chapter 6: Elton Recalls Moving to Marshall County
I dont remember anything about the trip from Fayetteville to our new home, not
even when we arrived. Most likely I slept through it. Our new place was quite a contrast

to the Morris home. We moved into a country shack with a yard consisting of nothing but
deep sand. It was just a temporary place to stay until we could find better. Aunt Mamie
Gibson and her daughter, Vada, had rented it with similar intentions. We moved in with
them. Because of the war, housing was scarce. People had to take what they could get.
Because it was such a brief stay, I recall little detail. There must have been four rooms,
but only the kitchen has stayed with me, probably because my wood and rope pump
swing hung from the ceiling. Back and forth I went under my own power.
Playing in the sandy yard outside the house also entered long-term memory. I was
fascinated with the sand since I had never seen any before. The soil at Fayetteville was
hard, sticky, red clay. I remember pouring sand into an opening on a pipe that had
formerly held the spare tire on the Chevrolet coupe. It poured through and made conical
piles on the ground. The sand felt warm, dry, and clean in my hands.
From there we moved into town to a house that I called the "Smutty House."
Where I came up with that name, I dont know as it was clean and certainly far superior
to where we had been staying. Although not an especially large house, it was divided
into three apartments. Aunt Mamie and Vada took the left side of the first floor. A
shockingly obese woman named Mrs. Spence had the right downstairs. We took the
upstairs. From the side window I often watched Mrs. Spence as she waddled outside to
empty waste water from her kitchen. To see her from above like that was amusing to me,
but only partly because she was so fat. Id never before seen any person from that angle.
Our quarters lay at the top of a stairway. It was one long, continuous flight. I was
extraordinarily frightened of it, especially when I had to go down. I sat on each step and
slid down to the next rather than stand up. It made such an impression that, over the
years, I have had occasional disturbing dreams about it.
Our area had a dormer window which faced the street. A snow of several inches
fell. I had never seen snow. Mother scooped a pan full from the roof and added something
to it. That was my first taste of snow cream.
We had a kitchen, bathroom, and a third room for everything else. Opportunity for
play was limited. Mother often took a blanket and spread it across her dining room table
and chairs to make a "tent." I really enjoyed that. At my size, it seemed quite spacious.
During this time, mother had accepted a job as physical education teacher at Albertville
High School. To hire her was a violation of policy since I wasnt in school, but the
principal, Mr. McPherson and his wife Irene, had been cronies of my parents in college.
He declared an "emergency" and hired her for the balance of that school year.
It wasnt easy to find teachers at that time since the United States had become involved in
World War II. Many men were in the military and women who might have sought
teaching jobs found better employment filling their vacant positions. She had no
academic qualifications to teach physical education, but made a success of it.
That year my Mother put on an outstanding May Day program. Such celebrations
were then common, but later disappeared when Communist nations adopted May Day as
their special day. Mothers program was complete with May pole dances. A large

audience of students, teachers, and parents were in attendance. It was so much better than
previous years celebrations that it become the talk of the town. She was highly pleased
with herself.
When she was at work, Aunt Mamie kept me. She complained that I was hard to
deal with and that it made her nervous. Im sure both things were true. When she was
sick, Mother took me to work with her. To play in the gym with the girls and try to throw
my much smaller ball through the hoop was real adventure. The students made a big fuss
over me and competed to see who would be the one to take care of me. I was pleased by
that, as any little kid would have been.
When my father came back from Hanford, Washington, he pitched a fit because of
where we were living. "Why in the world did you move there?" he demanded. "Its
nothing but a firetrap. Start gathering things up. Were moving as soon as I can find
something." Throughout his life he described any upstairs quarters as a "firetrap." His
fears were needless. The Smutty House still stands today.
Over the decades, he frequently used this excuse for us not to stay in anything but
a one-story motel when we traveled.
He quickly found another place for us to live. We moved into a side apartment in
Miss Thelma Goodwins house on Baltimore Avenue in Albertville. This was a nice
residential section. Her father had once been mayor of Albertville. Most of the houses I
remember are still standing, although the Goodwin house has been torn down.
We had a small side porch covered with a roof at the entrance to our apartment.
The living room/bed room was large with a high ceiling. To the center of the right wall
was a fireplace. We burned coal for heat. To the right of the fireplace was a good-sized
closet where I kept my toys on the floor. Family clothes hung above. There was a door
into the hallway of the rest of the house (the part used by Miss Goodwin and her father),
but we never opened it.
We had sparse furnishings in keeping with meager resources. My parents bed was
in the left back corner of the room. My baby bed was in the left front side. Their bed,
with high, round, decorative posts, was by far the nicest piece of furniture in the
apartment. My mother had selected it, but an experience with her mother turned her
against it so much that she traded it in on a new bedroom suite.
Josie looked with irritation at the new bed on their first visit. "You can say that I
bought that for you. You didnt pay any rent at Fayetteville. Thats the only way you
could have had this."
Apparently, she was displeased at even minor evidence that her dire prediction
about her daughter never having anything was incorrect. In later years, she overcame that
feeling and became relatively cordial with her son-in-law. He remained barely civil to
her.

The cruel remark, however, angered Mother so much that they traded the bed on a
new bedroom suite as soon as they could afford it. The bed, chest, and dresser were of
matching mahogany. High, thin posts rose from the ends of both headboard and
footboard. The chest was the type called a "chest on a chest." The dresser had a slim
central mirror that tilted. We left that suite in what we called Marias room in my parents
house in Russellville when we sold it. We had no place for it, so decided it was best that
the Miller family get the use of it.
The living/bed room led into the bathroom and the bathroom into the kitchen. It
was impossible to go from one room into the other without passing through the bathroom.
In effect, it was a hallway. That may appear to be a foolish arrangement, but the area had
not been built as a rental apartment. It had formerly given bathroom access to what had
been two bedrooms in the Goodwin house.
After we lived there a while, my parents decided to paint the bathroom floor. So
we could pass between rooms, they built a temporary walkway of boards. I loved to go
over it and was sorry when the paint dried and they removed the path.
Mr. Goodwin was old and feeble. His thick glasses magnified his eyes so much as
to give him an owl-like appearance. Failing health had caused him to cede family
headship to his daughter. Although she had to see to things, she continued to treat him
with deference and respect. He and she ate with us one time. Two things stood out
enough for me to recall them.
He told a story about flying on an airplane. He said in conclusion that he always
wanted to be able to "get one foot on the ground" when he traveled. Then he related
another tale about being charged to see a sideshow at a carnival. "There was nothing to it
but a fat man sitting in a chair and whittling. He repeatedly chanted, Always cut away
and youll never cut yourself." Strangely, the insignificant gist of both trivial stories has
stuck with me all these years. Anytime I use a pocketknife, I think of the fat mans
advice. Its odd the things one remembers.
Mr. Goodwin seemed to be prosperous, but, for some reason, decided to rent out
part of his house. That was common at that time, especially since housing was very
scarce because of the War. There wasnt time or materials for civilian construction in the
United States. The effort was against the Germans and "Japs."
The War was not discussed in my hearing as far as I recall, but I do remember that
my father anticipated that he would be drafted at any time. This made it nearly impossible
for him to be employed, so he kept me during the day when Mother was at work at the
high school.
I knew that lots of the grown boys were "overseas," but didnt comprehend what
that meant. When the boys in the neighborhood played, it was often grim war games
rather than cops and robbers. It was highly undesirable to be picked to be a "Jap" or

German. They were considered utterly evil, almost subhuman. I knew nothing about the
dropping of the atomic bomb.
I was four years old when the report of Hitlers death was announced. All the kids
in the neighborhood rode up and down the sidewalk on their tricycles as they blew
whistles. I asked to join them and sounded my whistle too, but had no idea at all who
Hitler was or what his death meant.
I had, however, heard the name Hitler. I sometimes combed my hair to the side so
my parents would laugh and say I looked like Hitler. If Id understood who Hitler was,
Id never have imitated him.
It isnt surprising that I had little awareness of the War. This was in the days
before television. We had a radio, but listened to local stations that were more concerned
with the price of cotton, cows, and hogs.. We got a daily newspaper, but my interest was
in "The Phantom," "Blondie," "Gasoline Alley," "Kerry Drake," "Steve Canyon," and
"Bringing Up Father."
As to our kitchen, we used the electric stove on high legs that we had at
Fayetteville and the dining room table and chairs from the Smutty House. We must have
had an icebox since I recall the ice truck making deliveries. Before we left there, we had
a refrigerator.
On one occasion, I took a table knife and slipped the end of the blade behind the
control for one of the stove eyes. It contacted electricity which took a nip out of the end
of the knife. There was a crackle sound and fire flew. It scared me, but I wasnt injured.
That set of silver was described as "Alaskan silver." Some of it may still be around
somewhere, but it has been out of use for decades. It was unpleasant to use since it was
dark, wouldnt take a polish, and had a noticeable metallic taste. Most likely it wasnt
silver at all.
The rest of the kitchen room is a mental blank except for the door into the
hallway. It was a Dutch door, one of the type that opens at the top independently from the
bottom. Mother often chatted with Miss Goodwin through the top of that door. I thought
it was an incredible feature. If it werent so impractical, Id like to have a Dutch door in
our current house.
Milk was brought by a delivery man who left the bottles on the porch. He came
during the early hours of the morning so we might not bring the milk inside for some
time. In freezing weather, the top was forced up several inches as it turned to ice. We had
to wash the bottles and put them out for the delivery man to pick up.
Behind the Goodwin house was a storage building with a garage. The Goodwins
surely must have had a car, but they didnt use the garage. When there was a threat of
hail, my father put his coupe inside. The vehicle had a flat fabric roof which was highly
subject to hail damage. It had been destroyed just that way during a previous storm. A

totally metal roof on a car of that type resulted in a loud roar at road speeds. That problem
was overcome a few models after the 1934 model we had.
That car had belonged to a doctor who died. My father somehow managed to
acquire it. Cars werent being made during the war so it was difficult to get one of any
type, even a worn-out old one like that. How they managed to afford the car I dont know,
but likely he had saved some money while in Hanford. He had no expense for food and
rooming since the government provided those necessities. Gas was strictly rationed so
driving was severely limited.
Miss Goodwin told Mother to check the storage building and take anything there
she wanted. She found a few items of home decor that she liked, but the only one I
remember is the pink ceramic bowl that is now in Marias bed room at Russellville.
Mother thought it was good quality material.
It was at that place where my father had a truly outstanding garden. Since he was
largely unemployable, he had plenty of time to work on it. He kept out all the weeds, but
his care for the plot went much further. With a wooden roller, he packed down the dirt
between the rows after he plowed. This was for no reason other than appearance. The
garden produced a bumper crop which must have helped with household expenses as well
as overcoming the problem of food rationing. The big emphasis was on the war effort.
Civilians had to suffer.
When I went into the garden, I always seemed to walk somewhere that he didnt
approve. Even after all these years, I retain some resentment about how hatefully he
yelled out at me. No matter what I did, it was wrong. Since I learned to expect
condemnation, I stayed out of the garden as much as possible. That was the start of my
distaste for garden work, but laziness accounts for a bigger part of it.
At one point my Father took a job as driver of a Besty Ross bread truck. He made
deliveries to area stores. The truck had a strange windshield that separated in the middle
and cranked out for ventilation. That job didnt last long.
"Im going to quit that job. Driving the truck hurts my back," he complained to
his wife. He returned to unemployment.
The competing bread was Merita. My Father apparently retained a degree of
loyalty to the Betsy Ross Company. He often spoke against Merita and wouldnt buy it
even years later.
The best job he had appeared unexpectedly. It was with the Office of Price
Administration. The OPA was part of Roosevelts war plans. The OPA was part of the war
effort so it was deemed okay to give him that job even if he was waiting to hear from the
draft. Its intent was to keep down civilian use by issuing rationing coupons. Rationing
started in 1943.

Some people tried to get extra ration books and became indignant if refused. One
woman needed more sugar to preserve her fruit. When refused, wrote an angry letter.
"You wont let me have sugar for my preserves, but theres plenty to make old bear [beer
she meant.] "Im going to cut down all my fruit trees."
My father explained, "I could have made lots of money if Id been willing to sell
books of ration coupons. We mailed them out, but often theyd be returned. The person
had moved and left no forwarding address. We shredded them, but no record was kept."
Part of his job was to examine compliance with price controls by merchants.
When he showed up to examine their records, some of them visibly trembled. They were
violating the law ands frightened that he would discover it.
"They knew what they were doing and realized that I knew it, but it was hard to
get proof enough to prosecute," he recalled.
The Black Market was flourished. This provided opportunities to buy illegal
goods without the necessary ration coupons. Sometimes these covert purchases backfired.
"One merchant arranged to buy a truck load of sugar. The seller opened a bag to
demonstrate its contents. The deal was made. It was only when the purchaser got the
contraband to his store that he discovered he had bought bags of white sand," Father
related as he laughed at the mans gullibility. "There was nothing he could do about it
since he broke the law by trying to avoid rationing. The fellow had to take the loss."
There is a long article that he wrote for the Advertiser-Gleam that details his
experiences with the OPA so Ill not try to repeat it here. He had an office in the basement
of the First National Bank in Guntersville, complete with a staff of secretaries. The office
equipment included several typewriters. My father showed me how to place my fingers
on the keyboard for touch typing.
"You skip G and H," he explained. I think of that day every time I put my hands
on a keyboard.
The Office of Price Administration was no longer needed when the War was over.
His job came to an end.
The yard behind the Goodwin house had a small scope of trees where
neighborhood children came to play. I thought of the trees as tall and big, but they
probably werent. The trees had several nearly level limbs so that a child could climb up
the trunk and then creep out onto the limbs and sit. I was so jealous of a couple of the
older kids who could go higher than I dared. There was a particularly large limb they sat
on that was out of my reach. Just before we moved, I matured enough to make it that high
one time. I still recall my satisfaction at the accomplishment as I sat there and gloated.
The first song I remember hearing was on the radio and contained the lines, "You
said that you would marry me tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes." There were

commercials on the radio that I heard over and over. One was for coffee where a woman
called out "Henry, dont forget the American Ace Coffee. Another was for a deodorant
called "Mum" and it said "Mums the word." A competing product advertised itself as
working against "BO" with the letters being exaggeratedly expressed in a deep bass
voice. That stood for "body odor."
While I played in the field behind the Goodwin house, I once came upon a
beautiful, large model airplane with a gas motor. It looked brand new so I knew it
couldnt have been there long. When I ran back to the house to tell about my big
discovery, Mother didnt believe me.
"Its really there. Im not making it up. Come and see," I persisted.
At length, she relented and trudged across the field to check my story. "Why, it
sure is," she said in surprise. "Its a nice one."
We brought the plane to the house, although uncertain what to do with the costly
toy. After only a few minutes, a teenage boy showed up looking for it. "I was flying it by
remote control from over by the school and it got away and crashed. Im sure glad you
found it," he said with enthusiasm. Mother seemed worried that I would be upset because
I couldnt keep it, but I was happy that the owner got it back.
The best single toy I had at the Goodwin house was a tricycle my parents got for
me while we lived there. I had a smaller model from Fayetteville that was about worn out
so I already knew how to ride. The new tricycle was larger and nicer than any of the
others on the block. I could almost keep up with an older boy who had a small bicycle.
Not long after I got the tricycle, the handlebars came loose from the center support. I
imagined that it was ruined, but my parents got it welded promptly and I was back in
business. That tricycle is in the attic storage area of our new garage in Russellville. A
close examination will reveal evidence of the welding. This is the same trike I rode when
"celebrating" the death of Hitler.
This was the first place I had lived where there were other children for playmates.
Of course boys played only with boys and girls only with girls. That unwritten rule was
rarely violated.
There was, however, a girl across the street who I sort of liked. Her name was
Carolyn Colvin. Carolyn now lives in the Quad Cities area. The Colvins were thought of
as rich people and probably were. They had a large, two-story stone house that was far
superior to where we lived. But, since Carolyn and I were opposite genders we didnt
play much. I had a dried up, squashed frog that she destroyed on one occasion and that
pretty much ended my desire for her companionship.
Next door to Carolyn lived a boy a couple of years older than I, whose name I
cant recall with certainty. It may have been Gary. He was a dangerous bully who tried to
hurt me every time I got around him. On one occasion, he informed me, "Im going to

kill you. I dont know just when, but Im gonna do it." When I told Mother about that, she
questioned him. Incredibly, he repeated the threat to her. I had expected him to deny it.
"Thats right, Im gonna kill him and Ill kill you too if you try to stop me," he blustered.
"Stay away from my son. Dont ever come on our side of the street or Ill have the
police arrest you," she ordered. "And Im going to tell your mother about this."
The woman cried and apologized over and over. After she explained the miserable
circumstances of her family life, Mother actually felt sorry for her. Later, his father went
insane and eventually committed suicide. Its possible that the boy was actually mentally
disturbed and risky to be around. My mother issued strict orders for me to avoid him and,
of course, I did as told.
On the opposite end of our block toward town stood a large two-story house. It
had an upstairs balcony. Curtains were always tightly pulled over the windows. The
shrubbery was untrimmed and the grass overgrown. Fallen leaves remained unraked from
one year to the next. The paint peeled off in large flakes to expose the raw wood of the
siding. For some reason I called the place "the haunted house" and steered clear of it as
much as possible. A boy lived there who was about my same age. His grandparents were
his sole care givers.
"Im not allowed to play with anyone," he told me when I found him outside one
day. Sure enough, his grandfather saw me talking to him and sternly ordered him to come
inside. To everyones surprise, the grandparents gave him a birthday party and invited
several children on the block, including me. I was horrified and didnt want to go.
"You have to," my parents charged. "Hes lonesome and itd hurt his feelings if
nobody came. Maybe his grandparents are trying to change."
I had to force myself to go inside the house, although his grandmother made an
attempt to be cordial. The party was short and awkward. Nothing changed. He remained
isolated.
One of the older boys on the block who regularly played with us was Braxton
Mountain. We all looked up to Braxton because he was older yet made a good playmate.
We looked to him as our leader. He enjoyed making an occasional attempt to scare us
younger boys by pretending to be "Raw Head and Bloody Bones." What that meant I
didnt know, but Braxton did a frightening imitation of his version of the monster.
One of Braxtons favorite tricks to entertain us was to pretend to put a small,
round rock into his mouth. He moved his jaws as if he were chewing and then made an
exaggerated motion of swallowing. After a few minutes, the rock magically appeared
from his biceps when he checked it to see if "it was ready." Of course, he merely palmed
the rock and pretended to draw it from his arm, but it always worked with us. Little kids
can be gullible.

Braxton taught me about right handed and left handed. Id never heard the
expression before he brought them up. "Are you right handed or left handed?" he asked.
I had to admit that I didnt know. He then administered a simple test. "Pick up a rock and
throw it." That was when I learned that I was right handed.
Years later Braxton tried to commit suicide by swallowing a bunch of aspirin. He
went into the high school principals office, told him what he had done, and collapsed. A
stomach pump saved him. That was the first time I had ever heard of a young person
attempting suicide.
Braxton had a younger brother named Delaine. Since he was fewer than two years
younger than me, we often played together. Delaine was a troubled child. His mother was
obviously dying of cancer and was unable to give him the time and attention he needed.
Years later, Delaine was a freshman at Snead College when I was a sophomore, but we
hadnt kept up over the years and didnt have any association. I encountered him years
later on Facebook, but he didnt recall me at all. Delaine is now an attorney as his
brother.
Their backyard was muddy when it had rained so children made "toad houses"
there. To make a toad house you pack mud over your bare foot and then carefully
withdraw it. If you have been cautious enough, a raised "house" will be there. In that
backyard, close to where we made the toad houses, was a dangerous septic tank. We were
all warned never to walk over it as it was at the point of collapsing.
Braxton had a home movie projector, the first I had ever seen, and he charged us
smaller boys a tiny amount to watch short movies in an outside building they used as a
playhouse. Once we paid, the admission for the next film dropped to one plantain leaf
which we found in the yard.
In the field beyond their yard was an area of high, thick vines where some of the
older boys and constructed a series of interconnected tunnels. What a great place this was
to play.
There was another boy my age whose first name has become vague, although his
last name was Garvin. Im going to call him Buddy and think thats correct. He had a
metal play plane on wheels which was big enough for two to sit inside. He insisted that
there was a button on the dashboard that would make it move of its own power. I didnt
really believe it, but wished it were true. Often I pushed every available button just in
case. Only the pedals made it go.
There was a broken piece of amber glass that we guarded in his yard. It was fun to
look through it and see the strange color it imparted to everything. We were easily
amused.
Buddy believed in the "Grabol," a mythical monster that came to the door to carry
away disobedient children to some horrible fate. "One time the Grabol came to my

house," he insisted. "I knew who it was and hid till he went away. I wasnt gonna let him
get me." Likely his parents had fed him that story to keep him in control. I tried to tell
him it was nonsense, but he wouldnt have it. He "knew" that the Grabol existed. It had
come to take him away and would have succeeded except for his cunning.
Before we moved from that neighborhood, I played a rather mean trick on him.
My father had a lot of beautiful marigolds. He had taken time to teach me the difference
in young marigolds and the somewhat similar leaves on ragweed. "Make sure you never
step on any of my marigolds, but these things are no good," he directed. "You can stomp
them down like you usually do my garden."
Over and over, Buddy insisted, "I want some of those flowers to give to my
mother. Shell set them out in that brick planter in front of our house."
I didnt dare dig up any of my fathers flowers, so decided that Buddy would be
just as satisfied with the ragweed. We unearthed a bunch of them and off he went. I
thought that would be the end of it.
The next day, the very pregnant Mrs. Garvin chanced up on Mother in town. "I
want to thank you for the marigolds," she said. "I got them all set out and watered
yesterday. I know theyre going to be beautiful. How soon do you think theyll bloom?"
Since she didnt know what to say, Mother remained noncommital. When she got home,
she extracted the facts from me. I got a good scolding, but I could see that she was
struggling to keep from laughing. I never learned if the ragweed thrived nor how well
Mrs. Garvin liked them, especially when they began to discharge their obnoxious pollen.
On the opposite end of our block toward town stood a large two-story house. It
had an upstairs balcony. Curtains were always tightly pulled over the windows. The
shrubbery was untrimmed and the grass overgrown. Fallen leaves remained unraked from
one year to the next. The paint peeled off in large flakes to expose the raw wood of the
siding. For some reason I called the place "the haunted house" and steered clear of it as
much as possible. A boy lived there who was about my same age. His grandparents were
his sole care givers.
"Im not allowed to play with anyone," he told me when I found him outside one
day. Sure enough, his grandfather saw me talking to him and sternly ordered him to come
inside.
To everyones surprise, the grandparents gave him a birthday party and invited
several children on the block, including me. I was horrified and didnt want to go.
"You have to," my parents charged. "Hes lonesome and itd hurt his feelings if nobody
came. Maybe his grandparents are trying to change."
I had to force myself to go inside the house, although his grandmother made an
attempt to be cordial. The party was short and awkward. Nothing changed. He remained
isolated.


It was while living at the Goodwin place that I had my only encounter with a
sexual predator. I also did a foolish and dangerous thing that brought me face-to-face
with a hobo. A detailed account of both those events can be found in my short story
entitled, "A Childs Story."
Next to the Goodwin house, toward town, stood the residence of Mr. & Mrs. T.D.
Thompson. One of the few brick houses in town, it was crowded with luxurious
furnishings. From the front, it appears little more than a cottage, but it extends far back
onto the lot. The old couple were considered to be rich and I guess they were by the
standards of the 1940s. He owned the main hardware/furniture store in Albertville.
"Come in and visit a while," Mrs. Thompson sometimes invited when she saw me on the
sidewalk.
It was fun being around them, especially since she always had some delicious
treat to offer. She had an ulterior motive. No matter how well-intentioned she may have
been, it amounted to outrageous interference in the affairs of another family.
"Dont your parents ever take you to church?" she inquired. "I never see any of
you coming home dressed up on Sunday." Taken by surprise, I admitted that they didnt.
Religion or concepts right and wrong were matters rarely, if ever, discussed in our home.
"How would you like to go with us?" she asked.
I didnt want to hurt her feelings and was a bit interested in what church was like,
so I agreed that Id like that. When I related the episode to my parents, their reaction
wasnt what I expected. "You would have to sit a long time on hard pews and get really
tired. You wouldnt like it," Mother said. "If she brings it up again, say that you changed
your mind."
Later that night, I heard my parents discussing the matter. "Shes trying to cause
trouble. Theyre big people in town. She can get me fired at the high school," Mother said
with alarm.
From then on, I ran away whenever Mrs. Thompson called out. Finally, she gave
up trying to entice me to her house. If it ever made any problem for my parents, I didnt
learn about it. It was, however, only a few months before we moved out into the country.
I doubt that was the reason, but it may have contributed.
That was a good opportunity to explain to me the true nature of Christendom and
why I shouldnt be at one of its churches. I suppose Mother was afraid I would repeat it to
the Thompsons and get them into trouble. At that time, the religious practices of teachers
was regularly made a matter of public scrutiny. They were subject to being fired if found
to be neglectful and especially if they were unorthodox in belief. If Mother had lost her
job at that point, we wouldve had no income.

I had a small, but interesting, assortment of toys. My favorite was Jitter, a stuffed
chimpanzee that my grandmother gave me. He came from a store on the main street of
Sylacauga.
"I want to buy you a toy. Pick out anything you like," she invited when we were
shopping.
Almost immediately, I spotted Jitter. His brown fur was wooly, his face friendly,
and his tail long and flexible. Especially fun was that his legs folded so that he could sit
down. I though he was terrific.
"This is what I want," I said.
"Are you sure? Why dont you pick out something nicer?" my grandmother asked.
It was clear that Jitter wouldnt have been her selection. I persisted and went out of the
store happily clutching him. I played with Jitter every day for years and was careful to
take care of him.
Jitter is still around in some of the boxes of clutter at Russellville. I lost track of
him for years, but when a teenager, I found him in the top of a closet tightly wrapped in a
plastic bag. Even though I knew it was foolish, I was horrified. "Hell suffocate" was the
illogical thought that jumped to mind. I quickly ripped an opening so he could "breathe."
Mother later found the wrapping in that condition and guessed what I had done. "I
knew youd do that," she said, not unkindly. I didnt try to offer a sensible explanation.
There wasnt one. At this writing, I am in my seventies, but tears are coming to my eyes
when I think of Jitter trapped like that. He was my friend. Id get him out and look at him
now if I knew where hes stored.
At the Goodwin house, my toys were supposed to be kept in the floor of the closet
anytime I wasnt actively playing with them. I soon learned that I had to be directly with
them every minute. If I walked away and my Father happened to see them unattended, he
would get really mad and start kicking them in the direction of the closet.
"I told you to keep your things put away," he stormed as I rushed to rescue my
treasures. No matter how fast I tossed them into the closet, hed keep kicking until I had
put the last one away.
He was right. I should have kept my things put away. But if he had known how
the way he went about it upset me, he surely would have selected a better way to
emphasize the point. I took care of my toys and it disturbed me to see them kicked.
A favorite story of my parents was that on one such occasion as I was hurrying to get my
toys out of his reach, I said, "Im not an octopus."

My point was that I couldnt possibly do it as fast as he wanted. I think I

remember the episode, but cant be sure if it is a true memory or one implanted by
countless repetitions of the story.
Another toy that I enjoyed was a stuffed, cloth model of a man with a parachute
and parachute pack on his back. I now realize that it most likely was meant to be a
paratrooper since the big War was going on. What made it so much fun was that when I
stuffed the parachute into its pack and threw the man high enough, the parachute would
open and slowly float the toy to the ground. Unlike a lot of toys, it worked every time,
especially when an adult threw it really high. Somehow, I left it outside and didnt
discover it until it was soaked with rain and ruined.
I also enjoyed playing with modeling clay and had lots of it. An older boy who
visited one day made an excellent model of a car from my clay, but I was never able to
make anything nearly that good. The best I could do was to make crude statues of human
forms. It was fun just the same.
I also had a wooden erector set and a few Lincoln logs, but not enough pieces to
make complete structures. I knew money was tight and didnt mind. If my parents wanted
me to have anything, they had to offer it. I wouldnt ask for things. That seemed selfish
and very wrong to me.
Minor toys included a rotating sparkler, a monkey that climbed up a string, a
kaleidoscope, a musical top, and a frog with attached rubber tube and bulb. During the
daytime I went into the closet to use the sparkler. The kaleidoscope, when held toward a
lamp, made colorful patterns that changed each time I shook it. I had no idea how it
worked until it tore up years later and I discovered the mirrors and colored pieces. The
monkey on a string was hard to use and I didnt really like playing with it. Because it was
a gift, I never said that, but made a pretense of enjoying it when my parents were
watching. I was glad when it finally wore out. The frog hopped when I pressed on the
ampulla. Of these, the musical top was my favorite. It hummed nicely, all the louder the
harder and faster I pumped it. My parents went to some type of party where they were
given a kazoo. They brought it home to me and I hummed away on it for years. Im sure I
had other toys. These are the ones I can recall.
My parents liked to drive to the main block of Albertville to sit in the car to watch
people pass. In those days before television, people were easily amused. Often they
parked in front of the dime store. Since I nearly always had a bit of change, this gave me
an opportunity to buy my favorite candy, a Hershey bar with almonds. At first I offered
them part of my bar, but they always said they didnt want it. After a time, I hit up on the
idea of buying two, one for me and one for them to share. They seemed to like that. I felt
good about it since they got candy when I did. That there was anything selfish about it
never occurred to me. Then one day that unequal sharing came to an abrupt end. I got
back into the car as usual and put one bar out for them to divide.

"Look at that," my Father sneered sarcastically. "He gets a whole one for himself
and gives us one to divide."
A writer isnt allowed to "whine" when he produces a recollection of family, but
have to admit that the remark crushed me. To be selfish was the farthest thing from my
mind. At four years old, I didnt know how to divide two bars into three parts and didnt
have enough money to buy us one each. I realized that he had been thinking ill of me
each time I had shared.
"Here, yall take them both. I dont want any," I said. I truly didnt want it. His
cruel and thoughtless remark had ruined what had been a treat. My mother insisted that I
take back my bar which I reluctantly did, but didnt enjoy eating it. It was years later
before I would eat Hershey bars again, although I really did like them.
I was deeply hurt at the time, but looking back, I now think that his actual intent
was to teach me not to be selfish. Perhaps he didnt know how to go about it. His own
inadequate parental example is detailed in my book, The Granny Room: A Story of a
Southern Family.
I learned to read at the Goodwins, both from flash cards and from my father
reading the comics page to me. He held me in his lap and read the comics every day. It
was easy to follow the words so I quickly learned to recognize them. Weirdness about the
English language began to dawn on me when I saw that "Phantom" was pronounced like
it started with an "F." The Phantoms sweetie was Diana Palmer so I insisted for a time
that the hero must be called the "Palmer." It seemed that two words starting with the same
letter just had to be pronounced similarly.
Other comics that I remember included Blondie, Mary Worth, Kerry Drake and
Gasoline Alley. Reading the comics together came to a screeching stop one day when, for
some reason, I had called my father a "rat." Youre going to pay for that," he warned.
When it came time to read the comics, he wouldnt do anything but squeak like a rat. I
thought he would get past that in time, but he didnt and never read the comics to me
again. No matter how much I cried, he wouldnt give in. I paid a high price for my
horrible crime.
He continually quoted an adage that "Once words had been spoken, they could
never be recalled." I heard that over and over in the following years about anything I said
that he didnt like.
Of course, I shouldnt have called him a rat. But he had a talent for twisting things
to make them into something detestable that had never entered my mind. Throughout the
rest of my life, when I tried to explain that he was mistaking my intentions, he never
would give an inch. Mercy, forgiveness or even giving a child the benefit of doubt
werent among his strong traits.

Perhaps he was tired of reading to me and I handed him a convenient excuse to

stop. Some fathers never read to their children at all, so what he did has to be
acknowledged. Thanks to his efforts, I entered the first grade already able to read. That
was a tremendous academic boost.
In addition to reading me the comics, my father, prior to my grievous sin, had
regularly read to me from a set of Childcraft books. They contained pictures and stories
of far higher quality that what is usually presented to todays children. Included were
various ones of Aesops fables, historical stories, classical stories, and poems. Those
books are about worn out, but are still here, sans covers. In the 1980s, I read some of
them to my own child.
My favorite poem from the old Childcraft books was the Robert Browning
version of "The Pied Piper." I loved that story about the invasion of rats and how the
piper managed to rid the town of them. At the end, the piper wasnt paid the agreed
amount which caused him to lure away the towns children in revenge. One little boy was
lame and couldnt keep up which resulted in his being left behind. I always cried when he
read that part.
Decades later, when Maria was small, the first time I read her that poem, I began
to sob when I read that part, even though I was in my mid forties. Emotions are a strange
thing. I hadnt expected that.
Throughout my life, Ive been far more emotional that my appearance would
suggest. I look like a stern, emotionless old man, but nothing could be further from the
truth. Men arent "allowed" to show emotion, so I hate it when anybody sees me being
weak.
There were other books which my Father read to me. I remember "The Crybaby
Calf," and "The Little Engine that Could" as being among the best. There was a poem,
"Little Boy Blue," but not the cute one about "him blowing his horn." It was a horrible,
gruesome poem about a little boy who died. I truly detested that poem and begged him
not to read it to me. It made me cry every time and left me upset for hours. He seemed to
take a perverse delight in tormenting me with that poem. He read it over and over during
my early childhood.
Even at the end of his life, he doted on poems which dealt with death. He began to
apply them to himself. I grew to hate Thomas Grays "Elegy Written in a Country Church
Yard," and Shakespeares "Seven Ages of Man" for that reason. He quoted them
endlessly, at least the most lugubrious parts. I was so revolted that I briefly considered
having "Sans taste, sans eyes, sans everything" placed on his tombstone, but knew it
would upset Maria if I did. That I would even consider such a thing shows how much I
despised the way he continually tried to upset us by his misuse of literature. My father
was often a cruel, thoughtless person. Perhaps he couldnt help it.

After the end of the War the threat of the draft passed, but jobs were scarce with
so many returning soldiers competing for available positions. My father located a job in
Florence, Alabama in which he sold and collected premium for insurance. From the front
of the Goodwin house, he caught the bus to Florence where he took a room and began his
new job. Mother sent a batch of home made divinity with him.
As the last hired, he was given the most undesirable part of town, Weeden, which
was hilly and mainly inhabited by Negroes. Although I didnt know it, he was a racist and
detested the contact he was forced to have with blacks. Needless to say, he didnt stay at
the insurance job but for a few months.
He didnt begin to espouse his racist views until after I had finished college. They
came as a considerable shock to me. In so far as I knew, there werent Negroes in
Marshall County except for a small settlement on Lakeview Hill in Guntersville. They
had to stay in their own areas, attend their own schools, shop at their own stores, and
werent supposed to be out after dark.
Only one time before I finished college was I within arms length of a Negro. A
boy my age came to our house at the top of the mountain with his father and we played
together. We climbed into the barn loft. I remember that the boy wouldnt let me step over
fishing canes lying there because it would bring "bad luck."
As long as Negroes stayed "in their place," my father didnt have much to say
against them. Only much later, after they began to gain civil rights, did he start spewing
racism.
While we lived at the Goodwin house, Mother often made a type of ice cream in
metal ice trays. She removed the dividers that created the cubes and poured in the mixture
to freeze. It was fairly good, but tasted a bit of the metal of the tray. I pretended to like it
better than I did because I didnt want to hurt Mothers feelings. She had gone to extra
trouble mainly for me.
My favorite dessert was homemade divinity. Some of the pieces she left plain;
others had a pecan laid on the top; my favorites featured a red cherry. I still recall how
great that candy tasted. It was so much better than the horrible, chalky divinity sometimes
seen in stores today. It wouldnt, however, be safe to make today. It contains raw egg
whites. Salmonella didnt exist in uncracked eggs back in those days. Now, eggs are
sometimes already contaminated before they leave the hen.
Medicines, vitamins, or food supplements were uncommon during my childhood.
However, I took a daily spoon full of cod liver oil. It was supposed to be healthy for
growing children. Mother didnt like to give it to me because she had the idea that it was
tasted repulsive. To me, it wasnt good, but didnt taste bad either. I didnt mind
swallowing it, sometimes from a spoon and sometimes directly from the dropper. I had no
idea that a cod was a fish.

They never gave me castor oil because Mother had hated it so much as a child.
Castor oil was a common medicine for kids. Shed been forced to take castor oil when
only Uncle Gaston needed it. He said, "Ill take it if sister will." They unfairly forced it
on her in order to get him to comply.
"Ill never give you castor oil," my mother vowed.
I remember when I voluntarily tasted a bit of it once just to see what it was like.
She was right. It was ghastly and it almost makes me shiver to think of it all these
decades later.

Chapter 7: A Description of Life at Mountain View

When Father came back from Florence, he obtained employment as
teacher/principal at Sims School in rural Marshall County. Mother located a position
teaching fourth grade at the city school in Guntersville. Those were the best teaching jobs
either of them had to that point.
They arranged to buy a house and eight acres at the edge of Sand Mountain. The
community was known as Mountain View. The place they bought was located on what
was known locally as "Homebrew Hill." It had been occupied by a notable bootlegger at
some point in its history. This was our family home from 1945 until they moved to
Russellville in 1985.
"Im only moving here because of you," my father claimed. "Itll be a good place
for you to grow up."
That wasnt the reason. The place was inexpensive, it was convenient to his work,
and it allowed him to have an increasingly huge garden. What I needed or wanted was, at
best, a remote consideration. I disliked living there, all the more so as I got older, since it
cut me off from meaningful association with the kids I knew in school. It was too far out
in the country. Our isolation extended so far as lack of a telephone until I entered the
sixth grade. By then the chance to build social relationships had largely passed. Yet, the
location did have its advantages.
Initially, the house was minuscule, with four tiny rooms and a kitchen. It had no
indoor plumbing so obviously no bathroom. He had attempted to borrow the $4000
purchase price from his own father who was reasonably wealthy by the standards of the
day. Milas told him that he would think it over, but ultimately refused to make the loan.
This led him to approach A.K. Bragg where he readily secured the needed funds. Not
long after he had arranged the loan, his father contacted him and told him that he had
decided to let him have the money after all. He took great delight in telling him that he
didnt need it. My parents repaid the loan over a good many years on an annual basis.
When he made a payment, we went by to tell Mrs. Bragg so she would know the money
was available for her use.

We would have moved sooner than we did, but a family of renters named Marsh
occupied the house. They stalled with the claim that they couldnt find anywhere to
move. The truth was that they were living rent free and so had no motivation to move.
They should have paid rent to the new owners, but he didnt demand it. With increasing
pressure, he finally got them out.
My parents immediately began to improve the house and grounds. A full front
porch went in place of the small "doghouse" that had sheltered the door. The yard was
rough and sandy, but he had it graded and enriched so it would grow grass. The
crawlspace had been open, but my father had sandstone blocks placed to enclose it. With
landscaping, it became a neat little cottage. It was the best they could do with available
income and was as good or better than most people had at the time.
Water came from a bored well in the back yard and was drawn up with a windlass.
There was a small back porch which was made into a neat little den for me about the time
I entered high school. While still a porch, it had a shelf where buckets of water were kept.
We washed ourselves as best we could on the porch except in the coldest of weather.
Over the years the house was progressively improved as inside plumbing was added and
a bathroom installed off the formal dining room.
The well water was extremely unsatisfactory. A type of iron water called
"copperess water," it developed curds of orange aggregate on standing. It permanently
stained bathroom fixtures and couldnt be used to wash clothes. It had a rank taste and
smell. Public water didnt become available until about 1960 which was about fifteen
years after our move to the location.
Several years after we moved there, they did a general renovation. They added a
bedroom to the side. The tiny bedroom it replaced was included into the living room by
removal of a wall. At that time, the door from the living room into the formal dining
room was torn out along with most of the wall so that the living room and dining room
were continuous but in an "L" shape.
For some time, heated water came from a coal-burning stove in the kitchen that
had pipes of water within it. That stove also had a tin oven on the stovepipe which was
used to bake bread. That meant no hot water unless the stove was in use so you can
imagine how unsatisfactory that was.
There were two minor outbuildings. An outhouse far into the woods behind the
barn was used for a short time until water and a bathroom appeared. Closer behind the
house was a crude smokehouse which served for storage although it had only a dirt floor.
The barn had a hallway open at both ends, two side stalls to the right, a corn crib to the
left, two side rooms with a shed roof on the left (one open and one we used for a chicken
coop), and upstairs was the barn loft. Access to the barn loft was by climbing boards on
the right side of the barn hall since space between them would just barely admit toes. To
get all the way into the loft was risky, but I never fell.

The barn loft contained worthless junk, but over time Charlie Lawson and I
created sort of a playhouse on one side with cast off items of furniture and a few
decorations. We didnt actually play in it very much. To set it up was more fun than to use
it. We preferred more active, outside fun.
The floor boards in the corn crib were not nailed down so I eventually put a pair
of hinges on one of them to make a sort of trapdoor that led into the space underneath the
barn. It was better in theory than in practice and I didnt use it much. Underneath the barn
was dusty and dirty and had jars and cans scattered around all over the place. I had to
crawl to get outside the barn after exiting the crib through the trapdoor.
The corn crib was used only once for farming. That was when Curtis Gibson
rented the land and placed cotton inside. He put on a hasp and kept a padlock on the door.
It did little good. I knew how to get into the crib from above.
After that, it became a catch-all for junk. Since I often played in the crib, I knew
more about what it contained than did my parents. I overheard Mother discussing a
problem with my father. "I cant find my Social Security card anywhere. Guess Ill have
to try to get another one, but I dont know how to go about it."
I instantly recalled seeing it in a box in the corn crib. "I know where it is," I
volunteered. My father scoffed and said that I didnt know. I went immediately to the
barn and brought back the missing card. He exclaimed in surprise, "Well, he did know!"
Sims School, where my Father was principal, was only about a mile from the
house. It was a white, frame building which stood on concrete supports high above the
ground, especially at the rear. It had four classrooms plus a cafeteria with two cooks.
There was no plumbing. Crude outhouses were at the rear toward the creek. They could
have been found in complete darkness merely by following their odor. The rural
institution catered to a community of mostly extremely ignorant and backward people,
some of them actually named Sims.
Two events at that school stand out in my mind. As a result of his purchase of a
ticket for a drawing, my father won a small cedar chest filled with candy. The candy
wasnt very good, but its smell, combined with the cedar aroma, was intoxicating. I liked
to raise the lid and enjoy the pleasing aroma.
"It aint rite fer Mr. Camp t accept th prize," several people complained. "Thar
oughter b nother drawin." Some grumbled about that for months. The prize was worth
only a few dollars.
"I purchased a ticket and won it fair and square," he returned. "Theres no reason
to hold a second drawing."

On another occasion a student presented him with some gifts, including a quality
fountain pen. It turned out that she had stolen money and bought the items with part of
the loot. Her father came to our house agitated.
"Youve got t pay fer those things Ivy bought ye. I got t pay back thet money er
she goes t jail," he demanded.
I though he should have given the gifts to the man and let him deal with it, but he
sat right down and wrote out a check for the full amount the man claimed he owed.
Ironically, he wrote out the check with the gift fountain pen. Sometimes he let people
push him around outrageously. At other times he didnt give in when he should.
At that time, local trustees were in charge of schools. He soon ran afoul of them
because of their ignorant religious views. Burdo Buchanan, chairman of the trustees,
accused him of wrong conduct.
"Yeve been seed wurkin in yer garden on Sunday. Thets breakin th Sabbath.
Thets got t stop," the man asserted.
"Thats not any particle of your business, Burdo," my Father correctly, but
unwisely, retorted.
Sabbath observation had been a feature of the Law of Moses given only to the
nation of Israel. It had no force beyond the Jewish people. Even a superficial glance at a
calendar shows that Sunday is the first day of the week, not the seventh. The true Sabbath
is sundown Friday until sundown Saturday. The trustees had no understanding of such
basic Biblical truths. The conflict with the fundamentalist trustees resulted in him being
forced out of his job at the end of the year.
"Whats wrong that you cant get along with Burdo?" the superintendent of
schools joked. He knew full well how backward the trustees and community were and so
arranged for my father to have a teaching job in a better school for the following year.
Rarely, shocking things took place in our neighborhood. There was an ugly old
man in the community, Jake Gunnels. He was overweight, wrinkled, bald, dirty and
poorly dressed. He lived in a run-down shack about a mile from our home. Apparently
Jake molested a young girl in some way. Word of his actions spread quickly among the
children.
Later, on the day it happened, I my parents sat in their car with the windows
rolled up, talking. This was something they had never done before. It was a hot day, so
the temperature inside the car must have been stifling.
I went up to the car, rapped on a side window, and asked, "What you doing?
Talking about Jake?" They glanced at each other with surprised looks. "He already

knows," my mother said. They opened the car doors and got out and continued the
discussion in my presence. I got a good laugh out of it.
We had eight acres surrounding the house, a combination of woods and an open
field. The woods to the lower side of the house, up to the pasture fence, we called "the
grove." It became an outdoor recreation area for cooking barbecue, eating, or just
lounging. It boasted a picnic table, lawn furniture, and even a blue hammock swung
between two trees. Eventually, my father had electric lights and water hydrants installed.
The downside was unremitting mosquito attacks.
We often had guests, including J.P. and Myra Lee Ellenberg, Owen and Ramona
Light, and B.L. Martin who worked with the railroad during the week, but had his home
in Mississippi. Chunk and Edna Gardner and their son, who was my age, were occasional
guests. Chunk was a enormously obese man, virtual a "bale of cotton" with head, arms,
and legs. Mrs. Gardner taught at the same school as my Mother.
In addition to hamburger cooked on a portable grill, my father hit up on an
unusual way of cooking hot dogs. Over a bed of hot coals from hickory wood, we roasted
them inside a wire popcorn popper. Shaking the device kept them turned so that they
cooked quickly and evenly. Smoke from the hickory imparted a distinct taste. It was the
best way of preparing hot dogs that Ive ever seen. That type popper has gone out of use
and is no longer available.
Past the grove was a section of dense woods. The topography lent itself to putting
in an earthen dam to produce a pond. My father had that in mind when he bought the
place, but when he got serious about carrying it out, he found that the soil was unsuitable.
"Theres no way that soil will hold water. All youd get is a dam that leaks all the time,"
the builder informed him. "I cant recommend even trying."
He often talked about building a house on that part of the land, but it was only idle
dreaming. We couldnt have afforded it. "I want to make it is poured, reenforced cement,"
he said. "That way, itd stand up to anything."
Near the property line at the edge of those woods had been an impressive spring.
It arose from the ground and gave forth a small branch that ran the year around. Only a
few years before we moved there, a renter had deliberately dug ditches so as to have
erosion fill it up. He didnt like people coming there to get water. The only evidence of its
existence was a hog-wire fence that enclosed a depression that marked its location. The
spring had moved about a hundred feet onto the land of the next door neighbor.
My father wanted to get the spring flowing again, but it was so filled with sand
that it caved in when he tried to dig it out. He decided to try to locate the water at a point
between the spring and the grove. To that end, he arranged for the services of Mr. Hasty, a
noted "water witch" or dowser.

Water witches were commonly employed to locate veins of water before a well
was drilled. At that time, there was no public water supply in rural areas. Hasty cut a
forked limb of hickory and held one side in each hand. He walked about in the area until
he located a point where the improvised device suddenly turned downward.
"This is it," Hasty exclaimed. "See how it went down. I couldnt even hold it. It
even made a blister on my finger."
I didnt see any blister, but the adults somehow did. They were duly impressed
with the mans power.
At the place set by superstition, my father commenced a dug well. It became too
much for him alone, so he brought in workers. When they hit sandstone, the men even
used dynamite to get deeper. Only a trickle of water appeared in the deep pit. Hasty had
been wrong when he claimed there was a strong vein. Yet, water did seep into the
excavation. He wasnt totally discredited.
"You just didnt go deep enough," he claimed when my Father called him to
account for his error. "The waters there." Theres always an excuse to explain the failure
of rank superstition.
I cut a stick like Id seen him use. It quickly became obvious that, by a slight
change in the tension on the sides of the device, it could be made to appear that the tip of
the stick went downward of its own accord. The trickery couldnt be detected by an
observer. Any faker could be a water witch.
Failure of the dowser didnt stop my father from using another one some years
later to determine the best location for a new drilled well. The man used a silver dollar
suspended by a string. Father indicated the general location where he wanted the well.
The man walked back and forth with the coin dangling from a string. Sure enough, the
dowser determined that to be the best possible place. What a happy coincidence, or was
it? The water witch went away with a few dollars in his pocket. That time, after going
quite deep, they found water. Water is in the ground most places, so it should have been
expected.
Over the years, we used the dug well as a place to dump trash from the house. At
length, it was filled up. A dig there might reveal some interesting artifacts.
What was called a "wet weather branch" flowed parallel to the fence a few
months in the year. I enjoyed using a hoe to build small dams on it. It was possible to
create a small pond of back water that endured a few days before the running water
eroded it. Often, I let the pond form and abruptly dug a break in the dam myself. That
created a wall of water which I considered a flood and chased alongside of, down the
branch, until it dissipated.

After several years, a small spring appeared of its own accord at the base of a hill
at the south edge of the woods. It produced a feeble branch that soaked into the ground
after running a short distance. That would have been the place to dig to restore the former
abundant spring, but by that time my father had lost interest in the project. My feeble
attempts to enhance the water flow met with little success.
Near that spring were two large boulders that were flat on top and had a space
about a foot wide between them. My father had spotted them before the land purchase
and had plans for their development. "Im going to make them into a barbeque pit," he
asserted. That would have been possible with a bit of work and would have cost little or
nothing. Somehow, he never carried through on his intentions, although he continued to
mention the possibility from time-to-time. It was a bit too far from the house to be
practical for that use.
Near those boulders, in a bed of green moss, I once buried a "time capsule," but
the metal box has, no doubt, long ago disintegrated. A few years afterward, I made an
attempt to locate it, but couldnt find it. What was in it eludes me. It was nothing but a
childish notion.
The worst feature of that piece of land was the presence of poles and high power
lines which ran from the TVA dam at Guntersville. They owned the right-of-way to a
wide swatch of land which bisected the property. Nothing could be built on the right-ofway and TVA technically had the right to destroy any vegetation on it. Only once did they
exercise that right by spraying noxious chemicals and cutting a few limbs. They never
bothered the garden and fruit trees my father illegally planted under the electric lines.
Periodically, TVA personnel flew quite low along the lines for inspection. That
provided a bit of excitement. Whoever heard it first shouted, "Helicopter!" Everyone ran
outside to watch it pass.
South of the right-of-way and at the back of our property was an area of trees that
we called "the upper woods." I often went there for solitude. It wasnt visible from the
house and there were no other houses in sight. Beyond it lay a cultivated field. The only
intruder on my privacy was the occasional appearance of Mrs. Gilleys adult son who was
semiretarded. He lived a couple of miles from her. Since he had no car, he had to walk
everywhere he went. The shortest route from his house to hers was just outside our fence
along the edge of the upper woods. He never said anything, only threw up his hand in the
country style of greeting, and kept walking. I didnt object to his passing. I often day
dreamed that Id someday build a house there so I could be close to my parents, but
maintain some privacy. As limbs fell from the trees, I tried to keep them cleaned up so the
woods would look nice. I also made some attempts to keep down undergrowth, but that
was a losing proposition. Sticky blackberry vines and saw briars invaded the area to the
extent that it was hard to get around. I managed to keep a narrow trail cut so I could reach
the woods and then return along the side fence.

In distant sight of the upper woods was what I called "the pine grove." It was a
triangular group of pine trees located on the neighbors property. In those days,
youngsters were granted a natural right to walk and play where they chose without fear of
being accused of trespass. I often went to the pine grove, usually with other boys, but
sometimes alone. There was nothing special about it except the thick layer of pine
needles that carpeted the ground. Pines were rare in that part of Marshall County.
The open part of our property lay uphill from the house and upper woods. It had,
over the years, been used for farming so terraces had been laid out to prevent erosion.
There were spots where it was possible, especially during winter, to see Guntersville in
the valley and portions of the lake. The only building I could identify with certainty was
the old Guntersville High School. As trees grew taller across the street, that view
progressively diminished and finally disappeared entirely.
"I should plant pines on that spot, but it would take so long for them to grow that I
wouldnt live to see it," my father often said. In the following years, several pines
appeared from seed on their own. Before my parents sold the place to move to
Russellville, they had grown to substantial trees. He hadnt realized how quickly time
passes. The entire hill could have been covered with trees which would have added
substantially to the value of the property.
My father didnt try to farm the field, but rented it to Curtis Gibson for a time.
The man had other land that he also farmed, so he could easily cultivate a few more
acres. After my fathers abortive attempt to become a hog raiser, he converted the field to
pasture. Following failure of the hog operation, it was used for grazing for a cow and
calf. Ultimately, relocation of the road took a big portion of the "upper pasture" as we
came to call it.
Curtis was, at best, a man of questionable moral character. In addition to farming,
Curtis was the local bootlegger. We often watched people drive up to his house to buy
whiskey. He kept his extra stock hidden in the woods behind his house. Charlie Lawson
and I often watched him go down there and disappear for a short time. Out he would
come carrying bottles of white lightning. We tried over and over to find his cache but
were never able to locate it.
Bootlegging was an illegal, but common occupation. Once when I was playing at
the edge of our driveway, a man pulled up in a car and rolled down his window.
"Do you know where I can buy something stronger than coffee?" he inquired. I pointed
out the bootlegger house and off he went. That he would feel free to approach a child
with that question illustrates how lax enforcement of "dry" laws was at the time. In
addition to the sale of liquor by individuals, a few businesses did the same thing all but
openly. I knew about only two.
Down the "old road" leading into Guntersville were two big bootlegger
operations. The first one was called "Eulas Place." It was a white block building.

"Its got a secret room in the basement where she hides her stuff," one of her patrons
claimed. "Ive seen it."
After the place closed, James Camp, my poorest and most ignorant cousin, lived
there for a time. After it became abandoned, my father and I explored it and actually
discovered the secret room. It was located behind the false back of a cabinet. Eula lived a
long time after her establishment closed, into her nineties. She was, at that advanced age,
murdered at her home in Guntersville. As far as I know, the case was never solved.
The other location was unofficially called the "Bloody Bucket" because it had
seen so many stabbings and shootings. The violence was fueled by illegal liquor and
gambling. The county sheriff was said to be bought off by the operators. I dont know if
that was true or not. The Bloody Bucket was where the VFW Hall is now stands.
On one occasion, when forty-year old Zeke Boyles was sheriff, something
extraordinary happened that shook the entire county. The sheriff and his wife had been
friends of my parents, but they had drifted apart over the years. "Look at this," my father
exclaimed with alarm when he picked up the Birmingham News. "Zeke Boyles has been
killed."
The reporter detailed a shooting that had taken place at the home of a reputed
bootlegger named Kilpatrick. The sheriff, another officer, and Kilpatrick lay dead when
the gunfire ceased. Widely rumored in the county was that Zeke had been taking bribes
from Kilpatrick, but decided to go up on the charge. Those who thought that they knew,
claimed that he went to the mans house to collect his graft. Kilpatricks teenage son
actually shot the sheriff so he went to prison for years.
In later years, Delorise rented a room in Mrs. Boyles house near the City School
in Guntersville. Mrs. Boyles died while visiting children in Florida. That resulted in her
being forced to find another place to live.
Father was not one to get involved in "get rich quick" schemes, but he got
involved in hog-raising at an unfortunate time. Hog prices had peaked. People who raised
hogs were making big money. He fenced all but the area immediately around the house
with hogwire, bought a pregnant Hampshire sow, and went into the pig rearing business
as a sideline.
Murphys Law came into play. The bottom dropped out of the pig market, the sow
broke down in her hindquarters, and some of her piglets died at birth. They could ill
afford the money they lost on the undertaking.
The hogs were as attractive as such beasts can be. Hampshires are black with a
white belt around the shoulders. It allowed me to see an animal born. When the time
came, I climbed up into the barn loft and watched as the sow brought forth one piglet
after another. I knew the origin of both human and animal young, but seeing it for myself
was fascinating.

The other farm animal that we had was a single cow. She had quit giving milk. To
renew the supply, she must have a calf. When grown, the calf could be sold. The problem
was that we had no bull. A bull was a liability except for the rare occasions when he was
needed. Only a farmer with a large herd could justify keeping one full-time.
"When I was a boy," my father related, "people used to take their cows to a
neighbor who had a bull. The last time I remember seeing that, an old man brought his
cow over to be serviced. He was terribly put out when he found that only the neighbors
wife was home. He didnt want to tell her what he had in mind. But, at the same time, he
hated to waste the long walk leading the cow. It was a comical situation. He sputtered and
stomped around a while before he finally left. She knew exactly what was up, but acted
ignorant to have some fun at his expense."
By the time we needed the services of a bull, a new technology had become
available. It was from that same perch in the loft that I saw artificial insemination
performed. The vet came with a packet of materials. After he pulled on a shoulder-length
rubber glove, he inserted bull sperm. The procedure was a success in so far as we were
concerned. A calf appeared at the appointed time. What the cow thought about it I can
only speculate.
Following the debacle with pigs, Mother milked the cow until her hands gave so
much trouble that she had to stop. They sold the cow. The expensive fence gradually fell
into disrepair. It was never used again. My father could have taken over the milking, but
didnt. I dont know why. Whatever bad could be said about him, he wasnt lazy. He
worked at an outside job most of the time. Mornings, evenings, and weekends he labored
in the yard and garden.
His extreme view of work was the source of considerable conflict between us.
Beginning with I was about ten years old, he wanted me to work just as hard and long as
he did. I usually refused.
"It makes your father so mad because you dont help him. Why not get out there
with him today?" my mother urged.
"I might if there would be any end to it," I argued. "If I do anything, hell expect
even more the next day. Its be all Id ever do." She knew that I was right.
I think of Delorises mothers saying, "The more you do, the more they expect and
the less they think of you." My situation was an excellent illustration of the truthfulness
of her adage.
But another factor was involved. I was lazy. Yard and garden work is hot, dirty,
and difficult. I tried to justify my aversion to hard labor because of almost continual
problems with allergy. I lay awake at night, day after day, barely able to breathe. Rather
than rested, I was exhausted when it was time to get up. But mainly I was lazy. It was

only after getting into teenage years, that I helped with housework, mowed the yard, did
limited work in the garden, and kept the car clean.
My father and I continued to have bitter conflicts. Here comes some more
whining. Many people think their father didnt "understand them" or that he was "mean."
I have strong evidence that mine was usually emotionally abusive, occasionally
physically abusive, and otherwise far different from what he appeared to casual
acquaintances.
To this day, I cant understand why he held me in such low esteem then and
continued to do so even in my adult years. Perhaps it was initially because I didnt work
outside like he wanted.
Although I never gave them trouble of any kind, he continually reviled me as if I
were the worst kid in the world. My mother knew about most of it, but did nothing to stop
him. I learned years later that she was extremely afraid of him. It would be easy to say
that she should have intervened, but I have come to terms with her failure to defend me.
She did about the best she could.
On two occasions, my "sins" became utterly gross in his eyes. He sat me down
with my mother and made a proposal. "I want you to start life over again beginning
today" he instructed. "Well forget about everything you have done in the past." It was
clear that I had no choice but to agree to the insulting and hurtful proposal.
In the days following those two "rebirths," he repeatedly spoke of my "new
birthday." He asked such questions as, "How does it feel to be three days old."
I tried to go along with that nonsense, but was actually extremely hurt by it. I knew full
well that I wasnt that bad. Both times I fell from grace within a short time and returned
to being, in his eyes, a worthless scoundrel.
It got worse than that. For years, he frequently threatened to send me "to reform
school." That was fate that befell only the worst of boys who had committed criminal
acts. I was horrified and frightened. After a time, my mother pulled me aside to provide
confidential information. "Youd better start doing what your father wants. Hes really
getting ready to have you put in reform school. Hell do it and I cant stop him."
In those days it actually was possible to have a boy committed to reform school.
There was no trial, just a judges order at the urging of the parent. In a similar way, adults
could be forced into insane asylums by a family member who could get a doctor to certify
mental illness. To place me into a criminal institution was within his power. He seemed
intent on having it done. This was the beginning of my resentment of him changing into
hatred.
I never knew why he didnt follow through on his nefarious plan. I suspect that he
made the attempt, but wasnt able to pull it off. It could be that my mother finally stood
up to him. I asked her about it in the 1990s, but she wouldnt discuss it. After that, he quit

saying anything about "reform school," which adds to my feeling that he had learned that
it wasnt quite as easy as he had expected. Of course, its possible he was merely bluffing
all along. I wish I knew.
I had planned to run away rather than be sent off, but it isnt likely I could have
gotten far at that age. I didnt develop a workable plan and would have just started out
and hoped for the best. Fortunately, it never came to that.
After dropping the idea of reform school, he commenced continually describing
me as a "moocher" who was "sponging off of him." This was when I was when I was
about 13 years old. I took that, with deep resentment, for a long time.
I vividly recall the day when I finally got my fill. We were in the front yard when
he came out with his usual two descriptive terms for me. "If you ever say that to me
again, Ill leave and youll never see me again," I blustered. I fully meant it, but dont
know how, or if, I would have been able to carry it out. I had in mind to walk toward
Guntersville and work it out from there. If he had not backed down, I would have left that
very day. I recognized that it would ruin my life, but he had pushed me so far that I didnt
care. I gladly would have stolen or done anything I had to do to get away from him.
A look of shock came onto his face when I stood up to him. He may have
continued to view me as a moocher and sponger, but if so, he didnt say it. Many years
later, after they moved to Russellville, I asked him why he had done me that way and he
didnt offer one word in explanation.
Its something I still wish I could understand, but it will never be. Perhaps he
didnt know himself. He came from an extremely dysfunctional family. Its hard to rise
above ones upbringing.
There were a number of boys in the general neighborhood, so I wasnt without
associates my age. Yet, they werent the ones I knew in school. My best friend was
Charlie Lawson who lived diagonally across the road. Since we didnt have phones, we
worked out a series of hand signals so we could communicate at a distance. I still
remember some of them. Arm upward and index finger circling meant "Ill ask if I can
come over." The same signal ending with the index finger pointed at the other boy meant
"You ask if you can come over." Arm at waist level and swung from side to side meant
"Meet halfway." Arm extended upward and fist repeatedly clinched and unclinched
signified "I cant."
Charlies father was Woodrow Wilson Lawson. A reformed drunk, he was a goodhearted person, but was dominated by his wife. He left Charlies upbringing to her. His
role was family provider. A worker at the Goodyear plant in Gadsden, he was, thanks to a
strong union, paid far beyond his actual worth. Despite her best efforts, Mary was unable
to force him to attend her holiness church. He disapproved of its doctrines and practices,
but seldom expressed those views in her presence. She "wore the pants" in the family in
the worst sense of that expression.

Charlies mother, Mary Lawson, was a strange person physically and mentally.
She was little taller than a dwarf and almost as wide as she was tall. Hair was perpetually
in a tight bun at the back of her head. She never wore jewelry or makeup. Born into a
fundamentalist holiness church, she rejected medical care. Among the tenets of her faith
was the handling of serpents. Since that dangerous practice had been outlawed in church
buildings, the group sometimes held the sessions in individual homes of its members. We
learned how to know when that was taking place.
"Never go to Charlies house when there are a bunch of cars parked in the yard,"
my mother sternly ordered. "Theyre handling snakes and I dont want you anywhere
around a mess like that." The warning was unnecessary.
The biggest problem Mary made for Charlie and me revolved around his young
sister, Laura. His mother viewed him as her babysitter. "Tend t thet younun," she
commanded sharply most times when he wanted to have fun. That put a crimp in what we
could do. Tending her had to be done in his yard or mine.
There were other times when we were free of Laura, especially as she grew older.
We were then able to roam the countryside as long as we didnt go down the side of the
mountain. That was strictly forbidden for Charlie. We lived near the brow of Sand
Mountain. The valley and Lake Guntersville lay in enticing view. I wanted to walk down
there and explore, but not alone.
"Lets go anyway. Theyll never know," I urged many times.
"I cant do that," was his one response. Charlie wouldnt violate what was, for
him, the Prime Directive. We never went down the side of the mountain.
Following instructions from my father, I had made a "dumb bull" from a string,
beeswax and a syrup bucket. When pulled slowly, the device emits the most horrible
sound. One night Charlie and I crept up on the hill above the house. The neighbors across
the street had gone to bed. We began to pull on the dumb bull. The frightening sound
resulted in lights flashing on in all the residences.
"We better get out of here. They might shoot," Charlie urged. I agreed. We beat a
hasty retreat.
The next day, Ruth Bonds told my mother, "There may be something wrong with
your cow. We had a lot of moaning last night. Alvin was about to check on it when it
suddenly stopped." Mother knew the true story. I had told her. She didnt give us away,
but cautioned us not to do it again. She tried to keep a straight face, but I knew she
wanted to laugh.
For some time, I was at a disadvantage in one important way. I was the only boy
in the neighborhood who didnt have a bicycle. Without one, I wasnt able to keep up

with the others. That caused me to miss out on adventures. I wanted a bicycle, but never
asked for one.
I almost never asked for anything. I can recall only one time, when I was in the
seventh grade, that I actually asked my father for something. It wasnt necessary. My
mother would give me the small amount I needed. He and I had, however, been getting
along better than usual for several weeks so I felt free to ask him.
"I need four dollars. We have just this week only to pay for the school annual. If
not, we dont get one," I explained.
"Well, thats just too bad. We dont have money to spend like that," he responded
indignantly. I should have expected it, but didnt. I handed him the opportunity to
embarrass me and he took it.
"Always keep your guard up," I silently reminded myself. "Never relax around
him." From that point onward I made sure not to ask him for anything. There was always
money for him to buy cigarettes and whiskey, but not for things I might want beyond
basic necessities. However, I never lacked for food or clothing. My mother saw to it that I
was supplied with pocket money, but Im sure he didnt know it.
The only time I really recall him giving me pocket money when I was a child, in
anything other than a grudging way, was when we walked to the car to drive to a carnival
that had set up in Guntersville.
"Heres some money for you to spend," he said. To my amazement he gave me a
dollar bill. That was a generous amount for a kid at that time. I hadnt planned on
spending anything. It would be enough to walk around and see the sights of the carnival. I
thought I was rich.
"I know youll just lose it, but I want you to have a good time."
I think he really meant it. Sometimes he could be quite nice. Instead of losing the
money, I won a number of prizes that were worth well in excess of the dollar, including a
pack of cigarettes for him. He was actually pleased at how well I had done. Even that
faint praise made me feel good. I wanted his approval.
The problem of the bicycle was resolved in a totally unexpected way. My
grandparents from Fayetteville came for a visit. "Weve got you something," my
grandmother beamed. "Look in the cardboard box in the trunk." To my astonishment,
they had bought me a large red bicycle. It was totally unexpected, but certainly welcome.
I could hardly wait to try it out.
My mother barely controlled her irritation. "I told you I didnt want him to have
one of those," she muttered. "He might get hurt."

That was so unlike her, but I didnt let it diminish my joy in the fine gift. I never
had a serious bike accident. It was a basic bicycle at a time when bikes, unlike those
currently popular, usually had numerous accessories. Just the same, I was delighted with
it. As I could afford it, I added accessories. The horn was a red, dual one with a black
bulb, the headlight white and battery operated, and the basket large. Multicolored strips
hung from each of the handlebar grips and a rearview mirror stood on the right handlebar.
A black mud flap with reflectors, a kick stand, and a speedometer completed the
equipment. My bike was then as nice as anybodys. I was so proud of it and always
careful not to damage it.
I had an unusually hard time learning to ride. It was up to me to do it or not. My
mother would have helped me, but she didnt know how since she had no bike as a child.
No matter how much I tried, I went only a few feet and fell over. I took me a long time to
comprehend that I had to pedal continuously until I built up speed. Why it took me so
long to learn that basic principle still eludes me. I desperately needed some help. "Keep
pedaling" would have done the job nicely. Nobody said it.
When I mastered the bike, I sometimes placed our white dog, Raggs, into the
basket and rode him around. He surely seemed to enjoy it and never tried to jump out.
I kept that bicycle in good shape over the years and even took it to Columbus, Georgia
when I was in my early twenties. I rode it around in the neighborhood and in Wildwood
Park for exercise. Eventually, I got tired of it and gave it to a boy in the Columbus
Congregation. He and his older brother lived with their elderly grandmother in a poor
part of town. I was the only way he could have a bike. I was tempted to retain it as a
keepsake, but his need was more important.
There was only one girl in our neighborhood at the top of the mountain who was
my age. I used to go around with her a good bit as playmates. She had long dark hair and
dark skin. She lived in a deplorable house next to our place. I cant recall her name with
certainty, but it may have been Shirley. Her grandmother, who was bringing her up, was
Etta Jolley. We later referred to that house next door to us as "Ettas shack" and it was
indeed a poor residence, the worst in the entire area.
My mother rightly got concerned about me associating with Shirley. "I dont think
you should go places with her," she advised. "People like that are dangerous. Theres no
telling what some of her people might say."
She was correct and she did what she should have. I had no business being close
with her. After a few days I didnt miss her anymore. I was near the upward end of the
age when boys played more with boys.
For the first several years at Mountain View, we sat in the yard at night and talked
when the weather permitted. I really liked that even if mosquitoes were a pest. When I
was in the seventh grade, television entered our lives. That changed everything. The set
was a Motorola, black and white, seventeen inch table model on tall wooden legs. We got

only two channels: WBRC channel six and the other Birmingham station on channel
thirteen.
From the day that the television entered the house, our family life stopped. My
father watched it from the time it came on the air in the early mornings until it signed off
at night about midnight. In that day stations didnt stay on air all the time. This slavish
devotion to television, especially televised sports, continued throughout the rest of his
life.
The house was quite small at that time. For years he played the TV very loud
which prevented me from getting to sleep. The next morning he got up by 4:00 a.m. to
start the day. The TV stations werent on that early so he started with the radio.
Each morning, he made a specific point of waking me up as soon as he got up. There was
no need for any of us to get up that early. It was what he had grown up with on the farm
and he was determined to continue it.
"I told you to get up," he stormed.
When I opened my eyes, there he stood with a glass of water in his hand. I knew
what was coming. He poured it directly into my face. This was after I had had only a few
hours of sleep and was exhausted. How he could justify that is beyond me. In fairness, I
must add that he didnt do that every day, but plenty often enough.
My fathers discipline was harsh, but seldom swift. Whenever I displeased him
sufficiently, he would, sometime within the next several hours, whip me either with a
large switch or more often with his belt. I truly think he enjoyed making me dread for
hours what I knew was coming. By the time he got around to it, I had sometimes
forgotten what crime I had committed.
To be candid, I probably needed punishment most of the time. What I resented
was that he didnt have judgment enough to know when to stop. I truly think he took a
perverse pleasure in making me suffer. He would whip me on and on. I tried not to cry,
but he kept it up until I did. He wouldnt stop even then. By todays standards, such
treatment would be deemed child abuse.
His unreasonableness and cruelty served to intensify my feelings of revulsion
toward him. However, I told him only one time that I hated him, when I was about ten
years old. Really, I didnt entirely mean it. It was just one of those stupid things a child
says. But if I could somehow relive that day, I wouldnt tell him that.
As soon as I said it, I wished I hadnt. I was mad and struck out at him in the only
way I knew how. I realized instantly that I had hurt him. I wanted to apologize, but he
made it impossible by his response.
"Words, once spoken, can never be recalled," he said yet another time. It was one
of his favorite sayings. Now that I had said it, the words couldnt be taken back so, in

effect, I was condemned for all time. The sentence was out of my mouth and thus
irrevocable. No apology could change anything. Ive often wondered about the source of
that cruel and unforgiving philosophy. I doubt that he came up with it on his own.
As far as the "birds and bees" are concerned, my education in sexual matters left
much to be desired, although my father did try. Considering his background, he did the
best he could. What he knew as a child and teenager, he had learned "in the gutter." There
was no other source available to him. The Granny Room: A Story of a Southern Family
details his own education about sex.
From before five years old, he plainly told me how and from where babies came
into existence. It was far more than I needed to know or could deal with at that age. He
said that a male was always tempted to have sex with a female, but if he lost the control
of it, he had to go to jail. That puzzled me since I naturally felt no such sexual impulses.
From that single discussion, I got the idea that married people only had sex when they
wanted a baby. A baby always resulted, I concluded. By counting the number of children
a couple it was possible to determine how many times they had sex. After I picked that
idea up at the Goodwin house, believed it for years until I learned better from
neighborhood boys.
Much that he told me in later years was inaccurate. Things I really did need to
know he didnt discuss. I excuse him for his inadequacies in sex education since there is
no doubt that his own father totally failed in his responsibility to teach him. My father
made the attempt, however bungling and adequate it may have been.
There was no discussion of contraception. One time which I was in the early
teens, I found a condom in their bedside table. It was enclosed in gold foil and looked to
me like it contained a flat piece of chocolate candy. I brought it into the room where they
were, intending to unwrap and eat it. I held it up and said, "See what I found."
"Look what hes got," my mother exclaimed. I didnt know what the big deal was
about a piece of candy. Mother said, "You know what its for, dont you?" I didnt, but the
question and its tone told me it wasnt candy. As soon as I could, I slipped it back into the
drawer. It was still some years before I learned of the nature and use of condoms from my
pal, Charlie.
My fathers one and only description of marriage was that it was "legalized
prostitution." He said that over and over for years. He uttered not a single favorable
comment about marriage or women in general. It was obvious that he had little respect
for women.
During my early teens, I began to notice that he read sex magazines. It may have
been that he had been doing it all along and their nature went past me. When I
comprehended what they were, I asked him, "Why do you read stuff like that?"
His reply was "You can never learn enough about your sex life."

The magazines were pure filth, not educational. I know. I looked them over quite
carefully. He continued to lay them around in plain sight for several months. I suspect
that my mother put an end to them. I overheard them angrily discussing the pornography
only one time. It was unmistakable that my mother was outraged. I feel it inappropriate to
detail what she said, although I recall it vividly. They didnt know I heard them as they
debated the issue. The magazines disappeared. She prevailed that time.
I think he has always had a low opinion of women. They are "things" that exist for
his sexual gratification. To exploit them is perfectly acceptable. Many events that took
place later back up that conclusion, but Ill describe them later.
When I started college, my father sternly informed me several times, "If you get
married, I wont pay another dime on your college. Youll be on your own."
He could have saved his hateful words. I had never had a serious girlfriend and
had no intention of marrying that young. Each time he made the threat, he accompanied it
with his evaluation of marriage as "legalized prostitution." I got so tired of hearing that.
Most times he said it in the immediate presence of Mother. Each time I wondered if that
was the way he viewed his own marriage. She never said a word, then or privately to
correct his distorted views.
During my childhood days at Mountain View, I had a fair number of toys. Its
been so long that I have, no doubt, forgotten many of them. The following are the ones I
especially liked.
I got my first rings when I was in the third grade. From an advertisement on the
side of a cereal box, I ordered two inexpensive rings. In addition to the money (less than
a dollar I think), I had to send in a certain number of boxtops of that brand. One ring was
brass colored and snapped open to reveal a magnifying glass which could be pulled to the
side to look at things. The other was silver colored and had a compass inset. I wore them
until the magnifying glass broke off and the compass fell out. They were cheaply made.
In junior high school I discovered the second ring in a drawer and placed a fake pearl
where the compass had been. It looked surprisingly expensive and I got many comments
on my nice ring. The pearl was held in place with modeling clay, but nobody knew. I
wore it for a couple of years even if it was adjustable on the back. I was the only one who
could tell how cheap it really was. I was proud of it and enjoyed having it all over again.
Another toy I ordered from a cereal box was a yellow plastic car with a magnet
glued inside the top. A curved piece of plastic, designed to be hidden on the palm side of
the hand, also had a magnet. Because alike poles repelled, when I held my hand in the air
over the car it would "magically" begin to roll. As long as I continued to follow it with
my hand, it kept going. I thought it was great.
I had a collection of plastic toy cars of various colors. They were about two inches
long. Most of them were Fords. At that time, such cars cost ten cents each. When we went
to North Town and parked near the new dime store, I often found an additional one or

two to add to my growing set. My father never made the slightest objection to my getting
them.
A metal car about ten inches long was one my best toys. It was a gift from my
parents. It was yellow with a shiny metal top. I played with it for a couple of years before
making a marvelous discovery. If I pressed on the back on the top, it swung down out of
sight so that the car became a convertible. I was totally thrilled. I rushed into the house to
show the feature to my parents with the idea that they would be pleased that their gift was
even nicer than they knew. They acted like it was nothing. I didnt let their indifference
bother me very much. I could hardly believe that it had been designed to do that and I had
learned it only by accident.
I had a toy size wind-up tractor with rubber treads. It moved nicely across the
yard or in the house and even climbed over small obstacles. A few times I got on top of
the house and watched it ascend nearly to the peak before the spring needed rewinding.
As far as I know, battery powered toys didnt exist at that time.
When I got interested in stilts, my father made me a set out of small trees from the
woods. Not aware of how they should be constructed, he nailed a wood block to the side
of each stick. That was the wrong way to make them. There was no way I could have
walked on them. I didnt realize they werent built right and thought it was just my own
ineptitude when I couldnt stay upright. Years later I made a set of stilts for Maria, but
made them correctly so that she was able to walk on them from the first day.
I even had a plastic doll that I named "Nancy." I cant imagine where it came
from. It was thin plastic and hollow inside. The feet were broken off. I made it a crude
dress from a scrap of green and white cloth. The hairdo was one that had been popular in
the 1930s, so it may have been old.
Aunt Mamie gave me a metal hoop and metal stick to roll it with, but I didnt use
it much. Our yard was so irregular that it fell over constantly. I was glad to have it was a
toy used by children in Grandfather Camps family. I dont know what became of it.
My father seldom bought me any plaything. One time he purchased a basketball
goal and nailed it to the front of the smokehouse. It was too small and extremely cheaply
made. It bent down each time I tried to throw the undersize basketball through it. I tried
to play with it anyway since he had given it to me and I didnt want to appear
unappreciative. The remains of that hoop were still on the smokehouse when we sold the
house in the mid 1980s. It would be interesting to know if its still there.
I played with a stuffed red "hen" made of cloth. A stereoscopic viewer with
circular disks of pictures provided three-dimensional views. I had an air rifle (BB gun)
that I played with a lot and a pair of binoculars that were cheaply made, but actually were
a fairly good instrument.

I owned an inside tent. The tent was a gift from my parents and was set up in my
bedroom, mounted on 2 by 4 boards. It was big enough to get into easily and I could
almost stand upright in the center. It had a canopy, supported by poles, that extended over
the door, but there was no way to close the entrance. I thought it was marvelous.
One thing I really liked wasnt designed as a toy. It was a cardboard box. The
heavy box had contained a new refrigerator. I claimed the box and kept it outside in the
woods and played with it for months. The box was waxy and strong enough that I cut
windows and a door and left them attached along one side. That allowed them to be
opened and closed. It withstood rain for a long time, but finally smelled too much like
wet paper to continue to use.
I surely other toys, but right now I cant enumerate them. I kept the best of them
for years in a chest in my room. They were still there after I finished college. Eventually,
they disappeared without warning. Obviously, they had been thrown away along with my
collection of comic books. Jitter managed to escape.
I had intended to keep them all, but didnt get that chance except for the tricycle
which was too large to easily discard. When I went to look for them, they were gone.
Questions as to their whereabouts were ignored. I have a good idea who was behind it,
but cant be sure. It was my own fault. I had plenty of opportunity to take them.
We had only a few dogs over the years. The first one was a mainly black dog
named, not surprisingly, Nigg. It was many years after the dogs death that I suddenly
comprehended the racist thinking behind that name. Nigg didnt like me. He growled and
snapped at me if I tried to play with him. He was my fathers dog.
Still, I regarded him as the family dog and was concerned for him in that respect.
He had the custom to sleep on top of a sack of feed on the front porch. The canine came
up missing. My parents let me call and whistle for that dog for weeks without telling me
that he had been killed by a car. In fact, it was years later before I found out what
happened to him. I didnt care much about that dog and wouldnt have been upset to
know of his death. There was no reason to hide the truth.
On the other hand, my father was highly upset at Niggs death. According to my
mother, he even went a couple of times to the place he had thrown him in the wood near
the lake at Guntersville to look at him.
The next dog was Raggs, a white dog who was a mix of Spitz and Cocker Spaniel.
He was given to me as a tiny puppy by Faye Gibson, daughter of the local bootlegger. He
was a great family dog who liked all of us as much as we liked him. He lived underneath
the house and came out to greet us anytime he heard our steps on the front or back
porches. When I rambled in the woods, he always went with me.
Raggs liked to ride in the car and especially to ride with his head and front feet
stuck out the window. Once, on a rural road near the Reed farm, there was a sharp turn.

Raggs plunged from the car and onto the roadway. We stopped immediately and opened
the door. The dog sneezed a couple of times, shook his head, and ran to the car and
jumped inside. To our relief, he wasnt injured.
The only trick we taught him was to sit up. He would do it anytime we asked until
he got so feeble he fell over when he attempted it. We no longer asked him to do it after
that.
Raggs, like all unneutered male dogs, went off periodically to seek a lady friend.
On one of those excursions, he got badly mauled by other dogs. He was never quite the
same, even though he lived for several more years. Looking back, I can see that he also
had heart worms since he showed the classical symptoms of deep coughing and dry
gagging. Nobody heard about those worms at the time. Raggs lived well into my college
years and overlapped our final dog, Buster. Raggs was killed over on Highway 431 and is
buried to the right of where the lower drive goes out into the road.
The third and last dog was a pure Chihuahua that I bought for $45 from breeders
on Buck Island. I used money given to me by my grandparents. The breeders had a young
male and female who were brother and sister. We registered him with the American
Kennel Club. I still have his registration papers. His official name was "Camps
Hrothgar," but we called him Buster.
He liked the three of us, but nobody else. Of course, he was an inside dog. When
outside, if he found anything rotten in the yard, he lay on it and rubbed on it. We never
did understand why he wanted to do that. He was just being a dog.
Because he didnt walk on the ground much, it was necessary to trim his toenails
with clippers. His nails were clear so I could tell just how far to go. I was the only one
who could do it without hurting him. My parents didnt understand about the sensitive
part. He yelped in pain when they attempted the trim. The dog wanted his nails done
since, when they got long, they interfered with him walking. Buster rested on his back in
my lap and blinked his eyes while I did his pedicure. He knew exactly when the job was
complete and got up without being prompted.
We had a lot of fun with him, but the necessity to take him on trips was a
nuisance. His presence limited where we could eat and stay since we had to find a park in
the shade at restaurants and then find a hotel that would accept dogs. That became an
increasingly severe problem as more and more hotels refused pets. The animal seemed to
truly love to travel.
We bred him only twice. There was never any word on the outcome of the first
mating. The second time it produced puppies with Carl and Jeans dog although I never
saw any of them. One might think that a dog knows "by instinct" how to mate, but he
didnt. Buster became sexually aroused, but always tried to mount the female from the
side. Only if I shoved him into place and held him there was he was able to perform. He
knew what was expected, but not how to go about it.

My father regularly fed him Tootsie Rolls whose chocolate content was bad for
him, but we didnt realize the danger. While we were in Cherokee, North Carolina at the
Pink Motel, he had an apparent heart attack, but survived. Later he had a stroke while my
parents visited at Russellville. It left him partly paralyzed. He could still get around on
his own and lived for years after that.
In his old age, he made a practice of urinating on the bottom of Mothers
expensive drapes, but they tolerated it and sold the house with the drapes in that
condition.
Buster died shortly after Delorise moved in with my parents a couple of weeks
before we got married. He didnt like her and growled angrily anytime she came around.
Ive always heard that a dog is a good judge of character. But seriously, he didnt like
anybody outside the family. Buster is buried in the semicircle between the drive and road
at Mountain View. A brick was placed to mark the spot. After my parents sold the
homeplace, the new owners kept a single artificial flower on his grave.
Neither Delorise nor I have wanted a dog and were relieved that Maria didnt
either. If, however, she had asked for one, I would have gotten it. She had a good time
playing with Mamie and Bingo, dogs who belonged to neighbors. That was ideal. We
could have a dog when we wanted it without having to bear any responsibility for care
and upkeep. Mamie was put to death by her owners for no good reason. Bingo was killed
by high school students during an act of vandalism against Coach Coxs house.
During the years that I lived at Mountain View, we had more snow than we do
now. On multiple occasions, we experienced accumulations of eleven inches. That depth
was just right to be spectacular, yet not enough to cause roof collapse.
Whenever the snow was moist enough, I built a snowman. The largest ever was at
the side of the house. The snow was of just the right consistency to stick together well. I
rolled the bottom ball until it became huge. When I added the second ball and then the
head, it was taller than I. On a whim, I modified it to make it a snow woman with huge
breasts. Everybody makes a snowman, so I decided to be different. It lasted far beyond
the disappearance of the general snowfall.
The weather forecasters were not as accurate then as they are now. Some snows
made unexpected appearances. I particularly recall an occasion in November when we
attended the Albertville-Guntersville football game. We went in short sleeves because of
the sunny, warm weather. The next morning we woke up to an eleven inch snow.
Mother was the first up that morning. When she looked out, she called, "Everybody get
up. Look outside. You wont believe what happened."
There it wasan unbroken landscape of white. Shrubbery had become smooth
humps of glistening snow. The accumulation blocked the door to the smokehouse and
made it impossible to open the gate to the barnyard. Even the car was buried and

identifiable only by its location, size, and a portion of the grille peeking out. The gravel
road out front was covered just as deep as the yard. An eerie silence prevailed with no
passing automobiles. It was a dream-like world.
When we had deep snows, I always wanted to go outside. My parents dressed me
in several layers of clothes. Brown paper bags tied over my shoes substituted for boots. I
loved the crunch, crunch sound that steps produced. Sometimes snow would still be
falling so that I could catch flakes in my mouth. Breath became white smoke. It was
exhilarating.
The last time I recall a walk in deep snow, I took a nasty fall on a slope in the
front yard. The hard landing shook me up quite a bit. What makes me particularly
remember it was that my father saw me take the spill. It would have normal and
considerate to check to see if I was injured and perhaps to come help me up. Instead, he
opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. He pointed at me in a ridiculing
manner and produced an exaggerated laugh calculated to embarrass. That made the fall
seem far worse.
That was merely an enlargement of the normal way he reacted when I got injured
over the years. He almost always said, in a lame attempt to force me to laugh, "It didnt
hurt." Theres a time for laughter, but it isnt when somebody is in pain. I little sympathy
would have been great, but I eventually learned not to expect it.
Decades later, he did Maria the same way. Accustomed to better treatment from
us, she was outraged and didnt hide her indignation at his lack of concern. Yet, the next
time, he did it again. I had to wonder if he couldnt learn, or just didnt care. When he had
treated me that way, I learned to set it aside quickly. Maria fumed for days.
To dig trails from the house to the barn was an adventure provided by deep snow.
The snows we had were fairly easy to dig. The shovel cut right through the soft, wet
snow. In a few minutes, I could clear several feet. The trails had high sides because I
piled the snow close to the right and left. The reward was to walk along those cleared
paths with such ease. Id like to do that again.
The last big snow I experienced was in 1964. I was home in December from work
in Columbus, Georgia. We expected snow, but it proved to be much more accumulation
than had been predicted. The morning after the snow was when I was supposed to return
to work, but it wasnt possible. By the next day the roads had been cleared sufficiently
that I could make the long trip.
A soldier from Ft. Benning was stranded in Albertville. He went to the local
authorities for help since he would be considered AWOL. Somehow they learned that I
was going to Columbus. They asked me to give him a ride, which I did. There was a short
article and picture in the local paper that related the story. A copy of the article is in one
of our photo albums.

He was an obnoxious, gung-ho military type who assumed that I shared his
nationalistic views. I made no response to his various attempts to glorify the armed
services. He didnt get the point of my icy silence. I tried to bring up other subjects, but
he seemed unable to converse about anything else. Still, I was glad to have him along
since the roads were not completely clear and I could have needed help. About halfway to
Columbus, the snow accumulation abruptly disappeared.
When we arrived, I offered to drive him all the way to Ft. Benning since he had
expressed such concern about not being on time for his duties. The truth quickly
emerged. "No, just drive me to my girl friends house," he requested.
The place was near downtown. I much doubt that he made it back to the military
base that day. The big snow provided a perfect excuse to be yet another day late with
impunity. There was no way his sergeant could know that he hitched a ride directly to
Columbus.
I had missed a day of work and supposed that I would see a big reduction in my
paycheck. Absences for anything other than illness were figured as 1/175 of the years
salary. It would be a substantial amount. To my surprise, nothing was ever said about it. I
drew my full check. It made me wonder if they overlooked the absence. It wasnt like the
Muscogee County School District to be generous.
There were many consecutive days of below-freezing weather at Mountain View
in that time before global warming. One result was what everyone called "spew." Spew
was several inches of ice crystals that rose up from the ground overnight. Not only was it
beautiful, but to walk on it produced a satisfying crunch at each step. It also left a deep
trail of footprints. I havent seen spew in many years.
When I was about ten years old, we had a record drought. No rain fell for what
seemed to me to be months, but it surely must have not been that long. To make matters
worse, the temperature soared into the hundreds days on end. Even the mature trees
began to lose their leaves though it was summer, not autumn. Gardens and lawns dried
up. Crops failed.
"Will the trees die?" I asked my mother.
"I dont think so," she answered, "but Ive never seen it this dry or for them to
shed like this."
I began to wonder if it would ever rain again. Relief came when we were in South
Town to have the car repaired. I still remember the exact spot we were when it started.
The downpour lasted for hours and broke, in a big way, the worst dry spell Ive ever seen.
One of the radio programs that I especially liked in my younger childhood was
"Big John and Sparky." Big John was a man and Sparky seemed to be a boy, but with a
squeaky voice that sounded more like some type of fantasy creature. It was never

explained. The two (actually one man doing both voices as I learned decades later) talked
back and forth after the introductory song, "The Teddy Bears Picnic." The delightful
childs song went like this:
If you go out in the woods today Youre sure of a big surprise.
If you go out in the woods today, youd better go in disguise.
For every bear that ever there was will gather there for certain because
todays the day the teddy bears have their picnic.
Picnic time for teddy bears, the little teddy bears are having a lovely time today. Watch
them, catch them unawares and see them picnic on their holiday.
See them gaily dance about. They love to play and shout.
And never have any cares.
At six oclock their mommies and daddies will take them home to bed because theyre
tired little teddy bears.
If you go out in the woods today, youd better not go alone.
Its lovely out in the woods today but safer to stay at home.
For every bear that ever there was will gather there for certain because
todays the day the teddy bears have their picnic.
Every teddy bear thats been good is due of a treat today.
Theres lots of wonderful things to eat and wonderful games to play.
Beneath the trees, where nobody sees, theyll hide and seek as long as they please.
Todays the day the teddy bears have their picnic.
Each Saturday Big John and Sparky announced that children were having birthdays, but
only rarely mentioned a name. I assumed those few were children who were in imminent
danger of death. Then they played a song that went like this:
Today is a birthday I wonder for whom.
I know its for someone whos right in this room.
So look all around you for somebody who
is smiling and happy.
My goodness, its you!
Happy birthday friends, from all of us to you.
Happy birthday friends from mommy and daddy too.
We congratulate you and pray good luck follows through.
Happy birthday friends.
May all of your good dreams come true.
The only other radio program that I liked was "Captain Video," which later moved
to television. It was exciting and I eagerly looked forward to it each Saturday. I cant
recall any of the story lines, probably because the far more dramatic television version
has wiped them from memory.
It was from the TV Captain Video that I first learned about hyper light travel
(called "high lin"), space helmets, and force fields. His space ship was called the
"Galaxy." It landed on planets, tail downward in an exciting blaze of fire. Of course, it
reversed the process on takeoff. Wimpy transporters had not yet been imagined. The crew
was only twoCaptain Video himself and Ranger, his young assistant. Ranger was only

several years older than I, so I identified with him. The program didnt try to stick to
reality as to the size of the Milky Way. Both Captain Video and aliens regularly traveled
among galaxies.
The films for the entire set of science fiction episodes were later destroyed to
obtain their silver content. The only survivors are scattered episodes of the very earliest
years when it was not yet a serious science fiction show. When it abruptly vanished,
without warning or explanation, I was terribly disappointed. For weeks, I tuned in at the
regular time with the hope that it would somehow reappear.
Because they were the only ones available, my favorite light fiction books were
the Nancy Drew series. My cousin, Nancy Camp, occasionally brought me her copies as
she finished with them. The first one I recall reading was The Mystery of Red Gate Farm.
I was carried away with the robed characters with their hideout in a cave. I asked my
parents about buying some more of the series, but was told that I couldnt.
I didnt know about the Hardy Boys books. They were the equivalent of the girls
books and would have been a far better choice for me. If I had been aware of them, I
doubt that I would have been allowed to get any. Thanks to Maria, I have read a number
of that series in my late sixties. They are predictable, but I actually enjoy them even now.
I hope its not a manifestation of beginning to enter my "second childhood." I am
reminded of Shakespeares observation "A man is twice a child."
Apart from that, my all-time favorite childhood fiction book was The Riddle of
the Hidden Pesos. It is about a group of teenage boys who went on a road trip to Mexico
in a convertible. Unknown to them, fake money had been concealed inside. I got it from
the Guntersville library and checked it out periodically to read again and again. I
mentioned the book to Maria and to my surprise, she bought me a copy from the Internet.
I quickly read it again with pleasure and its on the shelves in our den in Russellville.
The author is Roger Baxter, but he wrote also under the pseudonyms Martin Colt and
Charles Strong.
As to comic books, Batman and Robin were my favorite since I could identify
with Robin at that age. Of all the superheroes, they were the only ones that could just
possibly be true. What they did was based on science rather than supernatural powers or
being from some other planet.
I liked Superman to some extent except when kryptonite was involved. He wasnt
supposed to be vulnerable. There was a Superboy series that I liked even better than
Superman since I could identify with the young Clark Kent at the age I was when I was
reading them.
Donald Duck was good, especially when Scrooge McDuck was involved. His
money vault in which he swam in mounds of money was a fantastic concept.
Occasionally appearing was Lucky Gander, a cousin of Donald, who was always winning
prizes, but I have not seen anything about him since.

Mickey Mouse was far down the list of comics I found interesting. I preferred
issues that also featured his pal, Goofy. At that time comic books cost ten cents each.
As to songs that I liked as a child, I am vague since I heard the same songs at
various points in my life, partly because my father sang them around home. The first song
I am certain that I heard on the radio was at the Goodwin place. Only the following
fragment has stayed with me: "You said youd marry me tomorrow, but tomorrow never
comes." Songs that I recall from later times include Hey There, Secret Love, Slowpoke,
Wake Up Little Suzie and Moonlight Gambler (my favorite song during teenage years).
As to drinks, I never liked coffee, occasionally drank sweet tea, disliked colas of any type
because they burned my throat, thought Dr Pepper tasted like medicine, drank an
occasional 7 Up, but went through a spell of really liking Orange Crush. At that time,
Orange Crush came in an amber bottle and tasted far better that the current version. I got
to drinking too many of them, but stopped abruptly. One day Mother asked what I wanted
to drink, and as usual, I asked for Orange Crush.
"You never drink water. We cant afford for you to drink Orange Crush all the
time," she responded angrily.
Im sure that was correct. The bottles cost ten cents each. As a child, I hadnt
considered how much that could amount to in a month if I drank three or four a day. After
that I wouldnt drink them, or any other bottled drink any more. It embarrassed me when
I realized that I had created an economic hardship. Looking back, I much suspect that she
didnt mind me having the drinks, but responded to pressure from my father. Her anger
was toward him, but I got caught in the fallout.
Each morning, before the advent of television, my father kept the radio on WGSV
in Guntersville while we ate breakfast and got ready for the days activities. It broadcast a
mix of gospel music, holy roller preaching, news, and farm reports about the prices of
barrows and gilts. I never learned how those two types of swine differed. I remember one
preacher in particular because every few words, he would shout "Wow" really loud. I
thought it was so funny.
There was a fishing show that had a theme tune, "Lets go fishing instead of just a
wishing. Lets go away for a while." There were more words, but they are gone from
memory. That program was in keeping with Guntersvilles status as a fishermans resort.
As to the early days of television, my father mostly chose the programs to be
watched without consulting the rest of the family. There were only two channels from
which to select so it hardly mattered.
The Milton Berle Show was an outstanding variety show. Two game shows stand
out: Whats My Line and Ive got a Secret. The Arthur Godfrey Show and Hit Parade
were musical programs. Cigarettes and soap accounted for many of the sponsors and
advertising. Occasionally running in my head are "Winston tastes good like a cigarette

should," and "Willie the Penguin says, Smoke Kool." Kool was a mentholated cigarette.
"Call for Phillips Morris" was yelled out by a midget.
Color television had not yet appeared. Reception quality varied greatly dependent
on the weather. Channel 13 had the better picture. Channel 6 had noticeable lines of
glitter across the screen at all times. Both were Birmingham stations.
Sets of that day were notoriously unreliable. Frequent visits from the repairman
were the norm. If the set got taken to the mans shop, it would be gone for days. Remote
control was not available. The channel changer responded with a loud click as it passed
each channel between two and thirteen. No other channels were available.
Night after night, after TV signed off late, when my parents went go to bed, a
different, even more disturbing sound began. "Rub my back," he ordered. He would
quickly go to sleep and start to snore loudly. If she stopped, he would snort, wake up, and
demand that she start rubbing again.
"Howard, Im exhausted. I need sleep and doing that so long makes my hand go
numb," she protested. "Keep rubbing," he always commanded indifferently.
Occasionally she would refuse. When that happened, he was still mad about it the
next morning. I cant understand how she could possibly allow herself to be taken
advantage of like that, but it is consistent with how she gave in to him throughout her
married life. She must have been chronically sleep deprived. I certainly was.

Chapter 8: Elementary School Days

Following the above description of life at Mountain View, this narrative now goes
back to 1945 and picks up the early school years.
I didnt go to kindergarten. There was only one section of it at Guntersville. Most
school didnt offer it at all. In view of where we lived, it would have been difficult for me
to attend. The sessions didnt last all day, so to ride the school bus wasnt possible. With
nobody to bring and pick me up, I had no choice but to skip it. That was fine with me.
During the first few weeks of the first grade, we still lived in Albertville, but we
moved to Mountain View as soon as the "renters" squatting in our house got out. Mother
and I caught the Trailways bus at the highway about a quarter mile down the road. It let
us off in Southtown at the Griffith Drug Store which doubled as a bus station. From there
we walked about a mile to the school. We reversed the process when school dismissed. It
wasnt bad except when it was raining or extremely cold. Part of the route passed along a
dirt trail that got terribly muddy at times.

Father kept the family car to drive the short distance from our house to Sims
School. It was almost possible to see the school from our far property line, but it
apparently never was seriously considered that he should do the walking so wife and
child could use the car.
I vaguely think that I overheard them discussing that once and that he refused. He
had to have the car, he declared. As it seems to me, they were in another room and I
couldnt hear everything that was said. That over sixty-year old memory popped into
mind only as I was writing this section.
In the afternoons, Mother and I had a long wait at the drug store before the bus
arrived. In those days, most drug stores had a food counter.
"Want a chocolate sundae while were waiting?" Mother asked.
"I dont know. Whats that?"
That day I had my first chocolate sundae. The counter boy put several scoops of
vanilla ice cream into a conical glass with a waxy paper liner. He added a generous
amount of chocolate syrup and topped it with a red cherry.
"Thats really good, the best dessert I have ever had," I said enthusiastically.
I found that I could have that anytime I wanted. My father wasnt around to
begrudge and prevent it.
I went through a spell of being fixated on tin foil. Every scrap I encountered, I
added to a tightly-packed ball I carried in my pocket. The wait at the drug store gave me
the chance to find empty cigarette containers that had been thrown down. I removed the
lining and soaked it in water at home so that the paper backing easily peeled off the tin
foil. After a time, I lost interest, but I still recall exactly what my ball of tin foil looked
like and how it felt in my hand.
To reach age six no later than October first was the cut-off date for a child to enter
first grade. As a result, I was close to a year younger than most of my classmates.
Intellectually, I was ready for school, but not emotionally. No consideration was given to
letting me wait a year and I can easily understand why. I had to be in school for my
mother to be able to hold a teaching job and they greatly needed her salary. Looking
back, I can see that it would have been much better socially if had I waited and started the
following year.
The City School is an attractive, rock building which still stands in Guntersville.
It now functions as a community theater. Inside the front door was a large glass case of
stuffed birds which I found fascinating, but a tiny bit scary.

The principal, Hayden Tidmore, had a son, Don, who was in my grade. Mother
taught the fourth grade to begin with, but the next year moved to a lower grade. My
parents were friends with the Tidmores so we went places with them. We occasionally
accompanied him to look at houses for sale. Over the years, he became a millionaire
through his real estate investments.
I was a real "baby" about school and cried every morning for a long time in the
first grade when I had to go into the classroom alone. I knew it was illogical, but couldnt
control my emotions no matter how much I tried. I sat at my desk and told myself over
and over, "Im not going to do it." Within minutes, Id began to shake and then
commence to sob. I hid my head under my arms, but it did no good. Everybody knew
what I was doing. How I hated that.
Looking back, I suspect that my insecurity was what psychologists call
"separation anxiety." People tend to blame their parents for their own shortcomings, but
in my case, it actually was at least partly due to the way my parents dealt with me in
public places. Rather than let me stay with them in a store, they invariably told me where
to stand to wait for them. Never did they come back as agreed. Not one time. I had a
terrible feeling that I had been abandoned. The next time the situation arose, I questioned
them to be sure I understood where to wait.
"Now, youre sure youll really come back right here?" I asked.
I cant recall a time when they did. Of course, they didnt go home and leave me,
but were gone so long that I got upset and started to cry. Then I began to hunt them in the
store. When I found them, I was in for a reviling.
"Why didnt you stay where we said?" my father demanded angrily. "Go back
there and wait."
I m sure I wasnt left for a really long time, but it seemed that way at such a
young age. Since they knew full well how that upset me, I cant understand why they
didnt handle it differently.
I finally adjusted, with most school crying over after the first grade. I do
remember crying once when I was in the fourth grade (eight years old), but we had just
moved to a different school in Albertville and I didnt know anybody. I was scared and
upset and missed my former friends at Guntersville.
For the three years that I attended the City School, I mainly had a good time. The
work was easy and I especially enjoyed recess. The boys often played in a rough area
toward the back of the building. It had a small, but swift-flowing brook. The area was a
likely lair for snakes, had steep banks, and one deep pit. Despite its danger, none of us
were injured.

Across the road behind the school and a long way up the hill was said to be a
large cave. Boys in high school had explored it and told us about it. I wanted to see that
cave so much and even walked a distance up the hill after school a few times. There was
a well-traveled path. Faculty meetings, when we had to stay late, provided the
opportunity. I didnt quite have the nerve to go far since I didnt know its location or
distance. Ive wondered about that cave many times over the years. Its possible that one
didnt even exist. The bigger boys may have been trying to impress us.
The City School had two interior courtyards with swings, monkey bars, and tall
slides. All sides of the courtyards were enclosed by portions of the school building. A
door from the hallway led into each. One of them had a small opening that led into
darkness. It was barely big enough for a child to squeeze through.
"Where does that go?" I asked one of the boys.
"Way up under the building. Its fun and creepy. Ive been there several times.
Want to take a look?" he invited.
I did want to, but declined. It was a good thing I did. Within about a week, the
principal came out with a strict rule that we were not to enter the crawlspace. Apparently,
he caught some of the boys who had done it. The place almost surely was full of spiders
and snakes.
Sometimes we had group play outside, at the back of the building, alongside the
cafeteria. Most of the time it was Red Rover, Ring Around the Rosie, or the Farmer in the
Dell. That was the main time that boys and girls joined in play.
"Its time to take up lunch money or pick up tickets," Mrs. Downey announced
early each morning. Some, including me, paid weekly and had only to get the coupon.
The others went to her desk with their money. When a child had no money, Mrs. Downey
kindly paid it from her purse. She issued each child a paper meal ticket good for one day.
Clerical matters were a waste of time instructional time, but necessary since it provided a
means by which the lunchroom workers could know how many meals to fix each day.
One day, I was in line to enter the cafeteria when I discovered that I didnt have
my ticket. I informed Mrs. Downey and, in a panic, rushed back to the classroom to hunt
for it. It was nowhere to be found. As I walked back, I wondered if I would have to do
without lunch. When I got to the ticket taker, I didnt have one to surrender.
"If youll let me go ahead and eat, my mother will come pay for it. Shes a teacher
here," I explained to the ticket taker.
Mrs. Downey realized what was going on and rushed over to my rescue. She
pulled me aside so the other children wouldnt hear.
"Where did you have it last?" she asked.

"I dont know," I replied, fighting back tears. The loss of my ticket seemed like a
major catastrophe.
"Why here it is," she said. She spotted the edge sticking out of the cuff of my long
sleeve shirt, right where I then remembered putting it. I was so relieved.
Its strange that I have such a vivid memory of an incident so minor after all these
decades, but I can recall it in detail, including my various emotions. Perhaps its true that
the cerebral cortex never truly loses a memory.
The cafeteria building was newer than the rest of the school and been connected
to it with an enclosed passageway. It was fun to stand in line in the passageway,
especially when rain fell. We could see and hear it through the glass sides. It was also a
place where kids could talk to one another freely.
The eating area had tables with moveable benches without backs. I recall little
about the food. I must not have eaten well since Mrs. Downey gave me a bad mark one
term on my report card. To fail to eat all on ones plate was a significant misdemeanor.
Milk came in small glass jars covered with gold tinfoil lids. Just for fun, we took
the handles of our spoons and gradually worked the lids into a bowl shape. With care, it
was possible to accomplish it without penetration of the lid. Why that was enjoyable, I
cant say, but it was. The small cardboard milk containers had not yet come into use.
When I was at that school, I had my only "invisible friend" which, in my mind,
was a tiny dwarf who stayed on my head until I put him into limbo. To do that, I reached
up and grabbed him, rubbed my hands against each other, and popped them together. He
went uninjured into nonexistence. When I wanted him again, Id rub my hands together
and open them slightly and he would "reappear." The dwarf had no name.

My best friend, Keith Finley, also had a dwarf. We would pretend to send
messages back and forth by means of them. The dwarf mainly existed when we were in
line in the passageway waiting to be admitted to the cafeteria. I really knew that the
dwarf didnt exist. No doubt Keith did too. But the fantasy was fun. I was in the same
room with Keith the next year, but we forgot the idea over the summer and never took it
up again.
The only other imaginary idea that I entertained over a long period was that
invisible, whitish, wide bands of some type ran out from my abdomen and up into the air
to connect to my parents. It was a strange notion which I certainly knew wasnt true. I
carried it on for a few years just the same. Where that came from I cant imagine. I took it
more seriously than the dwarf and even tried to make sure nothing passed through the
"belts" so as to cut them. Even now I can see those belts in my minds eye.

My first grade teacher at the City School in Guntersville was, as already noted,
Flora Downey who later lived in Double Springs in Winston County. I thought she was
very beautiful, although, in fact, she was only ordinary looking. She could snap her
fingers louder than anybody I have ever seen. I wanted so much to snap mine, but
couldnt. I still cant.
One time I got into a fight with another boy, George Walls, at the table in the
cafeteria. We were competitors for the attention of Mrs. Downey.
"Shes gonna sit by me," I insisted.
"No, she sat by you last time. Shes sitting with me," he countered.
The argument immediately erupted into a fight. She rushed over and broke it up.
"What are you boys doing?" she demanded. When she learned the reason, she responded,
"Im not going to sit by either of you."
Im sure she had to struggle not to laugh at two tiny boys with a crush on her. To
my dismay, she pulled a bench from another table, angled toward our table and sat at the
end, but a few inches nearer to him than to me. I jealously felt that he had won after all. I
never did have much use for George after that.
When she taught reading, Mrs. Downey had children read aloud in turn. The slow
readers, who read without expression, tried everyones patience. They called each word
individually and had to be told many words. Thanks to my father, reading was very easy
for me.
When Mrs. Downey learned us well enough, she divided the class and seated us
into three reading groups with group names. The designations thinly disguised that they
were the smart kids, the average kids and the dumb kids. We all knew what it really
meant, so the pretense was useless. We sat separately all the time according to our
reading groups. It was called "Ability Grouping" by the teachers, but not in our hearing.
"Youre in the dumb bunch. Stay over there," might be said to a classmate who
dared stray too far from his assigned area. Children were sometimes brutally frank, but
most always truthful. Civilization is partly a process of learning how and when to lie.
There was girl in our class named Rosemary Roberts who had been born without
a breast bone. This birth defect and related problems caused her to be very unhealthy
looking. Her arms and legs were spindly, her chest collapsed, and her hair frizzy.
Rosemary sat directly in front of one of the radiators. Unaware of the facts of her
condition, I had concluded that its heat was what made her look so shriveled up. One day,
Mrs. Downey undertook to reseat us. To my dismay, my new seat was to be the one that
Rosemary had occupied.
"I dont want to sit there," I protested.

"Youll sit where I tell you," she insisted.

I began to cry out of fear that the radiator would cause me to come to look like
Rosemary. Yet, I didnt want to say that out of concern for the girls feelings. Mrs.
Downey, in desperation, got my mother to come from her classroom. "I dont know why
hes acting like he is. He wont tell me a thing. Maybe you can figure it out." Only then
did I reveal the reason for being so uncooperative. When she explained Rosemarys real
problem, it made sense. I took the assigned seat without further commotion, although I
wished there was some way to give it a good scrubbing with soap and water. I hope
Rosemary didnt hear any of it.
Mrs. Downey took pride in the appearance of her room. I especially recall a large
cutout of Mother Goose, riding on a flying goose, that was high on a side wall of the
room. She had an aquarium, but I cant recall what type of fish it contained. The main
thing I remember is that somebody brought in a live land snail for the class to see. One of
the kids, thinking the snail needed water, placed it into the aquarium where it perished by
the time it was discovered the next morning.
In the Spring, we had a big Easter egg hunt. We left the room while the eggs were
hidden. Upon return, the teacher gave us sacks and told us to find as many as we could.
There were a great many books opened and standing on shelves. Behind each was an egg.
It was obvious and easy. While other looked in unlikely places or wandered about
aimlessly, I filled my sack.
"Children, count your eggs and when I call your name, tell me how many you
found," she directed.
I tried to count mine, but there were so many that they rolled round too much for
me to keep an accurate count. When I said that I didnt know how many, the teacher
seemed annoyed. When she came over and looked into my sack, she saw the reason.
"How did you find so many?" she asked in surprise. "Ill count them for you."
The prize was a candy Easter bunny sitting on "eggs." The eggs were additional
small pieces of candy. The whole thing was wrapped in a translucent red plastic. I liked
the plastic better than the rabbit or candy and was pleased with my prize. At that time I
didnt realize the truth about Easter. Nobody had told me.
"Were going to see that you get an education and then you can decide for
yourself about religion," they told me many times.
One day the class got quite a shock. It was rest period so we had our heads down
on our desks. Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Chunks of plaster shot down into the
room. A mans legs extended into space from the ceiling. Nobody was hurt in the room,
but I cant be sure about the man. He was a worker who accidentally walked on the
ceiling rather than the joists. He probably was as shook up as we were.

"Get in line and march into the hall," Mrs. Downey commanded. She may have
suspected that the whole ceiling might fall. Our room was the talk of the school that day
so we felt very important for having experienced the disaster.
During first grade, the school put on a stage performance which featured various
children. It was held at night in the auditorium in front of a large crowd. I didnt have any
usable talent for such a thing, so was assigned to do a recitation. It began, "Dear
Grandmother, I am writing you this letter...," but the rest of it is gone from memory. I sat
at a small desk we brought from home to do my part in the program. I think that desk is
stored in the attic of our Russellville house.
Toward the end of October, the school put on a Halloween Carnival to raise
money for basic supplies. I went as a witch in an elaborate black costume with a black
pointed hat. It was a costume far more suitable for a girl. That disturbed me, but I didnt
say anything. Nobody made fun of me, which was a relief. I rather expected to be
ridiculed by the other boys. Its possible they simply didnt know who I was in a dress. I
imagine Mother had to make use of what was available. Money was scarce in those days.
"Thats one of the best costumes Ive ever seen," said one of the parents. Others
expressed similar sentiments. With that much attention, I didnt mind being a witch.
The only other costume that I recall was a black outfit with a luminous imprint of a
skeleton. It was more funny than scary.
The first grade was quite easy, but not as much was demanded in school in those
days. Since I was well-prepared for reading, that was simple. My parents drilled me on
the "sight words" and some key phrases with homemade flash cards. I repeated that many
years later with Maria. She was eager to say them the very day Mrs. Todd passed them
out, but to Marias chagrin, she made her wait until the following day.
The main reader was "Down the River Road," which was actually fairly
interestingnot the "Run Spot run" type book that later came into use in the lower
grades. It featured Alice, Jerry, and a dog named Jip. For some reason I still recall seeing
a story which used the word "truck" to mean a bunch of worthless junk. I have not seen
that word used in that sense after that, but it somehow impressed me how the same word
could mean such different things.
Even from the first grade it was obvious to me that math was both my weakest
subject and the one that I liked least. I hated to memorize things and so didnt memorize
the basic additions.
"Never count on your fingers," Mrs. Downey sternly charged. "If you do, youll
never be any good at arithmetic."
I made dots on paper to serve the same purpose. That was foolish and a real
handicap in learning math. I still sometimes do it in my mind even now when I have to
add things without a calculator. They are now mental dots, but dots just the same.

On the last day of first grade when the final report cards were distributed, children
could learn if they had passed or failed the grade. On the back the teacher had written in
cursive either "Promoted" or "Retained." A boy who couldnt read cursive asked me to
tell what his said.
"It says Retained, so that means you failed," I announced thoughtlessly.
He started to sob. I intensely wished I had minded my own business. I remember
the deep shame of my guilt even after more than sixty years.
Mrs. Downey had been briefly married, but her husband had left her for another
woman. She carried a torch for him the rest of his life despite the way he had treated her.
"I had to cross the street, on a shopping trip to Gadsden, to avoid meeting him face-toface," she told my Mother. "It was terribly embarrassing."
In her later working years, Mrs. Downey returned to her fathers home in Double
Springs in Winston County to see after him. At first she lived in a trailer in his yard, but
later moved into the house. He lived to be 100 years old and kept his good mind.
For years, Mrs. Downey had maintained contact with her friends in Marshall
County. That ended when several of them arrived for a party at her house. It had been
planned long in advance with recent follow-up. Her associates arrived, but she was
nowhere to be found. They waited for a couple of hours, but she didnt appear.
"She knew we were coming," Mildred Pennington said in disgust. "It was all set.
She let us come all that way and then wasnt even at home. Im not gonna bother with her
anymore."
When we heard what happened, we suspected that she might be in a nursing
home. It seemed likely that, if she had died, we would have learned about it. After some
time, we decided to check the nursing home at Double Springs. Although half expecting
that she might be dead, I asked at the office, "Do you happen to have Flora Downey
here?"
"We surely do," the pleasant woman replied. She supplied the room number and
directions. There she was, seated in a wheelchair, but nicely dressed and with much
appearance as she had years before.
"Im Eloise Camp," my mother said. "I worked with you at Guntersville. This is
my son, Elton. You had him in the first grade."
"Oh, yes, I remember you. You were a good student," she said with a gracious
smile. "Its so good to see you both."

We were elated that she was in such good condition even if unable to live
independently. I began to wonder if she had, perhaps, only taken a fall and might be able
to return home. Then the facts began to emerge.
"How many years did you teach?" my mother inquired.
"Oh, I am still teaching" was her smiling response.
She had been confined to the institution for years, but was good at putting on a
front. A couple more questions showed that she had no idea who we were. She was in the
throes of Alzheimers disease. We never returned to visit her again, which I now regret.
She didnt know who we were, but we knew who she was.
For the second grade, my teacher was "Miss Helen" Gilbreath. She was a spinster
who lived into extreme old age. We had old fashioned desks with tops that raised to
receive supplies. The top had a circular opening where an inkwell had once stood. Of
course inkwells had been out of use for a very long time so those desks must have been
antiques. Her room was the only one in the school that had them. Books could be placed
on a shelf underneath. The seat was hinged so that it could be raised when the desk was
not in use. Over the years kids had defaced some of the desks with deep grooves made
with pencils. That was my first encounter with vandalism.
One cold winter day, Miss Helen said, "Im keeping my fingers crossed that it will
snow today." I had never heard that expression before. Most of us went the rest of the day
with crossed fingers.
Miss Helen was fun and a good teacher. We did a good bit of class singing. I
recall "Reuben and Rachel," "Barnacle Bill the Sailor," and "The Jolly Little Eskimo" as
being among my favorites. Looking back I can identify those songs as outrageously sexist
or racist but that was before the days of "political correctness." While they instilled
stereotypical thinking, Im sure that wasnt her intent. That was in keeping with common
practice in the mid 1940s.
This was the year that we learned to write cursive rather than print. A girl named
Iris already knew how to write beautiful cursive. It was fun to watch her do it. I sort of
strung the letters together to simulate cursive since the time of teaching penmanship had
long passed. Miss Helen taught us how to write a capital letter "G." "I doubt anybody will
know how to do that except maybe for George," she said. He was my enemy from first
grade, so I hoped he didnt really know. I was surprised at how different the letter was
from a printed "G."
The day the class started Roman numerals, I was out sick. As a result, I didnt
catch on to it and still havent until this day. It was the first thing I had any academic
trouble with in school. Roman numerals never came up again until Maria had it at some
point in her education. Delorise had to help her. I seemed to have some sort of mental

block as to Roman numerals. I still cant read or write them except for the ones that
appear on a clock.
My third grade teacher was initially Opal McCain. She and her husband had lived
in a duplex with us when I was a tiny baby. Mrs. McCain lost her baby sitter and had to
quit to take care of her own child. As a replacement we got Mrs. Riggs, a very poor
teacher as well as fat and ugly. I deeply disliked her.
We were to produce some sort of play in the room so Mrs. Riggs made the role
assignments. "Elton will be the dwarf," she said.
I was stunned. I didnt want to be a dwarf. Anything but that. A dwarf was short,
humped, ugly, and had a long beard in my conception.
"Just leave me out. I dont want to be in the play," I responded.
During the year she often sent my best friend, Keith Findley, and me to the
cloakroom to build something. This was often during math instruction for which I
actually needed to be present, but what kid is going to turn down a deal like that. That
was when long division was taught so I didnt learn it well. I still hate long division,
especially selecting trial divisors. Calculators are such a wonderful invention.
At some point during the year, some kid stole an item in the room. Mr. Tidmore,
the principal, came to the room to identify the culprit. He tried the usual threats to make
the criminal confess, but to no avail. He had one trick left.
"Im going to give out pieces of paper to each of you. List something you have
stolen and your name. Everybody has stolen something, so dont leave it blank."
I had a tendency to be obedient to an authority figure and so finally recalled
finding some hairpins. That would do as something to list that I had stolen. He came
around and picked up the slips of paper.
After he had taken mine, some kid asked, "What should you do if you havent
stolen anything?"
To my amazement he said, "Just put that down. I know most of you havent."
It was the exact opposite of what he had said only minutes before. It came too late for me
since he had my "confession" in hand. I was so mad at his treachery and wondered if I
would be in trouble for saying I had stolen hairpins. Mother told him what happened and
he laughed and laughed about it. It wasnt funny to me.
That year the school decided to buy Venetian blinds for the classroom windows.
The project was to be financed by having each childs family "contribute" a set amount.
Some of the families wouldnt or couldnt give. The principal came around often to see
how the fund collection was going.

"Any of you who havent given the money for the blinds, hold up your hands," he
commanded.
It was intended to humiliate the children whose parents didnt come across.
Maybe they would cough up the money if their sons and daughters got embarrassed
enough about it. Of course we gave our share so it was no problem for me personally. I
felt very bad for the ones who were put on the spot about it.
A personal embarrassment came when Keith Finley and I were assigned to walk
to North Town to buy cotton to go under the class Christmas tree. It would now be
unthinkable to allow two seven year old boys to make a long walk like that, but things
werent so dangerous back then.
I carried a small cardboard box which contained the money, but somehow it fell
out on the way. We retraced our steps, but to no avail. The money was gone. "Its okay. I
have some money of my own. We can use that the buy the cotton," I assured Keith.
A much bigger problem was that I hadnt ever seen a Christmas tree up close.
When told to buy a roll of cotton, the picture that came into my mind was what came in a
small box of medical cotton. If Keith knew that was the wrong choice, he didnt say
anything. The class groaned when we revealed our purchase.
"They bought the wrong thing," one of the girls mocked.
The City School had a loose stone on the left side of the building that concealed
the entrance to a tunnel about six inches in diameter which extended a foot into the wall.
The secret was poorly kept, but still it was a fun place to hide things. The tunnel is still
there, but the rock that concealed it is long gone.
On the playground, during third grade, we often did a shameful chant that went
"Teacher, teacher, dont whop me. Whop that nigger behind that tree. He stole money and
I stole honey. Ha, ha, ha aint that funny."
There were no black children in white schools anywhere in Alabama at that time
so at least the racist chant didnt directly offend anyone. To my mothers credit, she told
me that I shouldnt be saying things like that. The word wasnt used at home. In fact, I
only vaguely knew what a "nigger" was. The few I had seen looked exactly alike to me. I
wondered how they told one another apart.
The school sponsored a fund-raiser put on by adults in the community. That was
the first and only time I saw a "Negro minstrel" put on by whites in black face with white
painted lips. I saw and heard it from the hallway since there was an admission charge.
The room was crowded with adults who laughed and hooted at the crude racial parodies.
How unthinkable such a thing would be now.

One of the biggest honors for a kid was to take out the garbage and dust the
erasers. I got to do that with some regularity. One time Keith and I went together.
Alongside the garbage dump, we found a pool of water that contained dozens of dark,
swimming creatures.
"I think theyre tadpoles," I ventured. "They turn into frogs somehow." Since that
day, I have never again seen tadpoles in the wild.
Keith had a silver colored cigarette lighter that we modified to contain what we
regarded as a secret compartment. We stuffed it full of treasure. To my amazement, Keith
gave it to me. Its still around somewhere. Ive seen it during the last several years and it
still contains our treasure trove. Remove the lighter from the case and unscrew the two
screws at the bottom. The treasure will fall right out. I wish I knew where it is. Id open it
right now.

Chapter 9: The Change to Schools in Albertville

When I finished the third grade, I fully expected to stay with my friends all the
way through high school. During the summer, I found, to my dismay, that I would be
going to the fourth grade in Albertville. Mother had gotten a job teaching second grade at
the McCord avenue school. It had, long ago, been the junior high, but now housed
elementary grades.
"You mean I wont get to attend the high school up on the hill," I asked.
It had a long, steep series of concrete steps from the City School. Many times I
had seen the older kids walk up and down them and looked forward to the day when I
could do the same. The change was a disappointment and deeply unsettling to me, but
there was no choice. We lived in the country so I had to get to school the same way she
did. Off we went and I lost all my friends at one swoop.
Keith lived in sight of Kooimans Deep Freeze where we frequently shopped. I
walked to his house to deliver the bad news.
"Do all in your power to prevent it," he suggested.
There was nothing I could do. For a couple of years, I made brief visits to Keith
from the Kooiman location, but we gradually lost contact. We had no phone, so I couldnt
even communicate with him that way.
At McCord Avenue, Mother was assigned to teach the second grade. She
preferred the first grade, but there were no openings at that time. Her room was directly
across the hallway from Mrs. Opal Coffee. The two came into conflict on numerous
occasions.

Mrs. Coffee was inept, unprofessional, and emotionally unstable. Both fellow
teachers and students suffered from her presence. The principals office was in the upper
building. My mother became a de facto assistant to him for the lower building, the old
City School. Mrs. Coffee bitterly resented the informal arrangement.
"Principal! Principal!" she mocked loudly when Mother conveyed messages from
him to the group assembled in a small conference room that doubled as a library.
One afternoon, Mother heard a strange noise from the hallway just outside her
room. Investigation revealed Mrs. Coffee with a cringing student backed against a wall.
She held a belt aloft and was at the point of striking the boy. He moaned in fear.
"Coffee, stop that," Mother whispered. "Youre scaring him to death."
She took the child into her room to allow time for Mrs. Coffee to gain control of
her temper. Another time, the woman tied a student to his desk. On another occasion, she
placed tape over a students mouth. When removed, it left noticeable inflamed lesions.
The student was allergic to some component of the tape.
Parent complaints kept Mrs. Coffee in hot water. For some strange reason, they
didnt appreciate her mistreatment of their children. Formal charges were, however, never
brought. The principal resolved each case as it arose.
Once the woman actually approached my mother for help. After a series of
charges against her, she had added yet another transgression. "I grabbed a boy by his
shirt and popped off all the buttons," she whispered. "Youve got to help me sew them
back on. Im going to get into big trouble."
The principal confided, "I should fire Coffee, but it would be hard since she has
tenure. Besides, I dont know what she would do without a job. She couldnt possibly get
another with that on her record."
Subsequent supervisors were just as spineless. The erratic, dangerous woman
continued to work in the school system until her retirement many years later. Tenure laws
can have bad consequences.
In the fourth grade I had an inexperienced young teacher named Miss Joyce
Whitmire. Although she had good intentions, she was an poor teacher. To control the
children was largely beyond her power. The ineffective refrain with which she attempted
to enforce order was the expression, "Children, lets be democratic."
The worst boy in the class was Robert Centers. He made her life miserable. When
he went too far, she had the class vote as to whether he should be sent to the principal or
if she should paddle him in the room. That was a part of her idea of "democracy" I
suppose. The majority ruled even in such matters. The class always voted for him to go to

the principal since that was about the most horrible fate that could befall any student.
However flawed, It was democracy in action.
"Id rather see her whip him in front of the class," one boy often protested. He
was over ruled by the majority.
Miss Whitmire lived on "Million Dollar Avenue," the local name for East Main
Street. It was called that by everyone except those who lived there. A large, brick, whitecolumned mansion was her residence. That puzzled me as I thought only somebody rich
could possibly live in a house like that. She merely rented a room as I later learned. That
house is still standing and I think of her every time we pass.
She had blond hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. I thought she was quite beautiful.
Most likely she was only ordinary in appearance, but she has remained young and
attractive in the time-trap of my memory. If still living, she would now be well into her
eighties. An old Miss Whitmire isnt something I want to envision.
I didnt fit well into the new school. The newcomer, I didnt know anybody.
Isolated out in the country, I had no contact with any of the other youngsters outside of
school. Because I was the son of a teacher, especially one in the same building, also
tended to make them shun me.
Yet, was mainly my own fault. I should have put forth more of an effort to be
friendly. Thats a personality defect that I have never overcome. I still tend to be
standoffish with people and too easily offended.
The next year, my classroom was in the upper building. It was larger and I liked to
explore it. There was a staircase on the opposite wing from where I had classes. The door
opened from the hallway into a dark basement where the furnace was located. It was
always unlocked so I often opened it to smell the strong stench of coal. I never got up the
nerve to go down even though I had plenty of chances. I was pretty sure that it would be a
serious infraction of school rules. Looking back, I wish I had been more daring, but that
wasnt in my nature. In todays terminology, I suppose that I was a nerd.
During the fifth grade, my teacher was Marie Rains. She was well into middle age
and noticeably unattractive. I liked her just the same. We visited her house once. I was
amazed to learn that it contained an elevator. She didnt offer to show it and I wouldnt
ask, but I really wanted to see it. The Rains family was not wealthy. I dont know how
they came to have such a luxury.
At that time it was probably one of only two elevators anywhere in Marshall
County. Even public buildings didnt have them. There was a jerky elevator at the old
Guntersville Hospital near North Town. It dropped and rose so abruptly that most
wouldnt ride it.

Mrs. Rains rudely jumped all over me in front of the class once because I
shrugged my shoulders to indicate that I didnt know the answer to what she was asking. I
had no idea that it was anything other than an ordinary gesture, but she somehow
considered it to be the height of arrogance. Nothing could have been further from my
mind but she wasnt listening to any explanation. Other than that one time, I really liked
her.
We bought her a pair of wool mittens for "Christmas," She wore them daily
during the winter for a couple of years, since she had to walk from work to her home. It is
my vague impression that her husband was a worthless type person who showed little
care for her. Such matters werent discussed in detail with children.
My best friend in fifth grade was Marvin Brock, but we later drifted apart. He was
the only son of a rich old couple who became way too "wild" for me. I didnt want to get
involved in the things he liked to do as we moved up through the grades.
That year was my one and only experience with decorating a Christmas tree. A
genuine fir, it was strikingly beautiful when complete. We placed colorful glass
ornaments all over it and then slung on icicles of thin aluminum strips. I didnt
understand the wrongness of celebrating holidays because it wasnt explained to me. I
still remember the trees distinctive aroma.
One day, when the dismissal bell rang, the students headed to the door to leave.
Several stood and waited. Dull thuds echoed as one of the boys beat on the door.
"It wont open," a girl called out. "Ive got to meet my Dad out front."
Several others, including the teacher, tried it with the same lack of success.
Because of the noise in the hallway, no amount of banging and shouting did any good.
We were trapped.
"Were gonna miss the bus," some complained frantically. It was true. The bus left
on time with whoever was present. Stragglers were stranded.
"Ill climb out the window and get help," a boy offered. The window was second
story with a sheer drop to the ground.
To my surprise, Mrs. Rains agreed to the plan. I cant imagine why she allowed a
student to attempt something so hazardous. I dont know how he made it to the ground
safely as there were no obvious handholds. He returned with the principal and janitor
who soon freed us.
All the rooms in that school were heated with tall, wide, silver-painted steam
radiators. The pipe that led to the one near my desk had a space around it. It allowed a
glimpse into the lunchroom in the level below. I liked to spy on people moving around,
totally unaware that they were being observed.

The school room that I had in the fifth grade is the same one that Mother, years
later, used for the first grade. The opening around the pipe was still there.
As to the lunchroom, we ate there 4th through 6th grades. It was slightly below
ground level. My teachers made us go outside to get to it, although there was a set of
steps going down from inside. Some of the classes used them. The door to the stairway
was always locked except when it was in use so I never got to go down those stairs
although I surely wanted to. They seemed almost like a secret passage of some type. It
was frustrating to sit in the cafeteria and watch other students tromp down the stairway to
appear, as if by magic, inside the lunchroom.
"It isnt fair," I thought. "Why do my teachers have to be so mean."
The food in the lunchroom was poor. Institutional food at Guntersville had
seemed to me reasonably satisfactory and the same was true when I moved to junior high.
The McCord Avenue cafeteria was the exception. A mildly nauseating odor greeting us
when we entered, but adaptation by the sense of smell soon caused it to fade. Oddly, the
single factor that I recall with the most disgust wasnt the insipid food, but the utensils.
We were forced to eat with spoons. No forks were available. That utterly grossed me out
and to this day I dont like to eat anything with a spoon if I can possibly avoid it,
especially a silver colored spoon.
After school every day I watched the janitor, Lee Ragsdale, and the janitor for the
lower building, Mr. Oliver, as they loaded lunchroom garbage in large cans onto Lees
truck.
"What do you do with that stuff, Lee," I asked.
"We feed it to my hogs," he replied.
That practice is now illegal unless the garbage is cooked since it promotes trichina
worms in hogs. Hog raising allowed Lee to supplement his meager salary.
Lee, a confirmed bachelor, lived on the campus, along with his mother, in a white,
frame house on the far corner of the campus. It belonged to the school. His proximity to
work made him "on call" at all times. With no significant education and a degree of
physical and mental defect, that was the best job he could get.
The principal, Mr. Gilbert, and his family also lived on campus in another schoolowned house, but it was brick, much better than the one assigned to Lee. Rank had its
privileges.
During the summer between the fifth and sixth grade, I spent several weeks with
my grandparents in Fayetteville. Mother was finishing her bachelors degree at
Jacksonville. With the long drive back and forth each day, housework and studying, she
needed help with childcare.

It was while at my grandparents that I first saw an umbrella. My grandmothers

umbrella was black with a lighter pattern. I was fascinated with it and looked for chances
to go out in the rain to use it. I knew umbrellas existed, but had never had one in my
hand.
My visit there came to an abrupt end when I got hurt in the barn while my
grandfather was milking the cow. I jumped down onto a board with a nail sticking up
through it and plunged it deep into my foot. The injury carried a significant risk of
tetanus.
Ill-informed about vaccination, my parents never had me inoculated against
anything including tetanus, a potentially fatal disease. Yet, there were valid reasons for
caution. Many vaccines had side effects, some of them serious. Effective programs of
testing had not been developed. Far fewer vaccines were available when I was a child.
My grandparents quickly loaded me into their car and drove me home so my parents
could take whatever medical action they decided was best. I remember a downpour of
rain that night that added significantly to the danger of the trip. After it stopped, bugs in
droves began to hit the windshield. The accumulated mess made it necessary to stop
periodically and clean the glass. It was a miserable trip.
For some unfathomable reason, Dr. Venning thought that I was "allergic" to the
tetanus vaccine. There was no basis for that assumption whatever. Nevertheless, had to
wait it out and see if tetanus developed when a clear preventive was readily available. Dr.
Venning was a nice person and I liked him, but I thought then and still think that he was
not a very competent doctor. His masters degree was in education. The man had been a
teacher for a few years while he saved enough to finance his medical education.
"You used teaching as a stepping stone," Mother joked.
"Thats not true," he replied defensively. His embarrassed look showed otherwise.
I wondered why it mattered even if true. It seemed to me that he had a right to improve
himself. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
I remained in good health despite the dangerous wound. Mother continued her
daily commute to the college. She got her degree at the end of the 1950 summer session
at Jacksonville. That meant a raise and enhanced job security. For the first time, she was
fully qualified for her position.
This accomplishment was made all the more difficult because she had an enemy
in the college registrars office who did her best prevent her from completing degree
requirements. The woman was a clerk, but had gradually assumed authority beyond her
status.
She went so far to pretend that Mother needed college chemistry in order to
graduate. No doubt, she thought that she wouldnt be able to do the work. Mother took
the difficult course and did well in it.

Some of her academic problems were of her own making due to a hot temper.
This was especially true in connection with a required music course. The professor
required the students to pair up and sing a song before the class. Mother never could sing
and her partner was even worse. The partner began to cry in front of the class, but the
teacher tried to force them to continue. In a fit of pique, Mother slammed her textbook to
the floor.
"I wont be back," she stormed out.
"You will too," the teacher shouted. "That book will stay right where it is until
you do. If not, youll fail this class."
The book remained on the floor for several days. Mother reported the entire
episode to Dean Woods, a friend of hers. Apparently, Dean Woods somehow gave Mother
credit for the music course despite the objections of the professor. She was able to
graduate.
Her enemy in the registrars office was known for pulling people from graduation,
even while lined up to go on the stage, so it was a tense time. She had a note on the
bulletin board for Mother to come see her, but she simply ignored it and somehow got by
with it.
Mothers best friend at Jacksonville that summer was Margaret Chitwood. The
woman became so possessive that Mother had to break off association with her. Margaret
took the attitude that she shouldnt have any other friends.
One time Margaret and her husband visited us at home. He had been bitten by a
rabid dog which resulted in him having developed a pathological hatred of dogs.
"Dont play with the dog around him. He cant stand them," Mother cautioned.
I took Nigg and held him behind the barn until they left. I actually thought he
would try to kill the dog if he saw it. It was a relief when they finally left. I was tired of
holding the unfriendly, snappish dog. I didnt like Nigg, but felt it to be my duty to try to
protect him.
For the sixth grade my teacher was Miss Eva Pittman. She was a short, stout older
woman with glasses. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. She was quite a good
teacher and is the only one, at any level, who taught anything about geography. She
provided a long, interesting unit on South America.
At the end of the year, Miss Pitman made an unusual request. "I want you all to
come back and show me your report cards as you move through school." I dont know
about the others, but I did that most of the way through school. It was easy since Mother
worked in the building and I had to go by there each day anyway.

Miss Pittman was the only teacher who attempted to teach moral principles but
without involving religion. She belonged to the Church of Christ, but in later years I got a
pretty good idea that she didnt fully endorse its tenets. My dentist, Dr. J.L. Hughes, who
was a member of her same church, let it slip that she wasnt considered to be a member in
good standing.
A student in our room, Amy Rice, was killed in an auto accident. I didnt know
her at all and didnt even recall seeing her or hearing her name until she was dead. Most
of the girls cried when Miss Pittman told us that Amy had died, but the boys acted
indifferent to it. Theres a picture of her somewhere in our photosprobably loose rather
than in an album.
In 1952, Elizabeth II of England was officially crowned. Any of us who could
arrange it were allowed to leave school to watch it on television. I, along with a few other
boys, went to Marvin Brocks house to watch the splendid ceremony. They had a large,
black-and-white floor model set. It was the finest I had ever seen. Film of the coronation
was shot in England and immediately loaded onto a plane and flown to the United States
for broadcast.
"Isnt that amazing?" old, gray Mr. Brock said. "Just think, that took place only
about seven hours ago and were already seeing it." We were duly impressed at the
astonishing power of modern technology.
The music teacher, Miss Neal, came about once a week to give music exercises.
She was in her thirties, blonde, with rough skin, but not unattractive. Somehow, I learned
that she had false teeth. I was shocked that a person her age would have dentures.
"Next week we are going to make a recording of a song," she announced.
This was the first time I ever saw or heard of a tape recorder. It was a huge box
with a wide tape that wound between large spools. The class recorded "Dis Ole Hammer."
Miss Pittman obviously didnt know what a tape recorder was either. When we finished
the song, she asked how much time had to be allowed for the record to solidify. She
expected a phonograph record to result as did we all.
"Oh, you can hear it right now," Miss Neal responded. We were amazed when she
rewound and turned on the tape recorder.
Miss Neal and her boyfriend were on a trip with another teacher, Mrs. Almond,
and her family, when the unexpected happened. "Come go with us as witnesses," Miss
Neal invited. "Were going to get married." The Almonds took it as a joke, but got up to
accompany them on whatever outing they had in mind. They were dressed in jeans and
tee shirts.

"I dont want you to go to my wedding dressed like that," Miss Neal protested.
"Put on something nice."
It was only then that they comprehended she was serious. They married later that
day. Miss Neal held a bough with white blooms that the Almonds, on a sudden whim,
broke from a magnolia tree.
The end of Miss Pittmans life, many years later, was ghastly. She committed
suicide by pulling a plastic bag over her head and choking herself with a rope. One of her
nephews planned a visit that day, so she timed the action to ensure that she would be
found promptly. The note she left explained that she didnt want to become helpless and a
burden. Beside her, she laid her clothes for burial and left written instructions for her
funeral.
Early in sixth grade we got a telephone at home. It was an eight party line with all
eight homes ringing in whenever any house in the group got a call. There were coded:
one through four long rings and one through four short rings. There was no privacy on
calls since everyone on the party line knew when you got a call. Distinct clicks
announced eavesdroppers. Our number, one long, was 547 J1. It was a poor arrangement,
but a considerable step forward in communication. Prior to that we had gone to the store
at the corner to make any phone call.
Vada worked as a telephone operator at that time. We would sometimes get her
when placing a call. There was no dial. "Number Please," an actual person asked when
your picked up the phone.
When the operators went on strike for several weeks, nobody could make any
calls except emergencies. Despite lack of service, the phone bill was not reduced.
All phones were heavy and you could have any color as long as it was black. The phone
was joined to a large battery case attached to the wall as well as to the phone line.
Nobody had more than one phone per house far as I knew. Some of our neighbors
didnt have a phone at all. They came to ask to use ours. Even worse, their incoming calls
sometimes came. "Can I speak to Ronald," the caller asked. Ronald lived three houses
away. Yet, we were expected to go get him while the caller waited.

During the sixth grade, I had my first experience with music "lessons." Those
willing to pay extra were put in a room with a "tonette" which is a type of recorder. That
flute-like instrument is still around somewhere. There was no real instruction. If we
learned, we did it on our own. The teacher, Miss Neal, had us memorize "Every good boy
does fine," but I had no idea at all how that related to music or what it was used for. Of
course I got no help at home, nor was any interest shown in my musical progress of lack
thereof. I must, in fairness, admit that I didnt put any effort into it. I had realized quite
clearly that I had near zero ability in music.
A high point of elementary school was a play that we performed during the sixth
grade. It was a musical about the Zuni Indians. In addition to the various songs, there was

a Mexican hat dance. My partner was Ruth Coffee, daughter of the infamous teacher,
Mrs. Coffee. The name of the play and details of the plot have vanished, but it involved a
spy from another Indian tribe.
Words from a song went "Zuni, Zuni, Zuni in the painted desert close by Thunder
Mountain dwelled the Zuni." Another had the words, "Hes a spy, hes a spy. Catch him.
Hes a spy, hes a spy, watch him." Tall, red-haired Kim Keller played the part of the spy.
Decades later, I learned that in the southwestern United States there was an actual Indian
village near the Zuni River and that it lay at the foot of majestic Thunder Mountain. The
Zuni River is just a trickle in dry weather, but becomes a raging torrent when rain falls.
Had we been told that, it would have added to interest in the play.
We wore Indian costumes. Mine consisted of brown pants, no shirt, no shoes, and
a headband with a single feather. The night of the play, they put some type of cold, brown
coloring on our exposed skin which I thought repulsive and not at all necessary. Everyone
knew we werent really Indians.
The elementary school principal was Hobart Gilbert. His wife was the office
secretary and his daughter, Aletha, was in my grade. Mrs. Gilbert had gray hair, was a
little heavy, but very neat. I thought she was beautiful. Like most kids of that age, I
stayed as far away from the principal as possible.
I lost a lot of respect for Mr. Gilbert following a crude meeting. Apparently there
had been problems with the bathrooms being soiled. Instead of trying to find the culprits,
he lectured the all boys with crude, vulgar words that I had never heard before. I suppose
he was just trying to use terms that he thought would be understood, but it was really
gross.
I wasnt familiar with dirty words since we didnt use them at home. I started
seeing the infamous "F" word written on the bathroom walls from about the 4th grade and
had no idea what it meant. Finally, I asked my parents about it, but got no answer. They
acted like I was an idiot for asking so I let it drop. As a result, I decided it meant the same
as "shit" which I did understand. I continued to think that for a couple of years. Finally, I
found out the real meaning "in the gutter."
My parents werent willing to discuss such thing with me in any responsible
manner. I tried not to repeat that same mistake with my own daughter, but to my
frustration, in that one aspect, she would have been more comfortable with parents like
mine and I needed somebody like me.
At the elementary school, we had a regular recess each day when the children
were free to engage in unsupervised play on the school grounds. The teachers went
outside where they stood in a group to watch from a distance. They didnt try to tell us
what to do unless trouble came up. If it was a nice day, recess might be extended for a
longer time. The ring of a bell told when to come back inside. In the 6th grade, we had

organized softball play for part of the year. That was one of the few team sports that I
enjoyed, but I wasnt very good at it.
Most of the time, it was possible, during recess, to slip off to Hargis small,
cement block store. It was across the street at the far edge of the campus. Hargis was a
relatively young man, but extremely disabled. His slurred speech was unintelligible to
anyone but his family. The store was a way that he could earn a living. A regular candy
bar was five cents and for ten cents you could get a truly huge candy bar. It was a
violation of school rules for us to go to that store during school hours, but enforcement
was lax, essentially nonexistent. I suspect that the principal felt sympathy for Hargis. The
man needed our purchases in order to stay in business. Most people in his condition
might have lived on welfare. It was admirable that Hargis did what he could to make his
own way.
At the end of sixth grade we had a formal graduation in the upstairs auditorium in
the lower building on McCord Avenue. There were no caps and gowns. Each child came
across the stage to receive his/her diploma. I still have the cheap-looking diploma.
A graduation exercise at that level may appear foolish, but as our grade moved through
the years, many dropped out of school entirely. There was no other graduation for them.
Since we had only one car, that presented a transportation problem for us to get
from our rural home to Albertville. My father used the car and it was up to us to hoof it or
whatever we could work out. In his defense, it wouldnt have been reasonable for him to
ride a bus since, most of that time, he worked at "Polecat" which was way out from
Guntersville beyond feasible walking distance from the bus line.
During that period of his life, he worked as a teacher, of sorts, in a program
designed to help veterans get their high school diplomas. Mainly, he just sat at his desk,
gave tests, and kept records of each mans accomplishments.
"Duckett, if you dont make more progress, Im going to have to drop you from
the program," he warned an neglectful student. It wasnt an idle threat. Being dropped
ended the check the scholar drew for participation. Most of them were far more interested
in the pay than in learning.
He got that job because Uncle Leon was in charge of the local operation. Despite
his minimal qualifications, his brother employed him in a shameless act of nepotism.
Leon certified that the couldnt find a person with a bachelors degree to take the job.
That was almost certainly untrue.
"It runs twelve months a year, so youll make about 30% more than you would
teaching in the regular schools," Leon stated.
It was the only period in his life when he made more money than Mother. It irked
him that, during most of the years of their marriage, her pay was higher than his.
Ultimately her retirement was significantly higher. He had numerous periods of

unemployment which figured unfavorably into the retirement formula. Part of those times
were through no fault of his own.
Other factors that reduced his income were in his control. For example, he waited
ten years later than she to complete his bachelors degree. In addition, when the
retirement system was first established, participation was optional. For the first few years,
he refused to pay into it.
"Im not gonna let them take anything out of my check," he insisted. "Itll just
disappear. Well never draw a dime even if we live long enough to retire."
This unwise decision resulted in a permanent reduction in his pension. This didnt
keep him from grumbling about his smaller check throughout the years of his retirement.
He seemed to have the idea that he had been cheated.
"I told you to pay into the retirement," Mother reminded him when he
complained. He didnt like hearing that. It was the truth.
The job with the Veterans Administration was originally located in the basement
of the First National Bank in North Town. It was the same space where he had previously
worked for the OPA during the War. The rooms were unsatisfactory for use by a large
group. They had to walk across the street to use restrooms in the basement of the
Marshall County Court House.
Arnold Bradford, a retarded boy who pulled a childs red wagon all over town,
had a practice of visiting the men because most of them paid him attention because they
felt sorry for him. Because of the bathroom trips, he told around town that they were
wasting time rather than doing what they were paid to do. Others picked up the story and
it became more believable with each repetition. The damning report even go into the
Advertiser-Gleam through a letter to the editor.
My father was livid when he confronted Arnold. "Ive been letting you hang out
around here, but dont ever come anymore," he ordered. "What we do is none of your
business."
The program, with its three teachers, relocated to Polecat where he worked until it
faded out due to low enrollment. That school was sometimes mockingly called PCU
which supposedly stood for "Polecat University."
Attempts to educate veterans accomplished some good. A few men learned to read
and write. Some emerged with high school diplomas which helped their job prospects. A
tiny number went on to college. For the most part, it was an expensive joke financed by
taxpayers.

To get another teaching job, my father had to get his degree which is why he was
in college at Jacksonville the same time that I was enrolled at Snead. This is discussed
later.
Mother and I had to get from Mountain View to Albertville each weekday. For a
long time we caught the Trailways bus after a walk of about a quarter of a mile. It let us
off at the bus station in downtown Albertville. From there to the school was another, even
longer walk. We did it regardless of the weather. In the mornings, we had to move at a
rapid clip to get to school on time.
I had a serious problem with motion sickness on the bus and have continued to
struggle against it through the years. It was some start to the day. I always felt nauseated
by the time we reached the depot. Occasionally, Id vomit after getting off the bus.
The bus had a horrible stench that made me shiver as soon as I boarded. That only added
to the misery of motion sickness. Looking back, I realize it was the rank smell of
cigarettes. In those days, people smoked anywhere they pleased without regard to the
rights of others.
We became well acquainted with some of the drivers, especially one nicknamed
"Sparky." Sparky was really nice and friendly and often let me stand up near his drivers
seat. Once I pulled an interesting looking lever beside his seat. The man fell backward as
the seat abruptly reclined. It could have caused an accident. Sparky, after we no longer
rode with him, was involved in a traffic accident where a child was killed. It was not at
all his fault. Nevertheless, the childs parents hounded him unmercifully. The experience
eventually broke down his health so that he had to quit driving. I never knew what
became of him.
In the afternoons, we had a considerable wait until the bus left. School let out at
2:30. The bus ran about 4:00. The depot was comfortable and interesting. There was a
waiting room for "white" and a separate one for "colored." That type of discrimination
was universal at that time. An excellent caf was part of the depot. This was the first
place where I saw one of those fancy Wurlitizer record players with the bubbles
circulating around the front. An arm came over, selected the record, and then placed it on
the turntable. Afterward the process reversed.
Negroes were not allowed to eat there, but they could come to the back door for
take-out orders to be eaten in the colored waiting room.
The station master announced arrival and departures of the buses. His voice
boomed impressively over a public address system. When we got home, the bus let us off
at the crossroads. We, again, had to walk the quarter mile to the house. If it was raining,
cold, or hot, that was just too bad.
Later, Mother arranged for us to ride in cars with teachers who came from the
Guntersville direction. One of them was Mrs. Smith who taught 4th grade. She drove a
huge, black 1950 Buick Roadmaster. Her son and daughter were students. The boy

seemed to have mental problems of some type. He doted constantly on murdering people,
violence and causing explosions. The girl didnt have much to say.
They lived in a magnificent brick columned mansion in Guntersville. It was our
understanding that they came from a family with considerable money. She was estranged
from her husband, but he lived in a room in the basement. Mrs. Smith got her doctorate
after leaving her job at Albertville. A few years after that, she died.
Next we rode with James Dennis who taught science at the high school. He was
an egotistical young man who had far too high an opinion of himself. He grinned in a
phony manner most of the time. Dennis left the schools employment while still young.
"I got tired of working and decided to start preaching," he explained. It was unclear
whether he was joking or making a candid expression of fact. He didnt smile at all when
he said it.
The last car owner was Mrs. Atnip who lived in Guntersville. We paid each of the
car drivers for riding with them, but Mrs. Atnip was the only one we had to watch. She,
more than once, pretended that we hadnt paid. It was a transparent attempt to collect it
twice.
Her teenage sons went to school in Guntersville. One of them became friends with
an immoral girl named Faye who lived in sight of our house. "Youd better watch it or
there will be some little Atnips running around," Mother cautioned her. That put an end to
the sons friendship with "Faye the Whore" as she was known in the community.
It was 1955 before we sometimes had a modern car. It came about like this: My
Father traded in the 1949 Ford on a demonstrator 1955 Buick Special two-door hardtop.
It was green and white and had Dynaflow, a type of automatic transmission. We thought
it an elegant car, although it was quite plain by present-day standards. The only "extras" it
had were the radio, heater, automatic transmission, turn signals, and white-wall tires.
Later, we had back-up lights added at the Buick dealership. There was no air
conditioning, power windows, power seats and the multiple other things that are now
standard. The interior was by far the cheapest version Buick put out and very unattractive
(shades of black and gray with a very plain dashboard). A much nicer version would have
been about $300 more and while that amount seems trivial now, it equals thousands of
dollars difference in current money. We couldnt easily have afforded it.
"Ill still be paying on that car when you finish high school," my father
complained in an accusing tone as if the debt were somehow my fault. I was thrilled with
the new car. That such a purchase was in the work had been discussed for a while. The
one he picked was far better than I had expected. I was astonished when he came home
with it.
At first, my father drove the Buick and we got by with paid rides as best we
could. After a while, he bought a 1938 Chevrolet coupe. It was in really bad condition on
the body, but had a sound motor. It had belonged to an elderly man who couldnt drive

well. This resulted in numerous dents where he bumped into things. It had been stored,
unused, in a barn for a number of years. The paint was about gone. It had no luxuries,
except for a heater that obviously had been added after purchase. I think the heater was
off an DeSoto which was a medium priced car of the period. The heater ran entirely on
electricity from the six-volt battery, but was adequate to heat the tiny passenger space in
the coupe. The gear shift was a long lever that extended down to the floor. It had only one
seat, but provided a huge trunk floored with genuine wood.
After getting a second car, he mainly drove the old one. After a short time he had
it nicely repainted and added some cheap black upholstering to the doors. It looked very
much better. After that, he drove it almost all the time. That gave us use of the Buick. For
the first time, we could get to school and return home conveniently.
Until I got a drivers license, the Buick was parked at McCord Avenue School and
I walked the short distance to the high school. After I got a drivers license, I drove the
Buick to the high school which made me feel like a "big shot" since it was one of the
nicest looking cars on campus.
Looks were deceptive. The Buick didnt even have power steering or power
brakes. The lack of power steering in a car that heavy was a significant problem for
Mother. "Help me turn the wheel," she said when it was necessary to maneuver in a tight
space. It was really that hard.
Big cars without power steering, were equipped with a steering wheel ratio which
provided mechanical advantage. The consequence was that it took over six turns from the
extreme right to the extreme left on the steering wheel. The car was awkward and
dangerously hard to control at slow speeds. On the open road and at highway speeds, it
was better.
We kept the Buick until my senior year in college when my Father unwisely
traded it on a Ford Falcon. It was an underpowered car, one of the many failures of Ford
Motor Company. The Falcon had an attractive red and white vinyl interior with red floor
mats. It, however, retreated to a manual transmission and had no accessories but a heater.
It was so unsatisfactory that they kept it only a couple of years.
"I sure dont like that car. I traded in a better one than I got," my father conceded.
It was extraordinary for him to admit an error of any kind.
The very day he traded the Buick, a salesman at the Ford Dealership took it
without authorization and totaled it in a wreck somewhere north of Guntersville. The
Falcon hadnt come in yet. The dealer had loaned us an early fifties blue Cadillac sedan.
It was far superior to both the Buick and the Falcon. About the time we got accustomed to
the luxury vehicle, the Falcon arrived.
My father had made a deep, long scrape on the fender of the Cadillac when
parking, but nothing was said about it by him or by the dealer. Later, the son of the Ford

dealer, a student at Jacksonville State, drove that car for a while. The damage had been
fixed.
As to my learning to drive, I have to highly commend my father. He put a lot of
time, effort, and patience into teaching me.
"Its important to learn to drive carefully and smoothly," he emphasized.
My lessons started with an old 1934 Chevrolet Coupe that they had when we lived
in Albertville on Baltimore Avenue. Although I was a mere child, he let me shift the gears
as I stood on the seat beside him. Of course I wasnt at all big enough to drive or reach
the clutch. He did what he could to help me learn.
After the purchase of a new 1949 Ford he accelerated my training. Although it
was illegal, he let me drive each week on the way to pick up milk at Aunt Berthas house.
At first. I sat in his lap and only operated the steering wheel and shifted the gears. He fed
the gas, pressed the clutch, and controlled the brake. My legs werent long enough to
reach the pedals. When I got big enough, he let me sit behind the wheel and control
everything myself as soon as we got far enough into the country that it was unlikely we
would encounter law enforcement. This was on a narrow dirt road, but there was virtually
no traffic.
"Always let the clutch out slowly as you put on the gas," he patiently explained.
"Put the brakes on slowly and evenly so the car wont jerk."
It took many attempts for me to learn to coordinate the two events. Sometimes the
motor went dead when I let out the clutch too quickly. Other times the gear shifts were
rough because I raced the motor too fast. Eventually, I got it down pat.
I was very aware of not creating motion sickness. He was also subject to it. My
fathers instruction helps me in my driving to the present day. I think of him any time I
happen to speed off too quickly or stop abruptly.
It was illegal for me to be driving at that age and would have presented a huge
problem with insurance if I had wrecked, but he took a chance on it anyway. He thought
it vital that I learn to drive and of course it was since there is little other way to get
around in the South. To function independently, a person must learn to drive.
"If you should have a wreck, scoot over to the passenger side and Ill slide under
the wheel," he proposed. It never became necessary.
The day I turned fifteen, I took the written test for a learners permit and passed it
easily. After that, my parents allowed me drive the car most of the time when we went
places together. When I turned sixteen, I took the driving test and passed with no
problems. The only thing I was nervous about was parallel parking. As it turned out, the

examiner had me to parallel park where there were no other cars at all. I could just pull
forward into the space.
It was a while before I learned to parallel park with much efficiency, but it was
made hard by the difficult steering of the Buick. Although I can do it easily, I still prefer
to avoid parallel parking if theres a reasonable choice.
The junior high school years.
Junior high school was what is now called middle school. In my case it included
the 7 and 8th grades. Commencing with the 7th grade, we had more than one teacher per
year. Mrs. Buckelew had our group in the morning for English and social science and
Mrs. Galloway in the afternoon for math and science.
th

On the shelves in my office at Russellville is a small tea cup and saucer that I
gave Mrs. Galloway that year. She considerately returned it to me many years later when
she realized that she was about to die. On the bottom reads, "Made in Occupied Japan."
She didnt have anybody to leave her things to and so thought of me. It was remarkable
that she even remembered where it came from since it was decades before her final
illness. She must have had hundreds of students in the years after I was in her class.
In addition to the two academic teachers, we had a coach for physical education.
Vernon Wells was an ignoramus and total jerk. We had to deal with him during both 7th
and 8th grades. He made us sit inactive in a room for months until some of the boys
started slipping off to town. The principal caught up with him and I suspect he was close
to being fired for neglect of duty. He attempted to paddle all the boys in the class because
he had been found out. He didnt paddle me.
"I havent done anything. Youre not going to paddle me. Ill go to the principals
office right now," I said with determination. Wells, like most coaches, was a coward and
backed down quickly.
After that, Wells began to provide organized sports; but without giving us any
instructions. It was just "Get out there and play."
I somewhat enjoyed touch football. Defense was more fun than offence. I was
lousy at basketball. Still, it was better than sitting around the entire period.
He also forced us to run around a track while he sat and smoked. All this was
done without any kind of examination as to physical fitness. In later years a boy died at
Albertville High while engaging in just such an activity. I dont think Wells was still the
coach at that time.
My experience with Wells was the beginning of my revulsion for coaches and has
only grown over the years. In general, they are parasites of the educational system. Yet,
the southern fanaticism for sports often results in them becoming principals or even

superintendents. Its a disgrace that only adds to Alabamas dismal record of academic
accomplishment.
We got a television set the year I was in 7th grade. It was a 17 inch black & white
(color was not yet available) and got only two channels. Both were Birmingham stations:
channel 6 and channel 13. We had, just the year before, got an FM radio, so television
was a big advancement.
During that year we were required to write a fictional story. Our group, along with
students of Miss Davis, met in the same room to hear selected ones read. The teachers
picked what they thought were the best ones. Mine was one of those selected. I went to
great lengths to keep anybody from knowing it was mine while it was being read. The
class demanded to know whose it was and the teacher announced my name.
Actually, the story was drivel (something about Indians) but we had zero
instruction in creative writing. How much better it would have been had the teachers
outlined the basic principles of story-writing.
I never had Miss Davis as a teacher. She was an extremely ugly, fat spinster who
drove a car made during the 1930s. She finally traded it in on a modern car, but had to
return to the dealership and get the old one. She couldnt learn to drive the newer model.
Originally from Gatlinburg, she moved back there after retirement.
For the 8th grade I had Mr. Gibson in the mornings for social science, and Mrs.
Weathers for the afternoon classes for science and math.
Mr. Gibson was a sadistic and twisted little man who, each morning, went through
a detestable ceremony when he collected lunch money. Every time he demanded, "Now,
everybody who gets a free lunch, hold up your hand." Humiliation on the faces of the
poorer kids who had to get the free lunches was obvious. He had to know who they were.
There was no need to ask day after day. I think he enjoyed embarrassing them. I suspect
that Gibson got some type of sexual thrill from exposing himself. On one occasion he
stood in front of the room and unfastened his pants. He zipped them all the way down and
pulled them down below his shorts to tuck in his shirt. We were all stared at him in
disbelief. I thought, "Surely he wont keep going." He had a strange look on his face
while he did it, so I think it gave him some sort of sexual charge.
One of the girls, Mary Lou Bopp, called out loudly, "Help, Mr. Gibsons pulling
off his pants." He never did it again. Whether she told her parents, I dont know. He
continued to work there for some years and later went into college administration. His
wife taught science at the high school.
Mrs. Weathers was, by far, the teacher I liked best. Although well into middle age,
she was attractive and certainly knew how to dress professionally. Always well prepared
for class, she made interesting presentations. I had her again as a senior where she taught

economics and democracy with similar success. Its noteworthy that our class, some 40
years after graduation, named her more than any other as "favorite teacher."
Mother had trouble with her when she had taught physical education there in 1944
and didnt like her, but I thought she was just fine. It seems Mrs. Weathers had referred to
children whose parents worked at the cotton mill as "lint heads." That made Mother
angry, especially since Mrs. Weathers husband made his living as a big man in that mill.
The Weathers lived on "Million Dollar Avenue" and drove luxury cars. All I could go on
was my own experience with her and it was all good.
During the 8th grade, one of the girls, Linda Cherry, got married. She was the first
in our class to take that shocking step. She married Robert Bains who was older but still
in school. I think she was 14 years old. That initial marriage was followed by several
more before we graduated.
That year it became the height of fashion for boys to buy blue jeans with the legs
far too long and to turn up a wide cuff that showed the lighter side of the material. Pink
shirts also were in style for boys. I had them both.
That was the first year that I didnt wear dress pants to school. I had become old
enough to want to have a say in wardrobe selection. Naturally, I wanted to dress like the
other boys. Denim was the accepted standard.
The junior high didnt have a separate principal from the high school since the
buildings were side by side. The principal was B.E. McPherson, covertly called "Bald
Eagle" because of his initials and his hair, or the lack thereof.
His son, Charles, was an acquaintance of mine. When we were small, I attended
his birthday party. Over the years we had limited contact. Our parents had been friends in
college. They occasionally went places together. His mother, Irene, had once dated Uncle
Leamon.
McPherson got a high-paying job with an insurance company and left the field of
education. This cleared the way for others to become principal. There were two of them
during my time in the upper grades. Ill return to that subject in connection with senior
high school, but this is the time to discuss an intense, but fleeting, passion of mine.
Chapter 10: About Cars and Driving
Like most teenage boys of that time, I went through a period of being extremely
interested in cars. Motor Tend was one of my favorite magazines. I memorized detailed
statistics about various vehicles. However, I quit buying the magazine when my parents
severely criticized me for spending money on it. That they begrudged me getting it had
never entered my mind. I still wanted it, but their attitude ruined it for me. I didnt read
another issue after that. Rarely, I flipped through it at on the newsstand, but always put it
back.

My obsession with cars lasted about two years. At the time I had several favorite
models that I would look for on the road and learn all I could about them. Even now, I
watch for them when we view old movies on Netflix.
A styling feature shared by virtually all American cars from the mid to late 1950s
was the wraparound or panoramic windshield. It was a gimmick, but wildly popular with
the public. Few liked the banged knees that resulted from a hasty entry to the front seat.
Yet, the couple of cars that didnt have the feature took a drastic sales hit. The 1955
Studebaker was forced to modify production midyear to add it. The 1955 Lincoln saw its
sales plummet. Potential buyers moved to competing models and cited as the reason "It
doesnt have a wraparound windshield.
My all-time favorite is the 1966 Lincoln Premier sedan. It was a totally new style
with virtually no resemblance to the pervious year. I still think it is the most beautiful car
ever made. If I were rich, Id still buy one if I could find it. The first example I ever saw
was at the Lincoln dealer in South Town in Guntersville. There it was in all its glory. It
was a white four-door sedan with a dark blue top. I walked around and around it to take
in all I could without being able to get inside. The doors were locked. I knew. I tried each
one in the hope that one might open. To be seated in that car would have been a major
thrill. In fact, I never got to enter a single one of that model. Id still like to sit in one,
even if just for a couple of minutes.
That exact car was bought by Doyle Harris, a high school classmate of my Father,
who operated the cleaners in North Town. I was able to enjoy seeing it parked in front of
his business for years afterward. Doyles son bought a red Lincoln Premier convertible,
but I thought the sedan was the more classy vehicle.
Even in that day and with a vehicle of such exorbitant cost (about $6000), Ford
Motor Company continued its practice of turning out occasional lemons. Clytie McDaniel
rode with another teacher who had a 1966 Lincoln. I often watched as they struggled to
crank it each day at the end of school. The dealer said, "Im sorry to have to tell you, but
the car is no good. It wont last more than a few thousand miles." Ford Motor Company,
like General Motors and Chrysler, typically tried to avoid assuming responsibility for its
mistakes. It didnt stand behind that one despite it being practically new and a luxury
model. Its little wonder that those companies went through a long period of declining
sales.
Lincoln ruined the car, as far as I was concerned, for the 1967 model. Instead of
the magnificent flowing lines, they installed an ugly fake air scoop on the side. The only
one I saw up close was at the high school. Some big shot came there to visit and left his
chauffeur at the wheel of his sedan. The boys gathered around the car and induced the
man to demonstrate its many elegant features. That was the first time I had seen a power
antenna and power vent windows in operation. It impressed me enough that I still
remember that day in detail all these years later. I didnt know any car could be that
fancy.

At that time, Buick was selling very well, It rose, in 1955, to third place in sales
after Chevrolet and Ford. Buicks appeal was based mainly on styling and garish color
combinations that caught the public fancy. Two-tone cars were common, but Buick did
the industry one better with three tones. Some of the color combinations clashed. They
sold rapidly which was the standard that mattered to General Motors. Inferior engineering
and sloppy assembly made them troublesome gas guzzlers. The assembly line problems
came to be so severe that savvy consumers checked the date of manufacture and refused
any car of any model put together on a Monday. Compounding the problem, Buicks
required significantly more costly premium fuel.
My favorite was the Roadmaster, especially the sedan. Madge Kennamer in
Guntersville had a 1955 model, white with a light green top. I thought it one of the most
beautiful cars I had ever seen. Decades later that car rested in a junk yard in Guntersville
and still looked great even if it did need washing and polishing. I also liked the Buick
Century which was a deluxe version of the Buick Special that we owned. The Century
had a much nicer interior, the same motor as the Roadmaster, and elegant metal strips
from side to side across the headliner. Those strips were a hallmark of a nice car.
I liked the 1955 Pontiac, although not as much as the Buick. Sylvia Cochran
drove a green and cream model to school and Ed Howard had a red convertible. I got to
sit in the convertible a few times when we were on break at the high school, but never got
to ride in it since Ed got a new car every few months and soon had an even nicer model.
Its ironic that, despite getting everything he wanted as a youngster, Ed, a long-time
barber in Albertville, grew up to be a miser. Hes so stingy that he wont come to any of
the class reunions because of the charge. Apparently, he didnt mind spending his parents
funds, but when his own are involved, its an entirely different matter.
The 1955 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight was a beautiful car, specially the four-door
hardtop. A hardtop was a model that had no post at the side of the roof so that it looked a
bit like a convertible. The first cars to be that way with four doors were the smaller
Buicks and the Oldsmobiles.
The hardtop feature also caught on with the public and quickly spread to most
models. It made them less safe in a roll-over accident. Squeaks, leaks, and rattles often
accompanied the lack of a center support. None of that mattered. Styling was everything.
Consumer advocates protested, but the buying public had the final say.
When we were on break at the high school we often sat outside. I watched for a
light blue and white 1955 Ninety-Eight Olds to pull out of the driveway of a house across
the street. I not only liked the car, but it was the first time I had seen power windows in
operation. Cars of that time rarely had air conditioning. The guy who owned it buzzed all
four windows down as he backed out of his driveway. I thought the automatic operation
really elegant.

Miss Kitty, the long-time history and Latin teacher, drove a 1955 Olds, but it was
the cheaper Super 88, an ugly two-tone gray, and no special features--an old persons car.
She parked in the same spot alongside the drive every morning.
General Motors cars that I liked almost as well as the Lincoln where the 1955 and
1956 Cadillac, especially the Fleetwood, Coupe DeVille and Sedan DeVille. There was
little difference between those two years. At that time, Cadillac was really distinctive and
there were not many on the road. To drive one was a mark of financial success. The make
advertised itself as "The standard of the world." There was truth to the assertion.
Mrs. Bray, wife of one of the local doctors, drove a white 1954 Cadillac
convertible which had similar styling to the 1955 model. Every day I watched her come
with the top down and pick up her kids at school. I thought that was the height of luxury
and class. Today, the use of an open vehicle with no seat belts or air bags to transport
children would be considered irresponsible.
In 1953 one of the first big Cadillacs seen in the local area belonged to Mrs.
Doctor Rogers. In that day, the wife of a doctor was always designated in that manner.
Mrs. went in front of the professional title and last name of her husband. Such women
might even introduce themselves with those pompous words. Back then, females were
frequently defined in terms of their husbands, especially if the husband was prominent or
wealthy. Such usage would be regarded as ridiculous sexism today.
At times their chauffeur drove the massive vehicle, but Mrs. Rogers herself often
was at the wheel. It was a blue four-door Fleetwood. The car cost over $4000 in 1953
which made it the talk of the town, to the extent that it embarrassed Mrs. Rogers. To
make it worse, a couple of years later Dr. Rogers added a 1955 Buick Roadmaster coupe
as his personal vehicle. The wealthy couple could well afford the luxury models, but that
didnt prevent wagging tongues in the small town.
The example of the Cadillac shows how much costs of cars have changed over the
years. At that time the most expensive American car by far was the 1955 Continental
which cost an eye-popping $10,000. The vehicle was out of reach of all but the most
wealthy people. Ford sold only a handful of them. Hides for the leather seats were
accepted only from cattle raised where there were no barbed wire fences. There must be
no imperfections in the upholstery. They were personalized with a name plate and
shipped in a fleece-lined bag. Despite the unprecedented price and extreme luxury
features, they were not very dependable cars.
The 1955 and 1956 Mercury Montclair were fine looking cars in the mediumprice field, especially the two-door models with a clear roof over the front seat. Norma
Jean, Aunt Georgias daughter, had one parked behind their country store. I enjoyed
looking at it.
As to Chrysler Corporation, I didnt like their cars as well. The 1955 Chrysler
New Yorker caught my eye partly because my favorite teacher, Mrs. Weathers, drove one

to school. Charles McPhersons family also bought one, but it was an ugly yellow and
green. Patsy Williams family drove a gold 1955 Chrysler Imperial which was the talk of
the town, mainly because of its color. The next year they bought a 1966 Chrysler New
Yorker, red and white two-door hardtop, but also kept the Imperial. I thought they were
rich and they probably were.
DeSoto sold fairly well in those days, but the only one I liked was the 1957 model
which is the one featured in the comic strip "Shoe," currently appearing in the newspaper.
It was a behemoth, characteristic of the tastes of that time.
The first car I ever saw with air conditioning was a 1955 Dodge sedan. It
belonged to the Holders who thought of themselves as rich. The Holders were an older
couple who couldnt have children, but in their relatively old age adopted a girl they
named Rebecca. Mother had Rebecca in class. At Christmas, the girl gave mother a tiny
model of the U.S. Capitol.
Her arrogant comment was, "I know youll never get to see it, so I gave you this."
Actually Mother had already seen the capitol and went back another time after that.
To the horror of her adoptive parents, Rebecca ended up the town whore when she was
grown. An adoption is risky. One never knows what genes lurk in the background.
A car of that decade could never have too much chrome or be too long. In the later
part of the 1950s, tail fins sprouted and grew to absurd extremes. The most extreme
example was the 1959 Cadillac. The extreme in chrome appeared in the 1959 Buick.
After that, customer tastes changed and more sensible styling prevailed.
My personal interest was almost entirely confined to the 55, 56, and 57 models.
After that, details of automobiles seemed trivial and boring to me.
Cars my parents owned over the years
The six cars we had when I lived with my parents are: a Chevrolet coupe of
unknown year, a 1934 Chevrolet coupe, 1949 Ford, 1955 Buick, 1938 Chevrolet coupe
(as a second car), and1962 Ford Falcon. After I left home they purchased a long string of
cars, sometimes with only months in between. The reason for this is detailed elsewhere.
My parents had bought an old Chevrolet coupe but that was before I was born so I dont
know anything of the circumstances. For a long time I didnt realize it was different from
the 1934 coupe that I do remember. The fact that it had "knee action" might help date it
since that type suspension first appeared in 1931.
Thats the car that my father parked on the road. that in those days, ran behind
Uncle Gaston & Aunt Edees house at Fayetteville. He looked up, saw a passing car, and
commented, "Somebody sure is taking off fast down the hill." A few seconds later, he
added in shock, "Thats my car!"

It had rolled away. Such incidents were not uncommon in old model cars. They
would jump out of gear. The parking brakes were not reliable. I have seen older people,
who recall those days, place a rock behind a tire to prevent a rollaway. His vehicle wasnt
seriously damaged, however. There is a picture of me as a toddler along with my Father
and that black car.
The first car I definitely recall is the 1934 Chevrolet coupe which had a strong
resemblance to the earlier coupe. Cars were low quality and lasted only a few years in
those days. It had belonged to a doctor in Boaz who had died. They somehow managed to
acquire it despite scarcity of cars during the World War II period. It had one seat and was
designed for carrying only two people. I was small enough that we got by with it until I
was about nine years old. That car had a square cloth top since manufacturers had not yet
learned how to keep down extreme road noise in a coupe with a solid metal top. The
headlights worked only on high beam which made a problem anytime we went out at
night.
"Dim those lights," some yelled as they angrily flashed their own headlights. To
dim them caused them to go out entirely. It was quite dangerous. I suppose they couldnt
afford to get the problem fixed.
There were other, less serious, problems. The car either had no gas gauge or one
that didnt work. I recall him using a stick thrust into the opening to the gas tank to
determine if there was adequate gasoline.
The windshield had an early version of safety glass, but it had gone bad. This
resulted in an unsightly, permanent translucent frosting around the edges. When I pressed
on the frosting, it temporarily disappeared, but returned as soon as I released the pressure.
There was a place on the outside back for a spare tire, but none was there. I dont know if
there was one in the trunk. I never recall seeing inside the trunk. It was a shabby car,
considerably older than the cars most people drove. My Father attempted to keep it
looking presentable. When the paint went bad, he repainted it with a power puff.
The next car was an ugly gun-metal gray 1949 Ford two door sedan, but with a
back seat. I knew vaguely that my parents were discussing purchasing a new car, but had
little interest in such matters at nine years of age. One day I was outside playing at
Mountain View when he drove up in the new car. Mother apparently had no say in the
selection. When I walked over to look at it, his immediate statement, in a hateful tone
filled with apparent resentment was, "I bought a car with two seats only because of you."
It was untrue, but I didnt realize it until years later. One-seated cars were no longer made
in the United States, except for expensive sports models. I suppose that he was on edge
from having gone into debt for a car, but that statement certainly made me feel bad.
"Excuse me for existing," I thought, but made no reply. How different it would have
been had he said, "Look, I bought a car with two seats so you would have a comfortable
place to sit." He didnt say nice things like that. Not ever.

The cars interior was of the cheapest quality. The seats became threadbare after
less than a year. There were no accessories except a heater. The paint almost immediately
began going bad. Attempts to polish it were futile. Ford Motor Company has a long
record of putting out shoddy and defective products. This was the main car used to teach
me to drive. Ive described that elsewhere.
We used that car until I was about 15 years old. Just a few months before trading
it in, he had it painted a shiny black so that it looked much better. We went to the paint
shop to see it while it was in some sort of drying room with bright lights. I was amazed at
how much better it looked. Still, it was at the end of its useful life. A new car was a
necessity. The cost of the paint job had been wasted.
The next car was a 1955 Buick Special two-door hardtop. I have described it
elsewhere. The car had been driven for a few months by the wife of A.J. Montgomery, a
car salesman in Albertville. Mrs. Montgomery was a teacher at the same school as my
mother so I had seen that car parked out on the street for some months. I never dreamed
that we would end up with it.
The car was designed for premium fuel which was a hardship. To make matters
worse, it got very low gas mileage, about eleven miles per gallon as I recall. Such
inefficiency was typical for cars in the mid 1950s. The car manufacturers didnt care
since there was no competition from foreign makers. The gas companies were delighted
with the low miles per gallon. Fortunately, gas was about 25 cents a gallon, but that
amount was harder to come up with back then than the current price of gas.
Father was particularly suspicious of the automatic transmission. From the very
beginning, he seemed to want it to go bad, foolish as that sounds. The wish was fulfilled
in a strange way. It was necessary in those days to do regular tune-ups on a car for it to
run well, but he failed to do that. When it began to skip because of needing new spark
plugs, he immediately came to the illogical conclusion that the transmission had gone
bad. Occams Razor, or just common sense, should have suggested another explanation.
He took it to T.C. Crain Buick in Guntersville. "The transmission has gone bad in this
thing. Its good enough for me. I should have known better than to buy a car with
automatic transmission. I want you to rebuild it." In fact, it only needed a motor tune-up.
The dealership did as he had directed, but the transmission job was botched by the
mechanic. From then on, the car actually did have transmission problems. It failed to
engage normally when put into drive. We managed to get by without fixing it. It never
drove well again.
When he traded it on a new car, the dealer said, "This car has a bad transmission,
but Ill still give you a good trade-in on it." The salesman, however, inflated the price of
the new car to disguise the low value of the trade-in. The trick worked as it does with
many people even now.
The Buick was the main car that I drove as a teenager. It was a stylish, attractive
car, so I felt like big driving it. Like most teenage boys, I took pride in keeping it clean

and polished. Practically every time I washed or shined it, my parents criticized and
mocked me for doing it.
In later years, I made little effort to clean or polish their cars mainly because I had
been so disgusted with criticism as a teenager. On rare occasions when I started to wash
their various cars, they objected, not out of concern for me, but for some unknown
reasons of their own. I suspect that they mainly didnt want me to use soap and water at
their expense.
I recall the last time I attempted to wash one of their cars at home. I had already
dragged out the hose, filled the wash bucket, and was about to start when one of them
came outside and insisted that I stop.
"Ill never do it again," I thought angrily, as I emptied the bucket and returned the
hose to its place. "They have no appreciation at all." In fact, I did wash some of their cars
in the future, but only at coin washes. I stopped even doing that at one point after they
moved to Russellville. They owned a 1992 gray Lincoln Continental that showed every
speck of dirt. Because our own vehicles were old and unreliable, we began to drive it to
the stores for shopping for them and for us.
"I dont want you driving the car anymore unless we are with you," my father
rudely ordered Delorise. I told her privately, "If we cant use it, Im sure not going to
keep it clean anymore." The car got increasingly filthy. I saw them look at it with
disapproval, but neither had the nerve to say anything about it. They knew full well why I
had stopped washing it. At length, it got so bad that I swallowed my resolve and picked
up the chore again.
Dropping back in time,, the year I finished my bachelors degree at Jacksonville,
my parents were driving a 1962 Ford Falcon. My father had a life-long assertion that he
wanted a car with no accessories. He got his wish with the Falcon. The car had a manual
transmission and was badly underpowered. Its only redeeming feature was beautiful,
pleated red leather upholstery. None of us liked it, not even him. He realized that he had
made a mistake, and even admitted it grudgingly. This Falcon is the car that he accused
us of doing away with about a year before his death. That was one of the few times when
he seemed to be off mentally.
It wasnt long until they traded the Falcon in on the first of a series of three
Plymouths. During the time of the Plymouths, I was away from home and so dont
remember much about them. The first one was a four door sedan, pale green, with an
automatic transmission, radio, and heater. This is the car they lent for a couple of days to
Leamon and Alva when they had a major breakdown at the "Y" north of Guntersville. It
was not a particularly nice car, not having power steering, power brakes, air conditioning
or any of the other things expected in cars today. The steering was particularly stiff and
heavy. It was hard to maneuver, yet far superior to the Falcon.

The next Plymouth was, by far, the nicest car they had owned to that point. It was
a beautiful yellow four door sedan with a brown leather quality interior and, of all things,
power steering and air conditioning. They didnt keep it long, before they traded it, for no
good reason, on a 1967 Plymouth, white four door sedan with air conditioning and other
equipment like the earlier Plymouth. I rather suspected that they traded mostly because I
had a 1966 Plymouth. This made him want a better car than mine. The new car was much
less attractive than the older one, but my father had started the illogical pattern of
frequent trading that only accelerated when he later got his hands on the money from the
Morris estate.
Next came a series of Chevrolets, all of them four-door sedans, well equipped like
current cars. The first one was green with an incredibly powerful engine, the next was a
1977 Chevrolet Caprice Classic with white body and tan vinyl top. It was a great car
which I liked so well that Delorise and I purchased one nearly like it except for color.
About this time, my Father got hold of the Morris money and traded that car for a
blue diesel Chevrolet sedan (the one we drove to Canada when Maria was a small baby),
but like many cars of General Motors, it was a lemon. The transmission wouldnt shift
into the final gear under 70 miles per hour.
Disgusted with General Motors, he traded it after only six months on an elegant
Chrysler New Yorker Fifth Avenue. It was beautiful inside and out and fully equipped,
but in just a short time he traded it on a Mercury sedan which he drove for a short time
before trading it on an even more elegant Lincoln Town Car.
When they first visited Leon and Cleo in that huge sedan, Cleo looked out the
window and said, "Who has pulled a damn hearse into our driveway!" She actually
mistook the car for a hearse.
Somewhere, early in this series of cars, my father bought a 1964 Valiant which he
drove for years. We moved it to Russellville where it remained, undriven, in the basement
for years. He drove it only occasionally during the first few months, but didnt want me
to drive it even enough to keep it up. After putting up with it being in the way of getting
into the driveway, I finally backed it into the garage where it stayed uncranked for many
years.
Hed talk about selling it. "I want people to bid on it," he insisted. "Its worth a lot
of money." I thought he was completely mistaken about its value, but thats one time
when he likely was correct. After his death, I advertised it in the paper and got numerous
phone calls for weeks. It sold almost immediately, although the buyer had to use a wench
to drag it from the garage. The wheels wouldnt turn, and so left black "skid" marks
inside the garage as they tugged it out. The car needed a paint job, had engine problems,
was stinky and filthy inside and had defective brakes. Still, the guy who bought it acted
like he had made an extraordinary find. Theres no accounting for peoples tastes.
Yet, my Father was correct. I was soon offered more than twice what I asked for the
vehicle, but too late. It was already sold.

After buying the Lincoln Town Car, he had used up the Morris money, and so
didnt continue to trade as often. Why Mother allowed him to waste her inherited money
like that is beyond me, especially since he hated my grandparents and treated them with
disrespect. It was wrong for him to run through everything they built up their entire lives,
but there was nothing I could do about it. Mother could have put a stop to it, but wasnt
willing to stand up to him. I said something to him about it one time, and got the
indignant response from him that it was "None of my business." Actually it was my
business since he had zero claim on the money he was wasting. Inherited money should
be used wisely as long as there are direct descendants who should benefit from it. Car
dealers were the main ones who benefited from the Morris estate.
If Mother had outlived him for years, she would have greatly needed her familys
money. If not, it really should have gone to me and then to Maria as the actual heirs of the
Morris estate. It made me realize how important it is to put things in writing as to the
disposal of ones assets, but so far I have failed to apply that in my own life. We need to
make a will.
Im sure the car dealers laughed with greedy glee every time they saw him
coming. He was a poor money manager. No doubt they cheated him each time. But he
was spending my grandparents money and didnt seem to care. It made no sense.
After the Town Car came a gray Lincoln Continental sedan that had belonged to
Dr. C.S. Nix of Hamilton. This is the one mentioned above in connection with another
matter. It drove and rode well, gave excellent mileage, but had a troublesome air
suspension system and a transmission that failed prematurely.
Their last car was the Toyota minivan that we still have as of 2014. He insisted on
a minivan which I thought was not wise. "You dont need a van. Get a sedan," I urged.
"No, Im going to have a van," he insisted. Later I saw that he was correct since it was
much easier to get them in and out and to transport wheelchair and walkers. I dont know
how we would have managed without it.

Cars that I and/or Delorise owned

My father lent me the 1938 Chevrolet for a few months when I got a job in
Columbus, but Ive described that elsewhere. It remained his, but he gave me a bill of
sale in case I had an accident. That way, he wouldnt be liable. It was a sensible action
that I had suggested. If I became liable, I had nothing to lose. They did.
My first car was a 1963 Plymouth Valiant and then a 1966 Plymouth VIP. Both
cars are described elsewhere.

When Delorise and I married, I still had the 1966 Plymouth and she had a 1964
model black Ford sedan. When the Plymouth became unreliable, we unwisely bought a
used Chrysler 300, burgundy with a white vinyl top. It drove and looked great, but had
serious problems with the engine. The dealer, Kilpatrick Motors, in Albertville had
cheated us.
We traded it for a used white Rambler station wagon. The car dealer advertised
the traded-in Chrysler as having leather interior. It was vinyl. The ad described it as a
"one-owner car." It had multiple owners. That illustrated for us even more what liars car
dealers can be.
We sold the Plymouth to Cosey Bragwell at a ridiculously low price rather than
selling it individually. I hadnt yet wised up to how to get the most from cars.
The only brand-new car Delorise and I bought was a 1977 Chevrolet Caprice
Classic. That vehicle was priced only $250 more than two used models on the lot at the
same time. It was a mistake to buy it, as the car proved troublesome due to a transmission
defect from the factory.
General Motors had, and has continued, a long record of making inferior cars. The
crooked car dealer (Billy Mitchell Chevrolet) hid that defect from us until the warranty
had run out. There was nothing we could have done but sue him. That would have been a
costly and possibly futile undertaking.
A couple of years later, a mentally deranged customer Bill Mitchell had cheated
brought a gun to the dealership and killed him on the spot. The man did what many others
had felt like doing. That time, the dealer cheated the wrong person.
Somewhere in this period we bought a 1977 Ford truck. Ill speak of it later in
connection with camping.
Our next car was an 1984 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight sedan. We were looking for a
car to buy, so happened to be at the dealership when that car was traded in on a new
Lincoln. We bought it on the spot. We traded in the 1977 Chevrolet. We didnt want to
sell the Chevrolet individually since we knew it had transmission problems. The man
who bought it from the dealer called at home.
"I bought the car you traded in at Gateway Lincoln-Mercury," he said. "I just
wanted to ask you about it."
"I sure wish you had called me before you bought it," I replied. "It has a serious
defect in the transmission and leaks transmission oil all the time. Youre gonna wish you
had never seen it." He didnt have much to say upon hearing the bad news. Im sure that
wasnt what he had expected me to say.

The Olds was luxurious and fully-equipped as were all of our cars except for the
Valiant, Rambler, Delorises old Ford and the Ford truck. Those three cars had automatic
transmissions, radios, heaters, but not the luxury equipment that is virtually standard on
cars today. The day of large luxury sedans has passed, due to the high cost of fuel and
damage to the environment. I dont expect to own another one.
The Olds was severely damaged in a rear-end collision. Delorise was waiting to
turn from Jackson onto Wilson when Denise McKinney struck her in the rear. The woman
was tending to her baby and paying no attention to road conditions. She never slowed at
all before striking the Olds. Naturally, she had no insurance. Our insurance paid for the
damage to be fixed and planned to let it go at that. I went to the State Farm office and let
them know otherwise. "I want you to make the woman pay. If you dont want your part, I
want the deductible we had to pay. Letting people get by like that just encourages them to
drive without insurance."
At my insistence, they collected from her. We got back the deductible. I felt that it
just had to cost her something. Delorise had trouble with her neck for months after the
wreck. Despite it being entirely her fault and her illegally not having insurance,
McKinney never so much as checked on her or offered to pay for damage to our vehicle.
I hope her having to cough up $900 taught her a lesson.
The Oldsmobile was one of the best cars we ever owned. It gave some trouble,
but none of it major. It gave us 220,000 miles and was still running well when we got rid
of it. We sold the Olds individually rather than trading it.
Of all the cars my parents owned, the only one they allowed us to buy was the
1984 Lincoln Town Car which we used for years. We sold it individually after we bought
Nell Arnolds 1982 Mercedes-Benz. As of 2013, the Lincoln was still owned locally. I
saw it in the parking lot at Wal Mart and it looked about the same as when we sold it.
We had wanted to buy certain other cars that my parents traded in, but they, most
likely at my fathers insistence, wouldnt allow it. The car dealers to get the benefit of his
extravagance rather than us. One time we were in immediate need of a newer car. I
quickly called the dealership directly to ask to buy their trade-in off the lot, but it had
already been sold.
As to the Mercedes-Benz, our next door neighbor Nell Arnold had it from new.
She kept it covered up in the basement of her house while she drove other cars. Only on
rare occasions did she drive it, mainly when going to visit her daughter in Jackson,
Mississippi. When we got it, the Mercedes had only about 40,000 miles, and looked like
new.
Nell had damaged the transmission all in one trip when she continued to drive it
although it was clearly in need of attention. "It began to slow down and went slower and
slower no matter how much I pressed on the gas pedal," she described. "The mechanic
told me it was low on transmission fluid and that I had damaged it."

We knew that before we bought it. The transmission shifted roughly, but lasted for
years before it failed completely. We had it replaced and have used it for years now. The
car seems still reliable although it needs air conditioning work. I like to drive it in nice
weather with the windows down and the sun roof open. That gives an open feel almost
like a convertible. Its a great second car even if it is a diesel which shakes noticeably,
and produces a characteristic clacking sound when idling. On the road, those factors are
not evident.
Over the years, I have been fortunate enough not to have a serious auto accident
not yet anyway. There have been several near misses, some of which were entirely my
fault. The most recent was 2009 when I pulled from a parking spot directly into the path
of a passing car. I looked, but didnt see it. The vehicle was, however, moving at an
extreme rate of speed, far above the legal limit on the streets of Florence. It may have
come around the block from behind without obeying the stop sign, but I cant be sure.
The driver swerved and missed. That was all that prevented the accident. It shook me up
quite a bit and I am now making an extraordinary effort to be more careful.
When I was 16, I made a short scrape on the side of the Buick. My parents were
in attendance at a dance at the Armory in Guntersville. I got tired of waiting and drove
the car around a bit. At a corner, I wasnt experienced enough to realize the need to swing
over before a ninety degree turn and scraped the car.
At that dance my father got extremely drunk. He vomited for hours when we got
home and was still sick the next day. "Look at him and see what happens when you drink
too much," Mother told me in disgust.
His comment to me, the next day when he sobered up, was "Youve done a lot of
bad things, but this time I made a fool of myself."
That was just like him. He put me down for nothing and only then admitted he
had done wrong. I would have preferred that he say nothing than to equate my "horrible
crimes" with his public intoxication. That was his normal way of treating me, so I
shouldnt have been surprised, but I was. It hurt me very much.
Decades later, I made a dent in the rear fender of our white Rambler station
wagon when we were at David Crockett State Park near Lawrenceburg. I was pulling out
of a parking space and didnt notice the tree that was immediately alongside the right rear
of the car.
Another time I knocked the outside rear view mirror off our elegant yellow 1966
Plymouth VIP. I hit it against a tree in our driveway at the trailer on Underwood Road.
There was no excuse. I was careless.

Ive gotten only three tickets so far, but have deserved many more. In Columbus,
Georgia I got a ticket for parking in a "no-parking at certain hours" zone. It was
unintentional. The sign was on an extremely tall pole which extended well up into limbs
of a tree so that it wasnt visible. The next time I well deserved a ticket for racing with
some students and running a red light. It was right alongside the school to make matters
worse. I wasnt much older than the students and acted immaturely. The last time was
near Huntsville when we were coming home from a trip and got lost on a deserted back
road. I met a cop on the prowl for tickets and he gave me one for speeding. I was
speeding, but the conditions made it completely safe. That makes no difference to the
typical "bird-brain" type that works as a cop. I have grown to detest them as a group,
although I recognize that individual officers are not necessarily like that. My limited
experience with law enforcement people has been almost completely bad.
The above discussion of cars covers a long period of time. I now return to a
chronological sequence which picks up with grades nine, ten, eleven, and twelve.
Chapter 11: Senior High School
Senior high was in the three-story, columned building next to the junior high and
consisted of grades 9-12. This was the same building my father had attended decades
before. In the absence of proper maintenance, it had gone down to the point that there
was some fear as to its safety.
The balcony in the auditorium showed signs of slipping. Nobody was allowed to
sit in it, or under it. Of course, we entered and left beneath it. In some classrooms, the
floor showed separation from the walls. There were rumors that a collapse was possible.
Either the fears were unfounded (possible since it never fell down) or the town was
incredibly fortunate. The building continued in use without significant repair into the two
thousands. It was only after 2009 that changes to the campus to the tune of thirty-five
million dollars were made. The older building were torn down along with McCord
Avenue School, although a duplicate of the senior high building was constructed at a
different site on the campus.
For the first time, we were able to rent lockers. The transaction was handled in the
Agriculture Building on a first-come-first-served basis. The school didnt have quite
enough lockers for each student to have one. To share was sometimes necessary,
especially for freshmen.
I had my own locker, except that I voluntarily shared my large senior locker with
a girl in the class who had ended up without one. It presented no problem, especially
since I worked in the principals office one period and was able to obtain a second locker
from a student who dropped out.
It was at the high school where I saw a fight between two girls. It started on the
third floor near the stairwell. They slapped, cursed, and pulled hair as they wrested on the
floor. A crowd gathered to watch and cheer which served to intensify the altercation.

Incredibly, they started slowly tumbling down the stairs as they struggled. The fight
terminated on the ground floor when the principal finally showed up. Id seen boys fight
on occasion, but the girl fight was far more vicious.
An amusing incident involved a girl, Sarah Smith, who had the most vile
reputation imaginable. Whether it was deserved, I dont know, but she was universally
regarded as a whore. Her name was written on bathroom walls and she was the butt of
bawdy comments by both boys and girls.
During breaks, she always stood at the same spot on one of the stairway landings.
Not voluptuous at all, she was short, slightly stout, modestly dressed, but had penetrating
eyes with far too much mascara. Its possible she was merely the victim of vicious
slander. Such things could happen.
Our junior year, the school employed a magic show to put on a program in the
auditorium for the student body. Among the acts was a "mind reader." The performers had
covertly gathered bits of trivial information from students prior to the program. The
psychic then called various students to the stage and pretended to be able to extract
information from their minds about a variety of things. One of the more prominent boys
was on the stage and the man revealed the name of his regular girl friend.
"Its Sarah Smith," he said with assurance.
Some jokester had fed the spurious information to the performers to get a laugh. It
worked in a big way. The audience hooted and roared in mirth over and over. The
teachers attempted to remain somber, but a couple of them chuckled. The boy turned red
in the face with embarrassment. Even the "mind reader" laughed. He perceived that they
had been scammed and what was the true nature of the "girl friend" he had announced.
Beginning with the ninth grade, we had different teachers each period. Ill
comment on just a few of the ones I especially remember, whether for good or for bad.
The mediocre ones didnt impress me enough even to recall their names.
We had a new, young physical education teacher, Coach Alford, who had a beautiful redhaired wife who taught English. I took physical education only in the ninth grade. After
that, I worked in the principals office. Office practice, as it was called, substituted for
physical education.
The young coach ran a very good physical education program. He was a
nonsmoker and one who didnt curse, at least in front of the boys, like Coach Wells had
done. To this day he is the only coach for which I have any degree of respect. He and his
wife drove a flashy Pontiac convertible, often with the top down, and we all thought they
were "cool."
Another teacher, Ralph Reed, I recall mainly because he was killed in a bus
accident on a school trip. None of the students were injured. After his death one of the
girls got emotional and said, "Oh, and he had a purple heart." Another girl asked in

alarm, "How bad did it affect him?" She didnt realize that a purple heart was a medal
from the government given to people injured while in the military.
Miss Boone was my English teacher for the junior and senior years. She had the
name of being an excellent teacher, but looking back on it I can see that she was very
poor to the point of incompetence. She failed almost totally in her responsibility to teach
us how to write. She spent an inordinate amount of time on literature and journalism. Her
neglect of teaching writing caused me some trouble in college until Miss Maude Spencer
at Snead College pointed out the right way.
Miss Boone was a self-righteous, rabidly patriotic and enthusiastically political
old maid. If she spotted a boy and girl in the hallway holding hands, she would force
them into her room and pray for them.
At the same time she was wildly patriotic, at least for males. She often spoke in
favor of boys going into the army and killing for God and country. She characterized
boys who avoided the draft, a common and legal practice at the time, as "slackers."
She attempted to force elements of her political views on students during instructional
time for English. Such political pressure was entirely out of line.
"You should always vote only for the candidates of your political party," she
insisted. "Vote a straight ticket."
After several times of hearing this, a student asked, "What some of them arent
worthy of support?"
"Then you should be running yourself," she countered. That ignored the fact that
none of us were old enough to vote or to run for political office. The age then was
twenty-one.
One night, some prankster wrote the "F" word in foot-high letters with soap on
both sides of her black car. She drove through town and to school without noticing it.
When she discovered the words, she cried in front of the class. I think "Bitch"would have
been a more appropriate bit of graffiti.
At the time I didnt realize what a poor teacher she was. Later I understood the
comments of a former student who returned to visit in her class after having had college
composition.
"How well did I prepare you for college?" she asked. It was obvious that she
expected praise.
"To tell the truth, you didnt give us what we needed," he responded. "You didnt
teach us how to write. It nearly caused me to fail English 101."
"Youve insulted me. Get out of my room," she ordered angrily.

He didnt leave. She didnt press the point. After class, he approached her to try to
explain the reasons for what he had said, but she was having nothing to do with it. As we
filed from the room, she bitterly reviled him. What he did was tell the truth and she didnt
want to hear that.
I dont often notice what anybody wears, but I well remember a day when Miss
Boone wore a completely transparent see-through blouse that showed her slip down to
the waistI couldnt believe she did that. It was repulsive and seemed out of character
with her. Some of the teachers must have said something as she never wore it again.
By far the poorest teacher at the high school was Mr. MacIntosh who supposedly
taught physics and chemistry. He was an ignoramus who spent practically all his class
time telling stories, mainly about sports. We were poorly prepared for college in his
subjects.
The librarian was Miss Brown whom I liked very much. She was annual sponsor
the year I was on the Mountaineer staff. She had me appointed to Quill and Scroll, a
journalism society. Later she was librarian at Jacksonville State when I was in school
there. When I was a small child living on Baltimore Avenue near her house, we had
visited Miss Brown. The main thing I remember was her talking parrot. She fed it
crackers and told us that it might well live more than seventy years.
For biology we were victims of Mr. Copeland, one of those "wonder" graduates
from Auburn. Like thousands of others he went to school on the G.I. Bill of Rights. The
universities lowered their standards to keep them in school so they could get the tuition
money. He knew little or nothing about biology and was the worst speller I have ever
known. One time he attempted to write "oak" on the board and put it as "oke." He quickly
erased it when he saw us sniggering, but didnt write it back, likely because he didnt
know how. It was a poor start for me in biology, but that ended up as my college major.
I learned to type well during the 11th and 12th grades. Willie Maude Nelson, wife
of the principal, Dr. E.E. Nelson was the instructor for Typing I. We had manual
typewriters with blank keyboards. A single electric model sat at the back. We took turns
using it. That meant about 1 months between uses considering the size of the class. I
hated it. When I laid my hands on the home keys, all of them activated. I was accustomed
to the heavy striking needed on manual models. The way to correct keying errors was to
pull the carriage to one side and erase the mistake. If the eraser crumbs fell into the
typewriter, they caused problems. This type of correction produced unsightly documents.
Whiteout was years in the future. About five spaces from the end of each line, a bell
sounded to signal us to manually return the carriage to the left for the next line. If a word
being typed was longer than that, it was necessary to press margin release to finish it.
The key now called "Enter" was called "Return" on early models of electric typewriters.
"Return" still had to be pressed at the end of each line when the bell sounded. Typewriter
ribbons began to grow dimmer from the very first use and required a messy periodic
replacement. It was necessary to clean the keys frequently or accumulated ink would fill

in the space on "o" and the space on "e." The reason the "Shift" key for capital letters is
called that is because, on manual models, pressing "Shift" literally shifted the armatures
so that a different part hit the paper to make capital letters. Failure to fully depress "Shift"
would result in "flying capitals" which appeared well above the line.
Special formats were difficult to accomplish. Superscript or subscript was
possible only by manually turning the roller a half turn and then typing the number.
Centering could be done only by calculating the midpoint of the line, placing the carriage
at that point, and then backspacing half the number letters in the line to be centered.
Placing text in columns required a complicated set of mathematical calculations. To have
a justified right margin, it was necessary to place slashes at the end of each sentence to
bring all the lines to the same point. Then the typist counted the slashes on each line and
then retyped the page while inserting extra spaces between words so that the right margin
was even.
Only one size font was possible on a given machine. Most typewriters had Pica
and a few the smaller Elite. Bold or italic font wasnt possible, but one could underline
words. A shift to the upper part of the ribbon produced red type.

It was common for keys to stick. That required a trip to the repair shop. Any
major corrections or rearrangement of text meant starting over and retyping the entire
document. If a page being typed had to be removed, it was impossible to reinsert it
correctly so the material lined up. Only persons who went through that time can truly
appreciate word processing.
While I was enrolled in typing I, my parents bought me a typewriter to use at
home. That was a big help even if it was an old model. We got it somewhere near
Scottsboro and I used it through undergraduate school.
I was, I think, the only boy in Typing II, but I saw the value in being able to type
well and didnt care. Nobody could have anticipated the need for typing that would arise
in future years in connection with computers, so that skill was even more valuable than I
had anticipated.
M.G. Couch replaced Dr. Nelson as principal. Nelson had cancer so he moved to
the faculty at Jacksonville. He didnt live long after that. Mr. Couch was a skinny, pale,
tall man who looked like a dried-up vampire in a horror movie. I liked him and he was a
good principal far as I knew. When I was in college at Jacksonville, Mr. Couch came
there on a recruiting trip for teachers. He spotted me and told me he was considering a
certain student. I took it that he was asking my opinion.
"You better be careful," I replied. "Hes really dumb and I hear that he isnt going
to get his degree because of not having enough quality points."
"I hope hed be able to say something better about you," he responded rudely.

Couch didnt like it because I had been candid and truthful. He went on to hire the
guy. As I predicted, he didnt graduate. He lied, claimed a degree, and drew pay based on
that falsehood. It led to legal problems and a lawsuit being filed against Mr. Couch. He
later told my parents that I tried to warn him but he didnt listen. I thought it was good
enough for him.
Extracurricular and social activities in senior high
I belonged to the Beta Club which was the equivalent, in that day, of the National
Honor Society. Membership is, in theory, for life. I still have the Beta Club pin that we
wore on our lapels to announce our "status." The club had regular meetings every few
weeks after school.
For a long time I went by and picked up Vickie Rains to go to meetings with me.
Vickie ended up in New Orleans as a big shot with the phone company, but I lost track of
her after that. I think she married for a short time and that she had a big mansion in New
Orleans with numerous cats. She is dead now.
In the 12th grade I went to the Beta Club convention in Birmingham. Our school
put on a skit in a large auditorium. Part of it revolved around a greasy hair tonic of the
time called "Wildroot Cream Oil." The song went "Better get Wildroot Cream Oil
Charlie. Start getting it today. Youll have a tough time Charlie, keeping all those girls
away."
I played the part of Charlie and came onto the stage with my hair in disarray. Girls
ran over and rubbed hair oil on it while singing the song. It was a fun skit.
Lynda Lowery of our club was the state Beta Club president that year, so she introduced
us with great enthusiasm.
Two of the more disreputable boys in the class who were not in the Beta Club
showed up at the hotel bringing whiskey. This led to serious trouble. Patsy Williams,
daughter of one of the more wealthy families in town, was there and, according to rumor,
got drunk and involved in fornication with the boys.
Mr. Weir, one of the sponsors, got Jerry DeSpain and me to ride in the car with
him to bring Patsy home. He wanted us as witnesses that he didnt do anything improper.
The story was that Patsy got pregnant and had an abortion as a result of her activities, but
I dont know if that was true or not.
Mrs. Coffee learned about the problem at the convention. She had a field day with
her usual lies.
"Mr. Weir got drunk in Birmingham and brought home a carload of students who
were also drunk," she asserted with glee. She made the mistake of telling the story to my
Mother.

"Elton was in the car and told me all about it. Nobody was drunk but Patsy. Mr.
Weir didnt do a thing wrong," she replied.
Taken aback, Mrs. Coffee immediately stopped spreading the slander. Word about
the incident got back to Mr. Weir. He said he sure was glad I was along to defend him.
I also belonged to Quill and Scroll, a journalism club, but the way it was handled
made it almost meaningless. Members were picked from the senior class, mainly from the
paper and annual staff. The choices were made near the end of the year so it came down
to getting another lapel pin and membership card. The group never had a meeting.
As a member of the annual staff, I was picture editor although the job title was
staff photographer. I took no pictures and didnt have a camera. My responsibility was to
work with Robert O. Johnson to arrange for him to take pictures.
An examination of the annual the year I graduated will show that, in most group
pictures, a number of the boys were making an obscene gesture, the infamous phallic
sign. None of us noticed that until it was too late so they went into the annual just like
they were. I can imagine that theyve had to hide their annuals from their children, so
perhaps their misconduct didnt go unpunished. What they thought to be cute ended up
cheap and sleazy.
Tryouts for the senior play were announced, but very few came. The next day,
Miss Boone was angry. She collared Jerry DeSpain and me. "I want both of you to be in
the play. Im so disappointed that you didnt come to tryouts. Be there this afternoon."
We knew there was no choice. To defy her could have had disastrous consequences. She
was a senior sponsor as well as the English teacher.
As a result, I was in the senior play as Mr. Brinkworth in a version of "Father
Knows Best." Mine was a major supporting role rather than one of the main stars.
Miss Boone picked the play without allowance for any student input. This assured that it
would be sappy, along the lines of "Leave It To Beaver." We practiced the production in
the auditorium most afternoons after school for weeks.
While waiting in the wings to go on stage we had a lot of fun with bawdy chat and
placement of obscene drawings on the walls. Cast members with dates also in the play
used the area as a "lovers lane." Nobody ratted out anybody else. That just wasnt done.
This was where I had my only experience with smoking cigarettes. All the others smoked,
so I tried it also in an attempt to fit in. At that time, little was known about the dangers of
tobacco, but filter cigarettes had come onto the market in response the preliminary reports
about possible risks. I was so unaccustomed to cigarettes that, one time, I lit the filter end.
That gave the others a good laugh at my expense. I didnt inhale and so didnt become
addicted and soon decided it wasnt for me.

Not one time did Miss Boone come backstage to check on us. The old hypocrite
would have worn her knees out praying if she had known what went on. Overall, it was a
good experience that I am glad to have had.
Senior year, I was selected, along with Sylvia Cochran, as "Most Likely to
Succeed." This was a part of the annuals Whos Who section. The editor of that section
had us meet at the depot. The instructions were to dress shabbily. "Get up there and hang
off the end of that boxcar," she directed. As planned, we looked like two hoboes.
In later years Sylvia had obvious, huge breast implants so that she looked like a
prostitute at the class reunions. Whether Sylvia "succeeded" or, for that matter, whether I
did, is for others to judge. She has been dead for years.
During my senior year I enjoyed being one of a group who worked in the school
supply store which was located underneath the central staircase. Those steps were
removed years before the building was torn down. The money went into the operating
budget of the school, but we didnt mind helping out free. It was an honor to be one of
the ones allowed to operate it and to write our names on the walls inside the enclosure. I
wrote my name there along with Marie Riddle. I had hoped to go back in later years and
see our names still there, but didnt get the chance.
The junior class each year put on the prom for the senior class. I helped with the
preparations during my junior year. We worked on it late into the night for several days.
The prom theme was "Moonglow." The elaborate decorations featured a large illuminated
moon along with the obligatory balloons and crepe paper decorations.
One night some students in cars repeatedly circled the gym and threw eggs.
"Everybody come look whats happening," a member of our group exclaimed.
It was an incredible sight. The eggs, discards from a local hatchery, contained living
chicks, many of them with obvious abnormalities. The school grounds were littered with
living and dead baby chicks. It was a horrible episode. I expected trouble from the
principal the next day, but as far as I know, nothing was ever said. He surely must have
seen the baby chicks.
With our hard work, the gym was transformed from ordinary into a dream-like
place of beauty. It was hard to believe how well it turned out. The following year when
we were seniors, it didnt look nearly as nice.
My date for the junior year was Peggy Kennedy. She was short with brown hair.
Peggy wore an attractive green prom dress. I brought her an orchid for a wrist corsage.
Its a good thing I asked her about it in advance. There was no place to pin the regular
type corsage.
Of course, I wore the standard garb of the day: a white sport coat, bow tie, and
black pants. Tuxes had not come into fashion as prom wear at that time. Limousines for

prom couples had not been dreamed of at that time. I doubt any limousines existed
anywhere in north Alabama in the later 50s, especially not rental ones.
My regular date during the senior year was Marie Riddle. She was new to our
school and sat directly in front of me in Miss Boones senior English. I thought her long
hair was the most beautiful I had ever seen. We went various places, including the senior
prom, but I was careful not to lead her on under false pretenses. It seemed clear to me that
she was wanting to find a husband but nothing could have been farther from my mind at
that point. I had years of college ahead of me and had zero interest in a serious
relationship.
Marie had old parents. Her father was extremely strict with her. I was afraid of
him. She lived way out in the country close to Geraldine. The drive from the road to her
house was long, curved steep and grown up on the sides. We were just friends, never
sweethearts, but I thought she was a very nice girl and would make somebody a terrific
wife, just not me at that point in my life.
The example of marriage I grew up with was a dysfunctional one and I didnt see
much to recommend it. It took me a long time to get over aversion to the thought of
marriage.
Marie and I enjoyed the Senior Prom. I wore the same costume as the year before.
She had a red dress that was quite attractive. I cant be sure about her corsage, but it may
have been white carnations since an orchid wouldnt go well with her red dress. We
discussed it in advance and I bought what she suggested.
Since the juniors did the decorations, I dont remember much about them, but do
recall grabbing Marie a balloon when they came pouring down. In the 1958 annual, my
hand is clearly visible as I reached up to grab it. A few days later I brought her to our
house at Mountain View where we took a series of pictures that are still in existence.
While still in high school, Marie got an interview with a recruiter from the FBI which
resulted in a job offer in the Washington D.C. area. I wrote her once and got one letter
back from her wherein she said that she had met a boy she liked. I think his last name was
Mayfield. I was glad to hear it as I was moving on to other things and wanted her to be
happy. I didnt write her back and assumed that she had married him.
Actually she married a man with the last name Seibel. I didnt hear from her for
decades until it became possible to get in touch over the Internet. Marie had worked only
a short time for the FBI, before she moved to support staff at a college where she had a
successful career.
After our 50th class reunion, Delorise and I visited her house in West Virginia. I
had seen pictures of her farm. It looked like a postcard. The reality was substantially
different. The grounds were in need of mowing, the barn in early stages of deterioration,
the house in need of repair, and the interior of the house cluttered, shabby, and dirty. To
say that I was disappointed would be putting it mildly.

In addition to the other problems with Maries place, they allow two large dogs to
live inside the house. One is named "Peaches," but I dont recall the name of the other.
The dogs stay there alone all day while they are at work. At night, one dog sleeps on the
bed with them and the other on the floor alongside their bed.
"What a horrible arrangement," I thought, but said nothing.
I suspect things were not like that until the death of her first husband. She is now
paired up with Gary, a crude mountain man who is younger than some of her own
children. She asked me what I thought about her marrying him, but she didnt seek my
opinion until after she had already done it. What could I say at that point. Im afraid she
isnt happy, but it seems she is trying to make the best of a bad situation. I wonder what
will happen in a few years when she will be an old woman and he still a relatively young
man.
Marie described the circumstances. "After my husband died, I felt overwhelmed
with so much work to do on the farm. Gary had been coming by to help. One day, I
started to cry. He got down on his knees and asked me to marry him."
She was emotionally vulnerable and needed help. Marie has never said that she
"loves" Gary and I suspect that she doesnt. He fills a great need for her, so maybe thats
enough.
Her husband owns a small cabin in sight of the main house. Behind it is a tall
waterfall that sometimes goes dry, but after a rain has a copious flow. Its a striking
feature. The interior of the cabin was a horror, much worse than the house. It was dirty,
cluttered, unkept, had a distinct odor, had numerous spider webs, evidence of insect
invasion, and a large number of baited mouse traps setting out in the open.
"The next time you come, you can stay here in the cabin rather than in a motel,"
she offered. "Bring Maria with you."
I was incredulous. A normal person wouldnt kennel a dog in that dump. The idea
that Maria would stay there is beyond imagination. Of course we hid our true feelings and
thanked her for the offer. It is highly unlikely that we will go there again. Im glad that I
went that one time.
During my senior year, Mother had a hysterectomy due to a fibroid tumor that had
grown too large to leave alone. Such tumors are noncancerous and typically go away after
menopause, but that wasnt a realistic option in her case. To prepare me psychologically
for what was at the time major surgery, she said, "What do you do if a car gets something
wrong with it?" Im sure she expected me to respond that it needed to go to a mechanic to
be fixed.

My reply was, "Trade it in on a newer model." I meant it as a joke and she took it
that way. But it really wasnt proper matter for levity.
The operation was preformed at Highland Baptist Hospital in Birmingham by a
leading surgeon, Dr. Kahn. A nurse massaged her after the surgery which was a foolish
thing to do as it caused a blood clot that was life-threatening. As a result she missed the
rest of that year at work.
"I have enough sick leave to take off the rest of the time without losing pay, so
Im going to do it," she decided.
She recovered sufficiently to attend my high school graduation. "I always hoped
Id live long enough to see you graduate from high school," she said. In the following
years, she watched me receive the bachelor of science degree and then the master of arts
degree. Much afterward, she was present when Maria received the bachelor of arts.
Juanita Green finished out that year for her. Mother made short visits to her
classroom during that period just to stay in touch with the children. By the start of school
in the fall, she had fully recovered. She continued to work up to her retirement at age 62.
Unfortunately Juanita later developed Huntingtons disease, a brain-wasting disorder, due
to a dominant gene. As is typical in those cases, she died horribly over a several-years
period in a nursing home. For a time, she would explain to visitors, "I have
Huntingtons." Her father had died with the condition so she was familiar with it.
The last time Mother saw her, she was drawn up in a fetal position and inclined to kick,
spit on, or slap anyone coming around her. It had become unsafe to get around her. There
was no hope for improvement.
Juanita was a distant relative of ours, but that gene has not moved into our branch
of the family. It always shows up before fifty years of age. Persons older than that are
free of it. Such a gene never skips generations unless it disappears completely from that
line of descent. Juanitas daughter, the mother of two children of her own, said, "The
minute I start having symptoms, Im going to kill myself." It couldnt be dismissed as an
idle thought. In fact, a high percentage of people in her condition do commit suicide.
They are determined not to suffer as their parent did. There are now screening tests for
that gene, but none existed in the 1950s.
Mrs. Coffee, in keeping with her usual practice, put out a lie about the
hysterectomy. "When the doctor opened Eloise, he saw that she was eaten up with cancer.
He just sewed her up to die." Word of it reached Mother. She became concerned that
perhaps it was the truth and was being hidden from her. "If thats true I have a right to
know it. I want you to tell me," she demanded. She trusted me to tell the facts.
I was happy to be able to let her know that it wasnt the case. "If it were true, Id tell
you," I assured her.

Coffee took a fiendish delight in doing vicious things like that. Seven years after
the operation, she phoned Mother to ask if her "cancer" had returned. "They usually do
within seven years," she asserted with mock concern.
Mrs. Coffee is the same one who attacked Delorise when she was a child. She
grabbed the magazines, pushed her off her front porch, and tore them up. Many years
later, Coffee visited my parents are Russellville. I was greatly tempted to remind her of
the incident, but decided against it. She was a guest in our home and as such, entitled to
courtesy.
It was a long-standing practice at Albertville High School to take a senior trip to
Washington D.C. as a supervised group. To raise money for the trip, we sold magazine
subscriptions. "You shouldnt let anybody go who doesnt sell enough to pay his
expenses," the magazine representative suggested in a group meeting with the senior
class. We wouldnt agree to that. The agents pay was a percentage of total sales, so he
was concerned for himself, not for us. I sold $47 worth, barely over the suggested $45
minimum. Being stuck in the country, I was at a great disadvantage. Besides, I didnt like
to ask people for money.
Classmates who sold the most and won prizes started months in advance.
"Promise to get your magazine subscriptions from me," they urged everyone with whom
they came into contact. It worked.
We left in a caravan of cars driven by the parents to catch the train at Gadsden. To
help us stay together, we had our headlights turned on and were led by a police escort. We
got a chuckle when an old man working on the road, upon seeing us, mistook it for a
funeral procession. He respectfully put his hat over his heart and bowed his head while
we passed.
The train trip was overnight but we had the cheapest tickets and so had no choice
but to sleep in our seats. Instead of eating in the dining car, we brought brown sack meals
from home. We reached Washington before we needed to eat again. The ride was rough
and the car swayed from side-to-side. To walk was difficult. I was concerned that I might
experience motion sickness, but it didnt happen. For some reason, the train backed for
many miles on the final approach to the capital.
I cant recall the name of the hotel where we stayed, but it was not a particularly
nice one by the standards of today and probably not of that day either. It had an elevator
operated by an actual person which was the first time I had seen that. I stayed on the 4th
floor, but cant remember the room number. The school rented two buses to transport us
to the various attractions in the Washington area.
We went to the usual tourist magnets: the Smithsonian Institution, the White
House, the Washington Monument, the National Zoo, the National Cathedral, the Lincoln
Memorial, the Capitol, and the Jefferson Memorial. There was no concern about
terrorism so we entered those places unchecked for weapons or explosives. Terrorism

wasnt a concern within the United States. Things like that occurred only in foreign
countries.
At the National Cathedral, we had an amusing experience. Two men overheard us
talking and began to snigger at our Southern accents. We played along with it and even
added exaggerated southern drawl and expressions. We didnt talk any different from
anybody else, we thought.
One day we rode out to Mt. Vernon to see George Washingtons house. I thought
that was quite interesting, especially being able to see the room and bed where he had
died. There were signs all over which forbade the taking of pictures. The temptation to
get one of Washingtons bed was too great for me to resist. My camera had no flash, so I
figured I could get away with it. A guard heard the faint click when I activated the shutter.
"No picture taking in the mansion," he ordered snappishly. He was too late. I had already
had it and still retain that picture in one of our photograph albums.
The front lawn and view of the Potomac were impressive. I was of the impression
that George and Martha were buried in a small brick building toward the river, but have
later suspected that I had the wrong idea. The old tomb is still there, but Im unclear as to
when the new one, closer to the mansion, was built and they were moved to it.
Outside, for some reason, I decided that I really wanted to walk across the grass
from near the river to the front of the house. When I got part way, a guard near the house
started motioning and shouting at me. I was fairly sure he didnt want me to walk that
way, but I decided to have some fun with him. I put my hands behind my ears and cupped
them to signify that I couldnt understand him, but was trying to. I kept walking toward
him.
"Youre not supposed to walk on the grass," he said when I got almost to him.
"Oh, Im sorry. Ill go back," I said. I faked being sincere and contrite.
"Well, youre already almost here. Just come on," he responded.
"Yes, Sir, Im sorry," I said, but didnt mean a word of it. I got to do what I
wanted and no consequences came from it. I had to struggle not to laugh at how easily he
had been deceived.
One evening we went as a group to a night club where we ate and enjoyed the
entertainment. The group was a well known one. I think it was something like the Four
Lettermen, but that may not have been it. The food was extremely good.
There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary about the senior trip. There
were only two things that were the least bit unusual. First, one of the girls got
significantly sick, so much that Mrs. Weathers had to stay at the hotel with her most of
the time. Second, Williard Westmoreland and Sue Ball were already married before the

trip. On one occasion, they got together in the hotel to have sex. It created something of a
stir since it was done so openly. Jacqueline Morgan stood in hallway outside the room to
physically bar the door. I thought that the same thing could have been accomplished
without making a big deal of it.
Upon departure, we had a fairly long wait at the train station. Somebody hit up on
the idea of a group singing of the "Lords Prayer." It echoed impressively in the huge
lobby with its high ceiling. It attracted a lot of attention from the other patrons of the
station.
I was, along with Kytha McNeil, selected as class salutatorian. Brenda Medlock
who was valedictorian had, with the goal of becoming valedictorian, selected easy classes
all the way through and came out on top.
My selection meant a speech at graduation. "As Salutatorian I too salute you and
welcome you to this, our graduation," was the introductory statement. I went on to deliver
a short speech. It expresses views that, in many important aspects, differ drastically from
my later beliefs. The speech, "warts and all," was as follows.
Our Schools Have Kept Us Free
By Elton Camp, Salutatorian
One of the greatest tasks of our schools is to provide an enlightened citizenry in
order that self-government might work. In the words of Benjamin Rush, "To be long
lived, republics must invest in education. It is their first and last line of defense." No one
can doubt that our investment has succeeded. The simple truth is evident: Americans have
made democracy work. They established a nation, held it together, and expanded it while
steadily pursuing the objectives of the Constitution. They elected some mediocre
presidents, but never a wicked or dangerous one; they never yielded to a dictator; they
revealed in every crisis an ability to select able leaders. Only a people taught self
government could achieve all these things.
Education must created national unity. In the beginning, there was little basis for
an American nation. It was too large; it was thinly inhabited; the historical basis was
almost nonexistent. Unity was created, to a large degree, by the poets, novelists, editors,
and historians. The medium through which they worked was the school.
Another task of the public schools was Americanization. No other people had ever
absorbed such large or varied a group of immigrants so rapidly. There is no doubt why
American is called "the melting pot."
At the present time, our schools are as important as they were in the past. Our
nation can hold its world status only as long as youth is instructed in its past, is led to
know and understand the work of its government, is encouraged to assume the

responsibility of taking part in society, and is taught the basic principles of democracy
and life in the complicated world of today.
Recent scientific developments of a non-democratic power and of our own nation
make absolutely necessary the development of American brain power in all of the basic
fields of human knowledge. At no previous time in our nations history has the need been
so urgent for adequate training of the youth.
Our schools have proven themselves, over the years, to be the best insurance for a
continuation of our present way of life. Truly, our schools have kept us free.
Instead of the traditional black, we wore white graduation robes, which made us
look somewhat like a bunch of KKK members with flat boards on our heads instead of
hoods.
The graduation ceremony was at the auditorium of the College Avenue
Elementary School since the high school auditorium was of questionable safety.
One event created shock waves on the night of graduation. Cops were waiting to arrest a
boy in the graduating class, James Maynard, as he came off the stage. It seems that the
notorious girl of the town had named him as having fathered her unborn child. He denied
it and blood tests proved beyond doubt that he was not the father. Incredibly, the jury
found him guilty and required him to pay child support.
At that time idiots, teachers and women were excluded from jury duty in
Alabama. A group of males almost always found for a girl if she claimed a given man had
impregnated her. The facts or proof didnt matter.
James was one of the boys who, though not members, had come to the Beta Club
convention in Birmingham, so there was no reason to suppose that he maintained high
moral standards. Still, he was convicted unfairly.
My graduation year, 1958, was in the early stages of the civil rights movement. At
the beginning of that year, a rumor got out that blacks were going to attempt to enroll at
Albertville High. This resulted in a large mob appearing in cars around the school to keep
the "niggers" away. It was a false rumor, but we heard that some of the men came armed
with rifles. Those were dangerous times. Racial disharmony only increased in the years
ahead.
Overall, the ninth through twelfth grades were more enjoyable than the other
years in the Albertville schools. Most of my memories of those four years are favorable.
Chapter 12: Snead College
I decided to attend Snead College in Boaz for two main reasons. First, my father
had become unemployed when his job with the veterans training had played out through
no fault of his own. He had to get a bachelors degree in order to get a job in the public

school system. Not only was the income needed, but his retirement was in danger.
Accordingly, he had to enroll at Jacksonville State and live there due to the distance
involved. Of course when Mother had been finishing up her degree, she had driven back
and forth to Jacksonville but that wasnt even considered for him.
I realized there wouldnt be enough money for us both to go to Jacksonville at the
same time. It was essential that he get his degree. I figured Snead would be okay and it
was. The total tuition was $100 a quarter! At that time Snead was a private liberal arts
college which drew student from a wide area, including a few from foreign countries.
There were not many colleges in Alabama in those days before George Wallace became
governor and put in dozens more.
Second, the President of Jacksonville State (Houston Cole, a friend of my parents)
required all male freshmen and sophomores to take ROTC. I didnt want anything to do
with the military. By waiting to transfer until I was a junior, the ROTC requirement was
waived. This was a bigger factor in avoiding Jacksonville than finances which might have
been managed. Ive always detested the military in all its forms. I was particularly
outraged by the draft and had no intention to submit to it even if called.
At Jacksonville, my father rented a room in an old mansion a couple of miles
from the college. The house is no longer standing. This gave him a place to stay while he
finished his degree. It was owned by Mrs. Woods, a leading citizen of the town.
Of course I lived at home and commuted to Snead College except for one quarter
when I lived on campus in the dormitory, Pollock-Lipe Hall.
I rode with Jackie Conquest, Jimmy Mitchell, Henry Reed and C.B. Womack to
conserve on fuel and car use. Jackie had a shiny, clean red Willys four-door sedan; Henry
had a Volkswagen Beetle, but I cant recall much about Womacks car, except that it was
a two door Ford hardtop. Womack attended under the G.I, Bill and was much older than
the rest of us.
We picked up a McBrayer girl on the way near High Point. She was ugly and
sullen. Some years before that, her father had developed schizophrenia and killed her
mother for "being in on the plot against him." He died in the insane asylum at Tuscaloosa.
Delorise later worked under Conquests supervision for a short time at a chicken
plant in Guntersville. Conquest was one of the dumbest boys I have ever known. He
passed only a few hours at Snead before he dropped out under threat of academic
suspension. Most likely he got a job at the chicken plant mainly because his father
already worked there.
It may be that he has made well, although I have not talked with him in all the
years since. Only a short time ago, I learned that, on one occasion, he was fired from his
position for wrongdoing. When I saw him once from a distance many years ago he was

extremely fat and ugly. When young, he was trim and had been considered to be quite
nice looking.
Henry Reed was in my high school class, so I see him periodically at reunions. He
looks about the same except for being older. Whatever became of Jimmy Mitchell, I
never knew, nor did I know the outcome for Womack.
"You should major in engineering," my father insisted. "Thats where the good
paying jobs are." Due to his pressure, I initially enrolled at Snead as a Pre-Engineering
student. All he seemed to care about was that I get a job making big money whether or
not I had an iota of interest in it. I didnt have the slightest idea what an engineer did
except the kind that drove a train. I was sure that wasnt what he had in mind. Despite the
way he had treated me, I had a strong tendency to try to do what he wanted.
Quickly, I learned that I thoroughly detested engineering and the academic
courses that supported it. After a year I changed to something that did interest me,
biology. I only lost one course upon transfer despite the radical change in major. I lost it
only because I had too many hours credit. I entered Jax State as a full junior.
An interesting teacher at Snead was Granny Gray (Sarah Davis Gray). Granny
was well into her eighties, but a whiz at math. She was known for allowing her students
to use a "Card of Knowledge" on which we could write anything that would help us on
tests. This wasnt a very good idea, but she had done it for years. I was glad since math
was, and is, my weakest subject as well as the one I like the least, by far. Engineering is
applied mathematics which highlights the folly of me ever considering a degree in that
discipline.
Granny regularly asked various students to make the short trip to downtown Boaz
to get her mail. She didnt drive and it was difficult and dangerous for her to walk that far
at her advanced age.
"Will you go to the post office and get my mail?" she asked any boy whom she
happened to see. "Its between B and C and on N," she said. The letters were the
combination of her box. I dont recall its number. Nobody dared refuse. Her goodwill, or
lack thereof, could affect the grade she assigned.
Granny owned a car, a 1955 four-door Chrysler, which her son and daughter-inlaw drove. They lived in Tuscaloosa and often came up to get her for the weekend. When
she retired at Snead, Granny took up tutoring math at the University of Alabama.
The chemistry instructor was a young man named Marvis C. Webb. Webb was a
homosexual when such things hadnt yet become "respectable." He didnt try to push
anything, but one time he asked me to go with him to the downstairs storage area for
chemistry. Webb stood and watched as I got the items he requested and quietly addressed
me as "Darling." I didnt reply and he didnt pursue it. I suppose he was just trying to see
how I would react. I later heard that he had done other boys a similar way.

Webbs problem was an open secret at the school. He was privately ridiculed by
students and faculty alike. My sophomore year, the college administration finally took
action and fired him about two weeks into the term. At that time Snead was associated
with and owned by the Methodist Church so they had a right to discharge him for conduct
inconsistent with their principles. Nobody understood why they waited so long. The
timing created a huge problem since large numbers of students were enrolled in his
classes.
Webb was replaced with an old man named Roebuck. He admitted, "I dont know
anything about chemistry." By the end of the term, we had to agree with him. We all
made at least "C." The college wouldnt have dared do otherwise considering the
circumstances.
The oldest English professor was Miss Maude Spencer. She was an excellent
teacher who helped me learn how to write and increased my interest in literature. Partly
because of her, at Jacksonville, I took a minor in English to go with my biology major. It
was, perhaps, a strange combination, but worked for me since I was interested in both
subjects. The English courses have proved helpful in many ways. I still have considerable
interest in literature, especially English and American.
Mr. & Mrs. Cargo were a young couple on the move upward in the academic
world, but at that time were both teaching English at Snead. I had English literature with
Mrs. Cargo but thought that while she was highly intelligent, she made unreasonable
demands as to the understanding of archaic English words.
"Be sure you know the meaning of each word in he assigned reading," she
warned. "If I find that you dont, Ill assign a daily "F. You can look them up if you dont
recognize them."
It was unfair. There were many unfamiliar words, some of them from Middle
English. Nobody had time to look up all of them. If she discovered anyone who didnt
know a particular word, she went down the roll to ask its meaning and to assign a daily
"F" to each person who didnt know. When somebody finally answered correctly, she
stopped so it was hardly an advantage to have a last name near the front of the alphabet. I
got only one daily "F" during the term. There was a simple means to escape the penalty
just make up something you "thought" the word meant and all was okay with her.
Despite this serious shortcoming, I liked her very well and thought that she was beautiful
and that she had a very sexy voice. She and Mr. Cargo were fired (but allowed to finish
the term) for assigning a book that included a section about a farm boy having sex with a
cow.
"Its an issue of academic freedom," they argued. "We wont back down. Anybody
who doesnt want to read it should take English with Miss Spencer."

To require a reading like that was a major scandal in the late 1950s, especially at a
church-owned school. Miss Spencer herself took the lead in driving them out and I really
cant blame her. They should have had better judgment in that time and place. They
moved to the University of Paris where he continued to pursue the Ph.D. What became of
them, I dont know.
My favorite instructor was Virgil Paul Snow, the biology professor and head of
the science department. When I took the first course with him, I knew right away that
biology would be my major. Biology was easy for me, interesting, and made a lot of
sense. Snow had the reputation of being extremely hard, but I breezed through his
courses.
His laboratory was clean and well organized. It was the only air conditioned
classroom at the college. The unit was in a window of his office which adjoined the lab.
Snow kept a fan blowing into the lab so that the entire room was pleasantly cool even on
the hottest days.
"It look my entire salary for a month to pay for it," he stated when somebody
called attention to the privileged environment in which he worked.
No doubt it was true. Church related colleges were, and are, notorious for low
wages. When faculty start talking about a raise, they start talking about "the Lord." It was
clear that he enjoyed his classes and tried to do a professional job.
He later married Vivian, a dark-haired, fairly attractive business office clerk at the
college. They had a baby after a respectable period. I heard that his wife later went
insane, but recovered and they stayed together for decades until her death about 2013.
The last time I heard of him, he had a job teaching biology at a four-year college in
Georgia. I think it may have been Berea College. A good friend of Mr. & Mrs. Cargo, he
received letters from them after they reached Paris. He sometimes shared the gist of them
with us.
Snead had a required weekly assembly in Fielder Auditorium where they assigned
seats and took attendance. It had been the practice for many years and was consistent
with its nature as a church-related institution. "If you miss assembly, you will be marked
absent in all classes all day," the dean of students warned. "It could mean lowering your
grade."
The quality programs the small college provided was a surprise. I had expected to
be subjected to the harangues of some Methodist minister, but they didnt do that.
The most famous speaker was Frank Slaughter, a noted author of the time. They engaged
a well-known singer or Irish songs for a presentation, but his name has disappeared from
memory.
None of the presentations were designed to convert students to any particular
religion. Snead actually functioned as a public college and later joined the system of state

community colleges. Only a minority of students were actually Methodists. The faculty
came from a variety of religions or even none at all.
The Homecoming Queen was elected by the student body assembled in the
auditorium. The previous year many of them had, as a joke, written, on the blank cards
provided, the name of a boy.
Dean Wasson, who was the dean of students, lectured the assembled student body.
"Last year some didnt know the difference between girls and boys. Dont vote for
anybody but a girl for homecoming queen," he sternly charged.
To ensure compliance, he then had distributed a list of all the girls in the college
for us to circle the one we wanted for Queen. To the amusement of those who knew him,
a boy named Connie was on the list. Of course a good many of us voted for him.
On my ballot, I wrote a note by Connies name to read "A boy. Elementary my dear
Wasson." I doubt that Wasson actually saw the comment, but I thought it was funny.
Years later when I held a position at Northwest similar to his, I had a brush with
the same issue. It wasnt so amusing then. "Some of us boys want to run for homecoming
queen," a couple of the males informed me. They didnt want to be queen, but were
attempting to raise issues of gender equality. If a male name appeared on the list, it was
likely the students would vote him in. I decided to make a stab at joking my way out of
an uncomfortable situation.
"Okay, then. Any boy who will certify that he is a queen can run," I replied.
The term in that context meant a sissy male homosexual. The ruse worked. None of them
applied to appear on the ballot. If they had called my bluff, I dont know what my next
move would have been. It was a relief when they backed down.
Dr. Virgil McCain, Sneads president, something of a stand-up comic, had a
practice of awarding a "Doctor of Sorghum Sopping Degree" to assembly speakers. It
was a joke degree that arose from a local sorghum mill which contributed substantially to
the college. He even awarded one to the famous Dr. Frank Slaughter. "Ive been awarded
many honorary doctorates, but never one like this," he said with good humor.
Snead awarded the associate degree. It recognized successful completion of a
two-year program of study that included the core curriculum of academic courses. Mere
accumulation of two years of credits didnt necessarily qualify a student to graduate.
"Im not going to get a degree," I informed my academic advisor, Paul Snow. "I dont
want to take a course in religion and you cant graduate without it." "This is a church
related college. Its reasonable to require a course in religion," he urged. You really
should go for the degree. You have met all the requirements except that one."
Despite his sensible arguments, I didnt take the associate degree since I was
planning to get at least the bachelors degree and didnt see much value in the lower

degree. Also, I suspected that the religion course wouldnt transfer. Looking back, I wish
I had gotten the degree. An extra credential helps a resume.
My sophomore year, 1960. saw a fantastic ice storm that started unexpectedly
while I was sitting in Dean Moodys American history class. None of us college-age
students had ever seen a ice storm. Its severity and sudden onset took us by surprise. At
first it looked like nothing more than a cold rain, but within a short time the ice began to
build up on everything. Limbs began loudly crashing to the ground and utility poles
began to lean.
"Look at that. Whats going on?" a student asked the Dean, who had been
concentrating on his lecture. He looked outside and immediately left to investigate.
When the administration comprehended what was happening, it shut down the college
and sent us home.
By the time I reached Mothers school they had also dismissed. We barely made it
home. Debris was all over the road. We had to snake the car around fallen limbs, trees,
and live electrical wires. At that time my father was a senior at Jacksonville State and
living there. The ice storm continued on Sand Mountain for hours. It broke enormous
numbers of limbs, entire trees, and many power and phone lines. Every type of outside
object came to have a thick coat of ice. We kept power and phone service the entire time,
despite widespread outages.
"Its because were the last house on the road that has city service out of
Guntersville," Mother speculated. "Im sure glad. Without electricity, we wouldnt have
any heat."
A public water supply didnt exist where we lived, so we relied on water from a
drilled well. Two, blue electric lines led from the house to the pump. They were easy to
reach from the ground. "Im going to keep the ice beat off the lines," I said. "We dont
need to get without water."
"Im afraid youll get shocked," Mother protested.
I managed to convince her that it was safe. Each time, I was careful to use a dry,
wooden pole when I touched the lines. The lines were insulated, so unless there was a
bare place, there was no danger. Still, working with electricity under such damp
conditions wasnt the safest thing to be doing.
In the rural areas people stayed out of electricity for up to six weeks. The
destruction of the power distribution system was unprecedented and overwhelmed
available workers. Had it not been for assistance from electric departments in cities
outside the disaster area, the outage would have continued far longer.

"We had to load our freezer on the truck and take it to Guntersville and plug it in,"
a neighbor a couple of miles from us reported. "Otherwise, we would have lost
everything."
That ice storm was, in its severity, unlike any that had ever been seen in Alabama.
When the precipitation finally stopped, the sun came out. This resulted in a spectacle of
colored lights coming from tree limbs. It was a beautiful sight. The danger was not over.
Large limbs continued to crash for hours. There has not been another such event equal to
it in north Alabama, although the one in 1990 came close.
One quarter I stayed at Pollock-Lipe Hall, the boys dormitory at Snead. I to see
what on-campus life was like since I expected to be a residential student at Jacksonville.
The dormitory, a four-story brick structure, was old and run down and no longer stands.
My room was on the third floor, walk-up. There was reasonably nice furniture:
bed, desk, and chest-of-drawers. A large closet provided adequate storage. With discarded
curtains from home and an attractive bedspread it looked quite nice.
At that time, Snead consistently had a champion basketball team, most likely due to
illegal recruiting of players by Coach Plunkett. One of the stars of the team had a dorm
room that was splendid with incredible furnishings and carpet. The boy drove a sporty car
with elegant power features. I felt sure that it was a part of an illegal payoff to get him to
come to Snead, but such things were winked at in those days. It was only later that
colleges were disciplined by athletic associations for such antics.
There were covered balconies at each level on the front of the dorm, which
provided a pleasant place to sit and view the campus. The student lounge had a black and
white television with a round picture tube. While outdated, that type was once common.
It is the only round tube I have actually seen. The lounge was directly outside the
housemothers quarters.
"Boys, keep that thing turned down," she shouted if we played it loud enough to
hear comfortably. "It makes me nervous." Despite that, the housemother was well-liked.
The food service for residents was excellent. The cafeteria ladies took much pride
in producing fine meals. The cafeteria, a short walk across campus, was neat and clean
although the building was nondescript.
One day at the table where a group of us sat, we began to discuss the possibility of
"recycling." "Lets just check," a boy suggested. He took his knife and inscribed a large X
on the icing of a square piece of cake. The next day at lunch, one of the group exclaimed,
"There it is." On the serving bar was the identical piece of cake with the X intact. We got
an uneasy laugh out of it, but none of us viewed the cafeteria ladies in quite the same way
from then on. If money had not been so tight, I would have liked to continue to live on
campus, but wouldnt have dreamed of asking. I was glad I got to have the experience.

When I wasnt a residential student, I ate lunch most days at a caf located on the
corner of the main street of Boaz. It provided a meat and three vegetables for less than a
dollar. A variety of excellent pies were available for dessert. The usual tip was a dime.
Some left nothing.
"I want you to eat there so youll have a good meal at least once a day," my
mother insisted.
The food was well prepared and tasty. The waitresses were cordial. This is the
same caf where Delorises mother worked for a while, but her employment there ended
before I started at Snead.
"When she worked there, she once got into a fight with other waitresses. It ended
up in them throwing pies at each other," Delorise recalled.
My best female friend at Snead was Delilah Ann Ellis. She was notably short. I
could hold out my arm and she could walk under it. I became better acquainted with her
after we both transferred to Jacksonville, so Ill tell about her in connection with that
institution.
My best male friends were Jackie Conquest, Jimmy Mitchell, and Henry Reed.
We would occasionally go places together as well as car pooling.
"I know a place yall will enjoy seeing," Henry announced. "Be sure to wear old
clothes. Its hard to get to." The next Saturday, we loaded into Jackies car and headed in
the direction of Hustleville. We barely managed to get the car off the road so we could
walk toward the sound of rushing water which came from a substantial creek.
Deep in the woods, not accessible by car, we located an impressive waterfall. It
was easy to find. We simply followed the swift-flowing creek. With the rocks and dense
vegetation on the bank, there was significant risk of running up on a snake. Perhaps they
heard us coming and fled. At length, there it was in all its majesty. The waterfall
thundered down in various divisions as dictated by boulders. A mist arose in places. It
seemed like something out of a dream.
In later years that waterfall area became, for a few years, a hangout for "hippies,"
and associated drug use. If it were feasible I wish I could see it again. If I remember it
correctly, its a place that, with development, could become a tourist attraction. Yet, I
recognize that what impressed me as a seventeen year old might be a disappointing
reality. Maybe some things are better left safely in memory.
Another interesting place we went was an enormous man-made limestone cavern
north of Guntersville to the right of highway 431. There was a level space where we
parked. The outside opening to the excavation was large, but only hinted at what lay
inside. Jimmy had been there before. "It has five parallel tunnels, three on the right and

two on the left. There are cross tunnels joining them. At one place, theres a natural cave.
Thats all I know about it."
The tunnels were wide and tall, more like enormous underground vaults. We had
brought flashlights, but they didnt penetrate far into the thick darkness. It was a
tremendous place to explore.
Heres that cave," Henry said with excitement. "Want to go inside?"
The opening was small and the ground muddy. We decided against it. Nobody
knew where we had gone. To become trapped or lost would be too risky.
The last time I saw the place several years ago, a cheap trailer had been hauled in
so that it obscured the large opening to the manmade caverns. People passing by on the
highway have no idea what lies just out of sight.
We sometimes met at Henry Reeds farm to hang out, although his parents were
old and tended to find fault with most things Henry did. His father, in particular, didnt
seem to approve of Henry having friends. The farm, with a large barn, fields, pastures,
and a pond, was close to Aunt Mamies house.
The boys would sometimes come to my house where we studied for classes. My
father had enclosed a small back porch and made it into a nice little "den" for me. I didnt
ask or expect anything that fine to be done for me. It was his idea and one of the nicest
things he ever did for me. He seemed to be excited about it and really wanted to make
something I would enjoy. He asked my preferences at each stage. He could be
extraordinarily nice on occasion. I want to think that was truly what he was like, but there
is overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Still, who can know what was in a persons
heart.
It served well as a place to have a small degree of privacy. The sound of the
television didnt reach that room since two of its walls were originally thick outside walls
of the house. The wooden exterior boards were still in place, but painted a clean, glossy
white. Of course, my parents needed to come through there as it was the only route
outside from the kitchen. On rare occasions, I shut the door. They usually respected that
and went out another way. For the most part, I didnt mind them coming through.
The room was quite cozy. It looked a bit like a room from a house magazine. Nothing
was costly, but some of it was out of the ordinary for the time. An unusual feature was a
table hinged to the wall so that it could easily be put up or down. My father was far from
a skilled carpenter, but he had made it from a quality square of wood and legs off a
discarded table. He came up with the idea and added the necessary hinges. It was his
most successful building project. He was proud of it and I was too. There was a small
daybed and a gas space heater. The windows were unusual. They had built-in screens and
many small horizontal panes of glass that tilted up or down rather like Venetian blinds.
When open, they gave a pleasant, airy feel to the space. In cold weather, they werent

completely effective in keeping out cold wind, but the heater compensated to keep the
room comfortable.
That room was the inspiration that led me to convert the guest bedroom in our
house in Russellville into a den for Maria. I had enjoyed my retreat and wanted her to
have something similar. Her den has the advantage of not being on a traveled route. This
gives her a higher degree of privacy since it is her special space to hang out.
During a remodel during the early sixties, my little retreat at Mountain View was
torn away to allow for construction of a large den and a bedroom. We all hated to see it
go, but it wasnt good enough to keep. The floor, because it had been a porch, was
slanted, there was no attic, and insulation was entirely lacking. Yet, it had been a nice
feature of what was then a small house.
During the big ice storm of 1960, the boys came to my house. We climbed into
the Buick to ride around to survey the damage. Mother walked out to the car with us but
only when she went back to the house did she make an unwelcome discovery. She had
locked herself out. All the windows were locked and there was no hidden key. The day
was cold and the wind sharp.
When we returned a couple of hours later, she emerged from the barn laughing. "I
had to get in the crib and cover up with a dirty army blanket. Nobody was home at
Woodrows house. I though yall never would get back."
Everybody got a good laugh out of that. It became an often-repeated family story
over the years. An adventure is always more fun in relating than it was in reality. The crib
was cluttered, dusty, full of mice, and had a bad odor. It was the best refuge she had.
Chapter 13: Jacksonville State University
The only four-year state college for a huge part of Alabama was at Jacksonville.
Students had enrolled there from a wide area for generations. It started as a two-year
teachers college. Over time, it expanded into a four-year teachers college, a state college
which offered education beyond what was designed for teachers, and finally into a
comprehensive state university. I had always taken for granted that I would go there. It
was my first choice. Auburn and Alabama meant nothing to me. Jax State was the place
to go.
My grandfather Camp initially paid for my father, as a young man, to attend
Jacksonville. My mothers parents sent her to Jacksonville. Thats how people from such
different backgrounds came to meet. "You can go where you want, but Jacksonville is
close and two of your cousins are going. You can room where they do," Grandfather
Morris offered. She traveled to the campus on the train from Fayetteville. Along with her
went a huge trunk filled with her belongings.

Later, Uncle Gaston was sent to Auburn. One night, my grandmother heard an
unusual sound. "It sounded like a horse walking around outside, right beside the house,"
she reported. "When I checked, there was Gaston pacing around. He dreaded coming
inside to tell us he had dropped out of college."
Gaston had been most unhappy and wanted to go directly to work. It was an
unwise decision that caused him to hold jobs below his ability level and to experience
episodes of significant economic hardship in the years ahead.
The enrollment at Jacksonville definitely ended my Mothers association with
Wood Cooper, her long-time boyfriend. I am reasonably sure was the true "love of her
life." They had dated for years.
"I really liked Wood," she told me. "But he wanted four or five children. I just
wasnt willing to accept that, so we agreed to go separate ways."
She continued to speak of Wood throughout the years, right up to just before her
death. I believe that she regretted that things hadnt worked out between them. Wood died
years before she did, but she didnt learn of it right away. I think she wanted to visit his
grave, but didnt know where it was. None of us knew how many children he produced.
Her first boyfriend at Jacksonville was a man whose last name was Moss. "He
grabbed me and kissed me when he learned that I had become engaged," she reported.
"He claimed to love me, but I didnt him."
My parents met as students, but how she got up with somebody who, socially, was
so far below her I dont know. Im not sure how well she knew him before they married. I
suspect that it was not very well. They enrolled in September and were married the
following December. That didnt give much time for becoming well acquainted.
"Well get married at the courthouse in Anniston," he insisted. "Theres no need
for a fancy wedding. We dont need rings. Just wear something you already have and Ill
do the same."
Years later, she recalled the experience. "The judge was so cross-eyed that we had
to guess which of us he was talking to when he performed the wedding." She joked,
"Sometimes I wonder if we are even legally married." She had married without informing
her parents.
Decades later, after moving to Russellville, Mother attempted to correct a
disappointment from the past. "Howard, when we got married, we couldnt afford rings
and it was all right. But now we can and I want you to buy me wedding rings."
He was indignant and angrily refused. "Im not going to do it. We would be no
more married than we are now," he retorted.

The real reason, in my opinion, was that he didnt want to spend the money. He
could be astoundingly stingy and uncaring. His refusal hurt her deeply. It was after that
when she began to speak often of Wood Cooper. She must have wondered how her life
would have been different if they had stayed together.
After marrying, they moved into an apartment in one side of a small cottage on
Mountain Avenue. He had been living in a boys dormitory, Forney Hall, which still
stands on the old campus. She had shared an apartment with two of her cousins.
Mother described the first meal she cooked. "It was a disaster. I got sugar and salt mixed
up and put salt in the coffee and sugar on the meat. Nothing was good."
Over the years, her skills improved so that she became an excellent cook just as
her mother had been. As was universal at the time, she added dollops of bacon grease to
nearly every vegetable dish. To that end, they kept a container on the stove where they
poured bacon grease. When the cooked dishes cooled in the refrigerator, a thick crust of
white grease formed on top. Rather than remove it, she stirred it into the left-over
vegetables upon reheating. There was no awareness of saturated fat and cholesterol.
They had originally enrolled at the old campus about a mile from the present
location of the university. They were among the students who helped the college move to
Bibb Graves Hall on the new campus.
They knew Dr. C.W. Daugette, the President. His daughter, who taught physical
education, was the wife of Dr. Calvert whom they had for English. Dr. Allison was the
psychology professor. Dr. Arnold taught biology and his wife English and French.
Dr. Calvert was a Ph.D. from Harvard University and became the author of a noted book,
Byron, the Romantic Paradox. When they were there, he was a birdwatcher. They often
saw him creep around over the campus to spy on his feathered friends. I had Dr. Calvert
in a literature class for about a week before he turned his class over to an assistant.
Dr. Arnold often took his classes on field trips. The biology of that day dealt
mainly with names and classification of plants and animals. Nothing was known of DNA
and other aspects of modern biology.
"Dont worry about snakes. I can smell them," he declared as he led the group
through dangerous undergrowth. None of them were bitten, likely because the noise
drove the reptiles away. It isnt likely the man could actually smell snakes. He was my
academic advisor when I transferred to Jacksonville in 1960, but I never had a class with
him. He taught only introductory sections by that time.
They liked Sally Ford Arnold, wife of the biology professor, but laughed at her
physical appearance. My father recalled, "She was the most knock-kneed person I ever
saw. When she stood before the class, her legs crossed at the knees." Decades later, when
I had a class with her, I recalled the accurate description of her. She was still painfully
knock-kneed.

Mother recalled the psychology professor, "When Dr. Allison lectured he sat at his
desk and lifted the desk off the floor with his knees. It was the strangest thing."
Over thirty years later, I passed in the hallway and saw him still doing that. I never had a
class with Dr. Allison since he only taught the introductory classes and I was beyond that
point.
Other than those five, there had been a complete turnover in the faculty during
those thirty years. I have been gone from Jacksonville since 1962. Not a single faculty
member I knew remains.
If we had lived closer, I would have liked for Maria to enroll at Jacksonville, but
it wasnt feasible. Florence was nearby and a more urban area. The University of North
Alabama was a far better choice for her.
Some of my parents classmates became prominent in later years. Among them
were Houston Cole and Ernest Stone both of whom later served as presidents of the
University. They were in a biology class when Stone had a problem of his own making.
"Mr. Stone. Get out!" Dr. Arnold ordered during a biology test. He had seen him cheating
and assigned him an "F." I doubt that Stone included that embarrassing incident on his
resume when he applied for presidency of the university.
They were also friends with Dr. E.B. Norton who was a long-time president of
UNA and Solon Gregg who was, at one time, president of the college at Hamilton where I
later was assistant dean of instruction. Cole, Stone and Norton all had distinguished
careers, but Solon Gregg was forced into early retirement and just barely missed going to
prison for accepting bribes.
One member of the support staff stood out. There was a distinguished-looking
black man named Connie who worked in the cafeteria. "Hes Dr. Daugettes son," various
ones whispered to my parents with horror at the violation of cultural mores.
I doubt that the story was true. Connie was still there when I enrolled years later. The
rumor was still occasionally repeated. By that time, few knew who Dr. Daugette was, so
it had lost most of its force. Slanders of that type often circulate on college campuses.
Once started, they take on a life of their own.
After leaving Jacksonville, my parents initially moved to Fayetteville to find work
and to live in the house where Aunt Edee now lives. He farmed that year since jobs were
hard to obtain. My grandparents had built that house in case either of their children might
need to live in it. It came in handy for them for that short time.
"Lets go over to the holy roller tent revival and watch them cut a shine," my
Father suggested one lazy summer afternoon when the work was caught up and there was
nothing entertaining to do. "Itll be good for a laugh." Because she didnt want to
displease him, Mother agreed. The tent was crowded. Some of the attendees were
drinking. The preacher was shouting and inserting gibberish to simulate tongue talking.
They listened and watched for a while. Suddenly there was a commotion in the audience

and a loud shout, not of religious fervor, but of alarm. The congregation scattered in
every direction. Many shrieked in fear.
"Hes got a gun. Watch out!" a woman yelled.
A shot rang out and a shabbily-dressed man fell to the ground moaning. The crime
took place right in front of them. They had seen it all. Bystanders rushed over, wrestled
the gunman to the ground, and held him until the sheriff arrived. A deputy identified my
parents as having been witnesses of the shooting. When the case came to trial, they
received summons to appear. It upset Mother, mostly because she didnt want anyone to
know she had attended the revival. She went to her Father for help.
"I want you to get us out of having to appear," she demanded.
"Well, theres nothing I can do," he replied. "You had no business being there.
Maybe this will be a lesson to you."
"I know you could if you just wanted to," she responded.
Of course he couldnt nullify a legal paper. They had to testify about the shooting.
It was an embarrassing experience for them both. It could have been dangerous. The
shooter was livid at their incriminating testimony. Nothing more ever came of it,
fortunately. That was the last tent meeting they attended, however.
Both of my parents had left college after completing just two years. That was
common in that day for teachers. There was no requirement to have a degree before going
into teaching. Later, the situation changed. Both returned to finish bachelors degrees.
She was graduated in 1950 and he in 1960. I saw each of them participate in their
graduation ceremonies. Hers was in the old Leone Cole Auditorium and his at the football
stadium.
The fall following his graduation, I enrolled at Jacksonville as a junior.
While still enrolled at Snead, I traveled to Jacksonville to take the English Competency
Exam. The format of the test was to compose, in a Blue Book, an essay from a list of
topics supplied at the last minute by the university. To pass this was necessary in order to
be admitted to professional education courses. I needed to start out right away with those
courses so that I could graduate on schedule in two more years. At that time it was almost
unthinkable for young people to take more than four years to get a bachelors degree.
Most who didnt finish in that time frame dropped out in disgrace.
We gathered in classrooms where the test was to be administered. There was a
sign-in sheet at the front. Before the session started, a group of professors, including Dr.
Calvert, came into the room and looked at each person as the list was read. The intent was
to prevent students from having somebody else test for them. Not one of the group knew

me, but I must have looked innocent enough. They smiled and went to the next name on
the list.
From the six or seven possible subjects, I wrote on "The Uses of Water." Before I
started, I jotted down a rough outline of what I wanted to cover and then developed each
topic. In due time I was notified that I had passed. Those who failed were required to take
what was informally called "Bonehead English" and to repeat it as many times as it took
for them to learn to write.
The current trend of dropping courses for little or no reason, (with loss of the
money paid and extension of the time in college, was not even considered. We worked
hard, accepted inconvenience, put up with odious professors, and made sure to pass if
there was any possible way. We had too much respect for the value of money and for our
parents who sent us to college even to imagine such a thing as giving up in a course.
Also, dropping below full-time would mean going off our parents hospital insurance,
being forced out of the dorm, and also exposed boys to the possibility of being hauled
into the military.
All those were powerful deterrents to malingering. It seems to me that the current
crop of college students lack a genuine sense of responsibility when it comes to finishing
what one undertakes. Some dont agree with that analysis, but I think they are wrong.
At Jacksonville I lived in three different dormitories, Patterson Hall, Logan Hall,
and Abercrombie Hall. Patterson and Logan were "twin" buildings on the edge of the
campus. I stayed at Patterson during the summer term immediately after I transferred
from Snead. Logan was being built and when it was completed, I was among the first
residents. Abercrombie Hall was an older building reserved for seniors. It was at the
center of the campus and so quite convenient.
Each dormitory was presided over by an older woman as the housemother. She
was addressed as "Ma" followed by her last name. Ma Glass is the only name I can recall.
Each end of the hall on each level had a boy who was a floor monitor for that section. He
got his room free. It was his duty to enforce regulations.
"You get a call-down," he said to any boy who made a serious violation of
conduct. After three such rebukes, he could be required to move from the dormitory. That
rarely happened.
The housemother visited each room each day to ascertain that we kept them clean
and that our beds were made. Repeat violators were required to leave. Maids cleaned the
bathrooms and hallways. Some of the more prosperous (or lazy) boys paid them to clean
their rooms. I did my own.
In that day, residence halls had few amenities. Each boy had a desk, chair, bed,
and closet. No cooking was permitted, nor were refrigerators allowed. No dorm had air
conditioning, yet I dont remember them being particularly hot. Also, there were no

elevators which restricted dorms to four floors in height. Each floor had a pay phone
about midway of the building, but there were no phones in student rooms. Computers
didnt exist at that time outside research in major cities. Even calculators had not yet
come onto the scene.
The disabled had yet to gain rights. The Americans With Disabilities Act was
nearly forty years in the future. So if such persons couldnt get around on campus, they
just didnt enroll. We had two blind men, one older and one regular college age. Both
managed to function without assistants or "accommodation of disability," but with
considerable difficulty. The older guy, although extremely careful, would sometimes get
lost on campus and had to rely on somebody to recognize his dilemma and to get him
orientated. The younger boy walked very fast and erratic. The result was that he often ran
into people and objects. The older man despised his irresponsibility. "If he ever runs into
me, Ill hit him with this," he said. He struck his white cane hard against the palm of his
hand to demonstrate his intentions. If they ever collided, I didnt know about it.
Occasionally the young boy would drop his tray and dishes in the cafeteria. There was a
custom to call out mockingly when anyone did that, but when the group would discover
that it was the blind boy, they abruptly stopped. This created an embarrassing situation
for everyone.
Among my roommates were "Tiny" Holsomback, an ugly tub of lard, whom I had
known at Snead. I only stayed with him the first summer at Jacksonville since he proved
to be an obnoxious jerk. The final straw was when I had arranged to ride back to the
campus with him. We had set a time and place to meet near his home, but he wasnt there
at the appointed time and still didnt show up after I waited a good while. This created a
real problem since I had no easy way to get to the campus. When I finally got to the
dorm, there he was.
"What happened? I got there ahead of time and waited, but you didnt show up," I
asked incredulously.
"I got ready sooner than I expected. You werent there, so I went on," he replied
indifferently.
After that, I had no use for him. He was the only one of my several roommates
over the years that I didnt get along with. I learned that nobody liked him, but hadnt
picked up on that at Snead.
Jean-Paul Daily from Belgium whose first language was French was another
rommie. Jean-Paul was a talented musician. His command of English was marginal to the
extent that I was often unsure what he said. He made the mistake of letting a mentally
disturbed girl, Barbara, take him over. She even went home to Europe with him at the end
of the year, much to the chagrin of his parents. I later learned that she had stolen jewelry
from Mervette, a rich girl from Egypt, who lived in her dormitory in order to finance the
trip. Miss Clegg, the housemother and English teacher at C.W. Daugette Hall, Barbaras

dormitory, knew that she was the thief, but was unable to prove it. She got by with the
crime.
Jean-Pauls mother was astounded when he showed up with Barbara. She wrote to
the Director of the International House program, "You have allowed a monster to come
home with my son." I doubt that the old professor knew anything about the plan. Barbara
was a person skilled at lying and deceit. After Barbaras return to the United States, she
didnt come back to Jacksonville. The report was that she married some local man and
was killed in a motorcycle accident. I wrote Jean-Paul about it, but got no reply from
him. I wondered if his mother intercepted the letter and destroyed it. I couldnt have
blamed her if she did.
Years later, I learned from Dr. Carlos Zeller, who was a classmate of ours, that he
was living in France and married to Suzanne Hanon who had been in the International
House program when he was. Carlos was an acquaintance of mine, but lived upstairs in
Abercrombie Hall. A pre-med student, he went on to obtain the Doctor of Medicine
degree and worked for a time as a physician in Mexico. For some reason, he ended up as
a biology instructor at Northeast Community College at Rainsville. I saw him at various
statewide meetings of the college faculty.

Don Fernan Peralta from Costa Rica was another roommate. He came from a
wealthy family, but had strong Communistic tendencies. He was a rabid Roman Catholic.
My final roommate at Jacksonville was Jerry McDonald from Sylacauga, but he was a
drunkard who came in late at night, if at all, so I barely knew him.
All residential students were required to purchase meal tickets which covered
three meals a day, except that there was no supper Sunday night. The line into the
cafeteria was long since most ate at the same time. It was necessary to show the meal
ticket each day.
If I could do it over again, I would participate in more campus organizations. The
only extracurricular organizations I took part in were Phi Mu Chi Beta, the science club,
and the Beta Eta Chapter of Kappa Phi Kappa, an educational fraternity with a secret
handshake and a secret pass phrase. I joined on February 27, 1962. I still recall the secret
phrase, but forgot the handshake long ago. The phrase is only to be used so that anyone
claiming to be a member can be tested. Its pretty silly stuff.
My only experience with housebreaking was while a student at Jacksonville.
There was a columned mansion in the woods across from the college. It had been
abandoned for years. The grounds were overgrown and the shrubbery out of control. It
was just too tempting to resist. The owners, the Martin heirs, attempted to keep the place
secure. It had electricity, but no phones. They had secured the doors and windows to keep
out intruders. Their efforts were in vain. Groups of students often broke into the place,
although there was no vandalism or stealing. It was just a big adventure. I was along on at

least three occasions. We just explored the various rooms on two levels, sat around a
while, and left. We could have been arrested if caught. To take such a chance was foolish.
The college learned about the break-ins and announced that they must stop. That ended
our excursions. Nobody wanted to take a chance on getting into real trouble.
At that time, all science courses were taught in Ayers Hall which was to the side
of Bibb Graves Hall. While I was a student, the college added a large new section to the
science building. A small auditorium was located at each end of the structure. There were
classrooms and laboratories, not only for biology, but the other sciences. On the third
level was a greenhouse. Faculty had their offices there.
Thirty years later, when I made a campus visit, I was disappointed to find the
building standing empty and scheduled for renovation. A splendid multistory science
building, Martin Hall, had been built across Pelham Road at the location of the old
Martin mansion.
I had good experiences in nearly all of my biology classes, especially two taught
by Dr. E.W. Price who was listed in Whos Who of American Men of Science, quite an
honor for a scientist in that day. The college was able to employ him only because he was
retired and looking for something to do in his field.
None of them were truly outstanding teachers, however. Paul Snow at Snead had
been far better. I patterned my teaching after him much more than after the senior
professors.
The worst one, by far, was a Mr. Ralph Lindsey with whom I had two courses in
botany for biology majors. He sat for hours and laboriously copied the textbook into
notebooks from which he read word for word for his "lectures." It was horribly boring
and utterly useless. He read in a monotone. To make it worse, he included any jokes or
other side material in the textbook. We always wondered why he didnt save himself
trouble and just read directly from the book. Sometimes we yawned loudly and moaned
in boredom, but he never seemed to notice.
Although an older man, Lindsey was still at the instructor level principally
because he couldnt manage to keep his hands off girls. It never rose to the point where
he got fired, but chronic complaints kept him from being promoted. Incredibly, his wife
taught English at the same college. He was the stereotypical "dirty old man." This was a
concept that, unfortunately, I learned much more about in the decades ahead.
The best Jacksonville instructor was Dr. Reuben Boozer whom I had for human
anatomy and physiology. Yet, he was only ordinary. I believe the standard for college
instruction has risen since those times. Human anatomy and physiology proved to play a
huge part in my working life. In my classes, I took the best from Boozers procedures and
did my best to avoid his mistakes.

The other subjects I preferred were English and economics. I ended up taking a
minor in English although I had considered a double minor in English and economics. I
backed away from the economics because I was concerned that I might not graduate on
time.
The main economics teacher was Professor Snoddy. Apparently, he had just three
shirts which differed only in the color of stripes on the sleeves. "Its really only one shirt
and he changes the stripes," a student joked. Snoddy talked through his nose, but was an
excellent instructor. He had a short fuse and it was folly to anger him. In one case he gave
an "F" to a boy who had done satisfactory work in the course. "Why did you give me an
"F," the student asked. "I did good on every test." His nasal reply was, "Did it ever occur
to you that I just dont like you?" That was all there was to itthe boy failed. Students
had yet to gain many rights. No appeal was possible. Each instructor was the despot of
his little domain.
A course that stood out in English was in the tragedies of Shakespeare. The
instructor was a visiting professor, Dr. Mounts, who did an outstanding job of instruction.
I still prefer the tragedies to the comedies because of that class.
A student in that course was Mary Jo Turner from Marshall County whom I had
known at Snead. Mary Jo was not a good student. She either failed the course or made a
"D." She got really mad to the point that she went to the dean to bring charges of poor
performance against Dr. Mounts. When she didnt get a favorable reception, she
proceeded to attempt to recruit other students to support her baseless charges. I was
standing in line in the hallway of Bibb Graves Hall to enroll for the next semester when
she approached me. "I want you to bring charges against Dr. Mounts," she demanded.
"Mary Jo, I dont have anything to say against him. I thought he did a good job," I replied
instantly. To my surprise, Dr. Mounts was in the crowd in the hallway, and overheard the
conversation. He walked over right in front of Mary Jo and shook my hand. "You were a
really good student and I enjoyed having you in class," he said warmly with a big smile.
I was pleased that I had backed him up. That also seemed to end Mary Jos tirade against
the professor. She had nobody to blame but herself. Dr. Mounts had even allowed extra
credit which was most unusual in an upper level course. I hadnt done any of the extra
credit work since I didnt need it. Mary Jo had, but her performance on tests had been so
poor that even that didnt bring her grade up enough.
It was in psychology that I encountered the twisted concepts of Sigmund Freud
for the first time. I didnt, at first, catch on to the desires of the instructor. He was an
ardent disciple of Freud. As a result, I made low on the first couple of tests.
"Whats with that guy?" I asked a student whom I knew had previous courses with him.
He laughed. "You have to fill everything you write full of Sigmund Freuds ideas on sex
if you want to make good grades. Hes crazy on the subject." The light dawned. After
that I loaded each test with perverted sexual concepts and saw my grades rise to "A."
Sometimes its necessary to learn what a teacher wants and give it to him despite any
personal views.

Jacksonville State had its share of "crazy" psychology teachers, including Earl
Clayton McCool with whom I had juvenile psychology. He was a former FBI agent who
came to class armed with a pistol. "I have a permit to carry this," he boasted as he patted
the bulge of his weapon under his suit coat. McCool was eager to be viewed as a
righteous person. He made clear his disdain for the tenets of psychoanalysis based on the
influence of Freud. "Its true that lots of psychology teachers are sex-crazy," he conceded.
"Inevitably, somebody is going to say McCool is sex crazy, but it isnt true," he insisted.
A female psychology instructor, whom I managed to avoid, made it a practice to
come to class the first day and just stand the entire period at the lectern. She said not a
word. She claimed to be testing the class for psychological reaction. She got them all
right. "Why are you standing there? Why dont you say something?" one student
demanded angrily. Most simply got up and left after about twenty minutes. They money
they had paid for the class was wasted, at least for that day. Those who werent residential
students might have driven miles for the class for absolutely nothing. Her actions seemed,
to me, to be highly unprofessional.
Another in that department, whom I steered clear of, would sometimes crawl into
the classroom on hands and knees. "Im getting down on the level of the class," he
declared. At other times, he walked around on the tables during his lectures. Tenure
protected him for years despite his erratic behavior. The man ended up confined to a
mental institution.
Since I planned to teach at the secondary level for a short time, it was essential to
have a certificate. This required taking a series of education courses. They were largely a
waste of time. I had more of them with R. Eugene Jones than any other instructor.
Strangely, locations where education courses were taught were two filthy rooms
in the gym. They obviously hadnt been painted in years. Such pain as remained scaled
from the walls in huge flakes. No other room on the entire campus look bad like that.
I did practice teaching at Jacksonville High School which was owned by the college for
that purpose. For biology, my supervising teacher was Harris Mynatt, one of the biggest
jerks I have encountered. He held the rank of assistant professor of education as did all
the high school supervisors. He was extremely rude and as poor a teacher as I have
known at any time.
Practice teaching in English was with Mr. Arnold as supervisor. She had taught
my parents in French back in the 1930s when they first enrolled. I really liked Mrs.
Arnold. She did an outstanding job of instruction and of supervision.
Ive often wondered why the college required graduates to do practice teaching in
their minors. Possession of a minor in a subject didnt qualify one to teach it in the real
world of the schools. Practice teaching was done in the final semester of the senior year,
along with whatever courses the student still needed for graduation.

I had no car at Jacksonville, but that was true of most students. It presented no
problem. I walked everywhere I went, rain or shine. It wasnt that far to downtown
Jacksonville so I went there a lot. About once a week, I carried a cloth bag of laundry to
wash, fold and bring back. I could have got by with what was available on campus. The
dorm laundry room in the basement had two washers and two dryers for the entire
building. They were usually available since most of the boys took their laundry home to
be washed.
Although I was very conservative in spending, it had to have been a financial
burden on my parents to send me to college. My father had gotten a job at Boaz Junior
High after he completed his degree in June. I enrolled a few weeks later. They must have
used up any financial reserves. Yet, I am virtually certain they got by without borrowing.
Occasionally, I wrote a check for twenty dollars on their bank account and cashed it in
the college business office. That gave me pocket change which lasted for weeks. My
father never complained that I did it too often, but then, he couldnt have rightly said that.
I was careful in my use of money.
In that time, few people attended college unless the parents paid. The concept of
working ones way through college had not caught on, nor, to any great extent, had
student loans. Pell Grants were still many years in the future. A few boys worked cleanup in the cafeteria for full-tuition. It was hard, dirty work and they seemed embarrassed
to have to do it. They were looked down by some because of it. There were isolated
incidents when students seemed to intentionally spill their trays so the workers would
have to deal with an extra mess. A fight erupted one time between two boys over that
very issue.
"You spilled that deliberately so Id have to clean it up," a worker accused.
He reached through the tray return window and grabbed the culprit by his shirt
and jerked him roughly. Others of the workers quickly broke up the altercation before any
real harm was done.
The food at the cafeteria was outstanding. I always ate there, except that there was
no Sunday supper. Throughout the week, there was always food left over at supper from
that days lunch so if students didnt like the fresh offerings, or just wanted more, that
was freely available. I had a prepaid meal ticket and couldnt justify buying food when I
had food already paid for.
If I could get a ride, we sometimes ate at the Gamecock on Sunday evening, but,
being some miles outside Jacksonville, that was too far to walk. Zumas caf was open
Sunday night on the square at Jacksonville so I occasionally ate there. It was a dump with
revolting food. Sometimes I just got by for that one meal from what was available in
vending machines.

During meal times when a football game was coming up, the loud cry of "Hidehay, hide-hoo. Lift your heads up to the sky. Jacksonville State is passing by" would often
be made by a single student. The group reply was "March on Gamecocks!"
At the game the students often chanted "Give them hell Jax State, give them hell." That
was vulgar talk for that period. The college didnt like it, but couldnt do much about it
but complain since so many were involved. There is power in numbers.
During my junior year, a tornado went across the center of the campus. It did a
fair amount of damage plus giving everybody a good scare. Fortunately it came at night
when few classes were in session. I was in my dorm, Logan Hall, when a terrific storm
came up. Rain poured down, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and the wind blew
fiercely. There had been no notice of the possibility of tornadoes that had been
transmitted to students. There was, however, no mechanism in place to accomplish that.
Safety standards were far lower on college campuses in those days.
Another factor added to the danger. Weather forecasting was able to give no more
than a few minutes notice of a tornado on the ground. Typically, there was no warning at
all. The tornado just suddenly appeared. Authorities were dependent upon reports from
the public of a twister. It was only after the disastrous "night of the tornadoes" a dozen
years later, that more effective radar and warning procedures were instituted. The
horrendous loss of lives on that night made the weather service ashamed. They
determined that they could do better and did.
My room was at one end of the residence hall. When I heard rain pouring in the
hallway window, I jumped up to investigate. It required all the strength I had to open my
room door. There was a strong pressure differential due to the passing tornado. When I
got into the hallway, water was pouring through the open window and forming an
expanding pool that moved rapidly toward my room. I managed to shut the window with
considerable effort. Still, it never occurred to me that a tornado was on campus. I should
have sought cover rather than struggle with a window that might have blown out at any
second. The lights flashed off, but power returned within seconds . Within a few minutes
shouting broke out in the dormitory.
"A tornado has hit the campus! Its done a lot of damage."
I stepped outside through the main entrance. The rain had stopped, there was an
eerie silence, the air felt oppressive and muggy. Boys poured out of the dormitory. All of
us excitedly ran over to the academic buildings to see what had happened. The tornado
had gone directly across Bibb Graves Hall and the new cafeteria. There was not a lot of
visible damage except for a brick wall blown out in Hammond Hall alongside Bibb
Graves Hall.
The tornado had scattered the cars in a faculty parking lot. A few were overturned.
We thought that was funny. Faculty were generally regarded as "the enemy." Some of the
professors were out there trying to see about their damaged vehicles. One was cursing
loudly. It was the next morning before we realized the extent of the damage to the fine,

new cafeteria. The roof had been destroyed and water damage was extensive. We got only
cold pastry for breakfast instead of the usual hot meal. It was the best the staff could do
under the circumstances.
After the tornado passed, the phones were out on campus as were the lights in a
some of the buildings. I realized that word was sure to spread to Marshall County, so I
walked to town and checked pay phones until I located one that was in operation. My
parents were already following the news when I called. As they had suggested, I called
collect. "Will you accept a collect call from Elton Camp?" the operator asked. "I sure
will. I was sitting here shaking," Mother replied. I filled her in on the situation. By that
time a long line had developed behind me as other students prepared to contact their own
parents. Even under normal circumstances, there was a chronic shortage of public
telephones. Cell phones wouldnt come into use for decades.
"I wanted to drive down there as soon as I heard what happened," my mother
exclaimed. "But the roads are closed. I knew you would call as soon as you could."
That has, so far, been my closest encounter with a tornado. Even in that case, I
didnt see the funnel since it came at night. Itll be fine for it to stay that way. Thats an
adventure I dont need.
Before I contacted my parents, Mrs. Coffee had already called them. "The tornado
blew the roof off the dormitory where your son lives," she claimed. Coffee was like that.
It gave her a thrill to worry people. If it took lies to do it, that was just fine. She had no
idea which of the several dormitories was mine. She just enjoyed stirring things up and
upsetting people.
Mrs. Coffee had attended Jacksonville, but developed a dismal record. The
college finally told her that she would never be able to graduate and that she wouldnt be
permitted to enroll any more. She was placed on academic suspension. "I hate
Jacksonville," she stormed. "They know I need my degree to keep my job. I dont know
why they treat me like they do." She subsequently enrolled at Alabama A & M in
Huntsville where she obtained a "degree" such as it was coming from that place. She
retained her job and got an advance in pay just as much as if the credential had been
respectable. The school should be embarrassed to count her among their alumni.

A group of us who had been at Snead loosely stuck together at Jacksonville. Class
meetings were called at night. Almost nobody came but our small group. That allowed us
to dominate as we saw fit. "Well fill everything that comes up with former Snead
students," we agreed. That came to include class officers and class beauties. Nobody ever
caught on to our scheme. Careless arrangement by the dean of students set up the
opportunity and we took advantage of it.
My best friend, Delilah Ann Ellis, was in that group. She and I hung out and went
places on foot during my junior year and half of the senior year. We walked all over

Jacksonville and once even to the top of Chimney Peak. Many times we would share a
bag of red hots. To this day I always think about her whenever see that candy. If it rained,
we really enjoyed walking with umbrellas. We were in no way sweethearts, just good
friends who had a lot in common. She was dating Ray Woody that whole time. He
regularly came to her dorm to pick her up for a date on weekends. "Lets go in right
when hes supposed to come for you," I always suggested with a mischievous grin.
Delilah enjoyed that ruse as much as I did. Most times, there he stood in the lobby of
Pannell Hall, looking at his watch. He glared angrily at me, but never said a word.
"Goodnight. See you later," I usually said loud enough for him to hear as she walked in
his direction.
Delilah failed to return for the spring semester. I finally learned that she got into
trouble for cheating in Dr. Spakovskys sociology class and was forced out. She later
married Ray, but I think she regretted it. Delilah called me a couple of times after she
married, but I was very standoffish with her. To tease him when they were dating was a
far cry from a continuation of the practice after they were married. I wanted nothing to do
with it. Id like to know how things turned out for her and if shes still alive, but it
wouldnt be a good idea even if I knew how to get in touch with her. She grew up at
Walnut Grove which we pass by on the way to Gadsden. "Anywho" lists a Ray Woody,
but Im not going to call. I had told her to let me know before she got married but she
didnt until afterward. Although I did like her a lot, I wouldnt have married her even if
she had contacted me earlier. I just wanted to know before it happened. The joke between
us was that I wanted to know when to think of her as "Strumpet Ellis" rather than "Virgin
Ellis." The "Strumpet" idea came from a course we had taken together in Shakespeares
tragedies.
My graduation ceremony was held in the college football stadium where my
father had graduated. No building on campus would handle a crowd that size. I cant
recall the speaker or a single thing he said, but distinctly remember seeing the faculty
lining up with their caps, gowns and hoods. The color of the border of the hood indicated
the persons graduate degree and the interior of the hood the graduate school which
awarded it. I thought that was particularly elegant. At the time, I didnt realize how many
times I would do the same thing at graduations of the colleges where I worked.
Chapter 14: Life in Columbus, Georgia
My father wanted me to go directly on to graduate school. I considered that for a
while. The two I most seriously considered were the University of Mississippi and the
University of Southern Mississippi. I went so far as to apply to Ole Miss, but withdrew
the application before they acted on it. Dr. Self, dean of the graduate school at
Jacksonville, contacted me to try to get me to enroll there, but at that time they didnt
offer a masters degree in biology. The education masters they suggested didnt fit with
my long-range plans. To work at the secondary level was to be a temporary arrangement.
Ultimately I decided against going further in college at that time because of the military
situation. The draft was in full swing. Deferments were not granted for graduate school,

but were available for teachers. I was determined not to be forced into the military, and so
worked the system just as thousands of other were doing.
It succeeded. I got only one questionnaire from them between 18 and 26, during
which time I was theoretically liable to the draft. Only dummies or zealots went into the
military. Like Vice President Cheney, who is my same age, I had "other priorities."
Near the end of my senior year, a recruiter, R. Bryce Carson, Assistant
Superintendent of Education, came from the Muscogee County School District to recruit
teachers for Columbus, Georgia. "Theres an opening in biology at Columbus High
School and another one at Jordan Vocational High School," he explained. Columbus High
School was the outstanding academic secondary school, so I expressed interest only in
that opening. I heard from the recruiter within a couple of weeks. He informed me that I
had an appointment with Dr. John Deason, principal of Columbus High. "Call me when
you get into town and Ill tell you where to meet Dr. Deason," he said.
My parents and I made the over 200 mile trip to Georgia. When I called, the truth
emerged. He had not even told Deason to expect me. The principal was not in town and
wouldnt be back until late evening. Astonished, I said, "You let me come all this way
and didnt really make an appointment." Carson acted like it was nothing of consequence.
"Just go take in a movie and then it wont be long until he gets back."
I came very close to telling him off and leaving, but decided to stick it out since I
was there. Upon his return, I met with Deason and accepted his offer of employment.
That school system was having a difficult time keeping its positions filled. In time, I
learned the reasons.
To take a job out of state for five years was a huge mistake which costs hundreds
of dollars every month in lost retirement benefits. A young person seldom looks that far
into the future. My contract called for $3800 annually, but it increased to $4000 before
school started. Both amounts were well above the pay in Alabama. The Muscogee County
School District had a policy of paying new hires after only two weeks the first month of
employment. This was humane and considerate since many of us were fresh out of
college and working at our first jobs. My monthly take-home pay was about $280 and
didnt reached $300 until two years later. Paid as worked over nine months, it would have
been more, but I spread it out over 12 months. That way I was sure of regular income.
An older teacher advised me that if I took it in nine months, it could hurt Social Security
benefits by creating a blank quarter each year. Social Security age seemed a remote
possibility so that factored only slightly into my decision. Georgia was one of the few
states that wouldnt allow teachers to receive both retirement and Social Security, so even
if that was true, it didnt matter to people who planned to live permanently in Georgia. I
expected to return to Alabama at some point.
The next item of business was to find a place to stay in Columbus. I had written
the principal for suggestions, but he had ignored my inquiry. "Your letter got lost under a
pile of papers on my desk," he explained when I called him about it. "I just found it

yesterday." He sent me a city map with a circle drawn around several blocks near the high
school. "This is the area you will want," he jotted on the edge of the map. The
information was worthless.
I contacted the Chamber of Commerce but their senseless reply was to advise me
to stay at the Claridge, an expensive downtown hotel. The place was far beyond my
modest means. My parents went with me on a second trip a few weeks before school
started in the fall. We scanned the list of available rentals in the Columbus LedgerEnquirer and made phone calls to likely prospects.
The first possibility we located was an upstairs apartment directly across from the
back of the school, but it had two bedrooms and rented for the exorbitant amount of $75 a
month. I couldnt afford it. We kept looking.
Later in the day, we pulled into the shade of a huge tree in a church yard to look at
the newspaper. Without warning an enormous limb crashed down from the tree. It
smashed the windshield of their Ford Falcon. The loud crash caused Mother not to hear
well for an hour or so. It scared Buster, the Chihuahua so much that he tried to break free
and run away. People at surrounding houses came out and looked, but turned and went
back inside. We could expect no help.
"Well call the State Farm agent," my father decided. "Maybe hell tell us what to
do. We cant drive the car the way it is." The windshield was demolished and glass was
scattered inside from front to back.
The representative was just around the corner on Linwood Boulevard. The man
came right over and led us to a glass repair shop. They promptly replaced the windshield.
Because he provided such outstanding assistance, I took out insurance with him for the
entire time I lived in Columbus. One time I let him finance a car for me. He was well
rewarded for his good service.
I thought I had to find something in walking distance of the school since I didnt
expect to have a car. My father ended up lending me the old 1938 Chevrolet for a few
months until I saved enough to pay down on a new car. But I didnt know that at the time.
I felt that I had to limit my search to an area within a half-mile or so of the school.
We next responded to a want ad reading: "Highland Hall. Gentleman, a home for
you." It contained the street address, 1504 17th Street and the phone number 322-4938.
That was two blocks from the school, an easy walk. The house was large, old, white
wood, with green trim. It was on a lot with little frontage, but surrounded with brick walls
and had a brick cottage out back. The rear of the house was two-story. The grounds were
cluttered with random shrubbery and flowers, but neatly kept.
We mounted the high front steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. A short,
poorly-dressed older lady with glasses opened the door. I explained the reason for being
there. "Come in and see if this suits you," she invited. Another older woman hurried

toward the front from within the mansion. "This is my sister, Mary Mowen," Mrs. Smith
informed us. "Arsenic and Old Lace," I heard my mother whisper to my father. The
comparison to the story was valid. There were two old ladies who rented rooms to men.
They looked, talked, and acted like the insane, murderous women in the play.
The exterior was deceiving. The house was an elegant mansion with splendid
furnishings in some rooms. The ceiling of the long, wide entrance hall was an impressive
24 feet high. It was crowded with antique furnishings such as enormous mirrors, tall
oriental vases, carved tables, and an incredible glass prism chandelier with various tiers
of prisms. Genuine Oriental rugs covered the floors. Mrs. Smith explained, "My husband
was an importer. Most of these things came from European castles."
There was a library to the right and a parlor to the left. Both were filled with
luxurious antique furniture. Mrs. Smiths bedroom, the second door on the right, called
the Josephine Room, contained the most elegant antique canopy bed I have ever seen
with other pieces to match.
"I didnt know you could rent a room in a house like this," I said with awe. Mrs.
Smith smiled, but made no reply.
The room that I rented was the second one on the left, but that door from the
entrance hall was never used. The entrance hall led into a commons area that had, at some
point, been open to the outside. It appeared that the kitchen had at one time been separate
from the house, but had come to be included over the years. The floor in that area was
shiny black and white tile. The entrance to my room led off from the commons area. Just
outside my door to the commons area were two recliners and a black & white TV set.
Color sets were rare in those days. This is the set where, in 1964, I saw Jack Ruby kill
Lee Harvey Oswald.
There were three bedrooms downstairs that she rented and an apartment upstairs.
The room that I agreed to take was far less elegant than the rooms near the front of the
house, but it had an unbelievable chandelier with many tiers of crystals. Strangely, as it
then seemed to me, the many sockets for light bulbs were empty except for a single 60watt bulb. I later learned that Mrs. Smith was almost a miser as to the use of electricity
who would raise a howl if I left the lights on in my room even long enough to use the
bathroom down the hallway toward the back. Just the same I finally slipped bulbs into all
the empty sockets so I could enjoy the light when I had my door closed. I figured she
wouldnt notice it since she would be too tight to turn on the light when she was in the
room. That assumption must have been correct as she never said anything about it.
"Maid service is included," she stated. I assumed that she employed a maid, but
later learned that she did the work herself. She kept my room clean and would have even
made up my bed each day, but I did that myself. She changed the bed to fresh sheets
weekly. There was no washer/dryer so she had the sheets and towels done at a laundry.

The furniture in my room was quite ordinary, but there was a nice cedar lined
closet. Heat was by an unvented gas space heater that I was somewhat afraid would
create carbon monoxide. The old windows with their wavy glass panes were so drafty
that there probably was no reason for concern. Old houses were like that.
The rental was $35 a month which seems cheap by current standards, but that
represented a significant fraction of my take-home pay. Still it was a bargain since that
included all utilities plus she usually fed me breakfast and supper at no cost. She could
sometimes be surprisingly generous as that was no part of the deal. I tried to refuse it, but
she insisted.
The bank I used was in easy walking distance of where I stayed, as were a barber
shop and coin laundry. It was possible to walk to a major supermarket, but I drove there
since carrying a bag of purchases would have been a task. It would have been possible,
with some difficulty, to get by without a car.
Of the two other rental bedrooms downstairs, one contained an impressive fourposter canopy bed that Mrs. Smith claimed was copied to appear in the movie "Gone
With the Wind." She said that her nieces knew Margaret Mitchell who had visited in the
house and mentioned her furniture to the movie makers resulting in them coming there to
made drawings of it to reproduce for inclusion in Tara. I later found out that it was a total
fabrication. She was lying basically anytime her lips were moving.
That pattern of mendacity continued the whole time I lived there (five years). She
told people that various prominent generals had lived in her house early in their careers,
but that was also untrue. "Mark Clark and Omar Bradley lived here when they were
majors and colonels," she told person after person during the years I rented there. Perhaps
it was real to her.
It was true that Dwight Eisenhower had regularly eaten at a caf about a mile
from the house. The places name was Goo Goo. The management kept Ikes favorite
barstool marked even during the time I was living there. The spot finally burned and
wasnt rebuilt. I never visited it, but have since wished that I had.
It was Ft. Benning that drew prominent military people to Columbus. The military
base was on the opposite side of town from where I lived, out Victory Drive. Ironically, it
was name for a Confederate general. I didnt have any reason to drive out that way
beyond curiosity as to what that famous area looked like. It had lots of eating places but
they tended to be seeding-looking in keeping with catering to the military. From the
public road I wasnt able to see any of the military installation beyond distant buildings
and threatening signs warning away trespassers.
The children of low-ranking military personnel attended the nearby Baker High
School, but we got the kids of the officers at Columbus High School. It was the elite
school at the time. The school for Negroes was Carver High. Segregation was in full
flower.

A steady stream of renters came and went at Highland Hall, some of them strange
characters. Living upstairs when I came there were John and Sandy Case. He had been
drafted into the military. John made no secret of the fact that he highly resented his
involuntary servitude. Their car was a formerly-beautiful 1959 Ford Convertible, but
since they had lived in the north, salt on the roads had eaten large holes all in the lower
body. Mrs. Smith lent them money to get it fixed, which they repaid. She was pregnant
when they left. One weekend they went to Guntersville with me on a visit. Ive often
wondered how things worked out for them.
Jack Hawk was a boy just out of high school who came to Columbus to attend an
art school. He was severely handicapped with withered arms, but he had enough control
of them to be able to manipulate a paint brush. Once he brought an example of his art
work, a light house, for us to see. He was obviously proud of it. I thought it was rather
well done, but Mrs. Smith openly criticized it. Her criticism stung. It was obvious that it
both angered him and hurt his feelings. She had been an artist, so was doubtless a better
judge of such matters. Several of her paintings hung throughout the mansion.
The most obnoxious renter was Lt. Horn. As a lowest-ranking officer, he was
entitled to housing on the base at Ft. Benning, but he decided to take a room in town.
Military ardor and arrogance were his chief attributes. "I think he wants me to salute him
each time we meet," fumed John Case who was a private. "Thats one reason we live off
the base. I hate that kind of thing. Ill move before Ill salute him." Horn never pressed
the issue. Occasionally, Ft. Benning would call in the early hours of the morning for Lt.
Horn to come. The only phone was in the common area. Although he had to know it was
for him, the man never got up and answered it. The ringing would continue endlessly
until somebody, usually me, got up and responded. The last time that happened, I asked,
"Do you know its four oclock in the morning?" I slammed the phone down. Shortly
after that, Horn moved back to the base. The man rudely assumed that everyone around
him shared his nationalistic views. It was good riddance.
Once the landlady grudgingly rented to a young woman. Normally she didnt take
females, but the room had been vacant for some time. She wanted the money. The main
thing I remember about that renter was an occasion when Mrs. Smith and I were sitting in
the commons area when she strode up to us in a new light pink pants suit for us to
admire. The girl spread out her arms and asked, "How do you like it?" Mrs. Smith got an
angry look on her face, slammed both arms down onto the arms of her chair, but said
nothing. When I had told her that she looked nice (the only acceptable analysis), the girl
went back to her room. By that time Mrs. Smith had realized that her failing eyesight had
deceived her. "I though she was naked," she whispered. I wanted to laugh, but didnt
dare.
On another occasion she rented to a stuffy middle-aged woman who caused a
good bit of difficulty. "My mink coat cost thousands of dollars. Im worried that it might
be stolen. Is it all right if I have a deadbolt installed on the closet door in my room."

Mrs. Smith gave permission. A locksmith came and made the installation. The mink was
supposed to be secure. After a few months, the two women had a serious dispute. "I dont
have to stay here and wont," the renter declared angrily. "It isnt a fit place to live
anyway." "Be sure to give me the key to the closet before you leave," she asked as the
woman stalked out of the house. "I paid for that lock, so the key is mine," she retorted.
"Its your problem now."
"Do you think you can get the lock open?" Mrs. Smith asked me later in the day.
It was easy. In about two minutes I had the door open. The lock had been no protection to
the costly mink. Mrs. Smith placed layer after layer of tape over the mechanism so that it
couldnt be locked again.
At one time she had rented the upstairs apartment to a soldier who had a German
wife. The woman wanted to visit her parents in Germany, but couldnt afford the trip.
Soon after that Mrs. Smiths diamond watch came up missing. The watch actually existed
as I had seen it on numerous occasions. It was a beautiful thing with many good-sized
diamonds. Im reasonably sure the tenant stole it as she quickly left for the "unaffordable"
trip to Germany. Mrs. Smith collected the value from her insurance company, which
highly pleased her. The money was far more important to her than the watch. She never
made the connection with the tenant as the likely thief so I didnt suggest the possibility
since there was no proof.
Other tenants occasionally mistreated her in various ways. At times, she seemed
to find things they did amusing. A favorite story of hers involved a couple who rented her
cottage. After a couple of years, his job took him elsewhere. Their last day was February
29th. "Heres the check for this months rent," the man said. "Ive apportioned since we
wont be here a full month." The renter had divided the monthly rent by thirty to get a
daily rate and then multiplied by twenty-nine to arrive at the amount. Mrs. Smith was
astounded at how petty he was. "What about all the months that had thirty-one days?" she
asked. The man gave her a blank look. He didnt seem to get the point she made. She
stuffed his check into her billfold without further argument. "People can be strange," she
commented with a chuckle.
At the start of my fourth year, when the upstairs apartment at Mrs. Smiths house
went unrented for a considerable time, she offered it to me. "You can have it for $40 a
month," she said. That was only five dollars more than I paid for a single room. I
accepted immediately since I would have so much more room, better privacy, and an
unshared bathroom.
To reach it, there was a long, steep staircase. If a fire had broken out, I might
easily have been trapped. I thought that unlikely enough to be worth the risk. It would
have been possible to go through a window to a roof and drop to the ground in an
emergency.
The apartment had a combination bedroom/living room, a kitchen, a bathroom,
and a large walk-in closet. One wall was filled with windows which ended about half

way down. The back wall had a couple of windows. These provided a good view of the
surrounding neighborhood plus plenty of light and fresh air. It was a sharp contrast to the
gloomy downstairs of the mansion. There were old Venetian blinds, but no curtains. The
furniture was scanty, shabby, and crude by any standard. It was nothing like furnishings
in the rooms on the first floor. Part of it was nothing but lawn furniture. I didnt mind.
The extra privacy was grand.
I managed to move a glider-type couch from a useless position on the landing at
the top of the stairs into the living room. Others who had lived there apparently didnt
figure out how to do it and I must admit that it was difficult. The move took me over an
hour. I had to shift it inch at a time to make the sharp turn into the room. Looking back, I
realize that I should have disassembled it and reassembled it where I wanted it. That
simple solution didnt occur to me. It looked almost like the glider, bought at Sears,
Roebuck, and Company, that is now in our courtyard at Russellville.
The bed had metal head and footboards that slanted noticeably inward. I shoved
coins, as make-shift shims, into place enough to straighten them. The mattress was old
and swagged in the middle, but was actually quite comfortable. An old dresser with large
mirror and a bedside table were the only other items of furniture. A cheap green area rug
covered part of the painted plank floor. The only light was from a ceiling fixture. I
supplied my own lamp.
The heat was a dangerous unvented gas space heater in poor condition. It gave off
a sharp odor of gas, so much that I was afraid to use it more than a few minutes at the
time. Some of the ceramic grates, designed to radiate heat into the room, were broken. I
felt, in view of the bargain rent I paid, that it would be wrong to ask her to have the
device repaired. I found a way to heat the room without using it.
The bathroom had the normal fixtures, but the claw-foot tub had no shower. I
fixed this problem with a hand-held shower head from the hardware store. It fit right on
to the faucet. The small gas heater in that room worked satisfactorily. During the winter, I
learned that it would heat my entire apartment if supplemented by a small electric space
heater in the living room.
Leading off the bathroom and with a door on the opposite side to the stair landing,
was a walk-in closet that provided more than ample storage for my few belongings.
The kitchen had continuous windows on both exposed walls, but no coverings.
Here also I had a fine view and excellent natural light. The fixtures were the standard
white, but with a gas stove which I didnt like. The small table had drop-leaves on both
sides which interfered with placement of chairs underneath. After a time I removed the
leaves. Two years later, I hastily reinstalled them just before I moved away from
Columbus. I heard that the couple who rented the apartment next experienced a collapse
of the table while loaded with food. I should have attached the screws more securely.

After a time I began to notice evidence of what I took to be activity of mice.

There were holes gnawed into boxes and into loaves of bread. I had intended to set a trap,
but while I procrastinated, the real problem manifested itself. One night I came in late to
hear distinct chewing coming from my kitchen. I slipped in, turned on the light, and shut
the door. To my shock there was a huge rat on my table, tearing into a loaf of bread. Its
body was nearly a foot long, or so it seemed to me. Id never seen a creature like that
inside a house. I grabbed the broom and proceeded to knock it to the floor with a hard
whack. The animal was not even stunned. It rose on its hind legs to fight. It look several
blows to kill it. The rat had several large sores along the sides of its body. It was a
repulsive sight. In disgust, I took it by the tail and dropped it from the top of the stairs so
that it fell alongside a chair in the commons area where Mrs. Smith regularly sat. The
next day, she was elated about the death of the rat that had, for a long time, been causing
her trouble downstairs. She assumed that it had simply died of natural causes. I kept quiet
as to my role in the affair.
Mrs. Smith made a practice of snooping through the belongings of her renters. I
had experienced that downstairs. My mother wrote me about a shocking event in
Albertville. A day or two later, the landlady repeated the story almost word-for-word, but
cast it as an experience of her own. I knew exactly what she had done. Even after I
moved upstairs, she continued the practice. One day I stayed out sick from work. Here
she came, creeping up the stairs, not expecting me to be there. What a surprise she got
when I called out. She went scooting down the stairs without a word. She never
mentioned it and neither did I.
To prevent further expeditions of that type, I removed and hid the doorknobs each
time I left. She couldnt very well say anything since there could be no reason that she
would even know about it. She was well aware of it, as I learned from an overheard
phone conversation to her nieces. "I dont know what he think Im going to steal.
Everything up there belongs to me," she complained. "He locks the doors every time he
leaves." They werent locked, just had no knobs. She didnt realize what I had done, only
that she could no longer covertly enter my quarters. What angered her was that she could
no longer snoop.
There was no air conditioning anywhere in the house. The place often was
uncomfortably hot in the warmer months. It was inexpensive to heat during the winter.
Mrs. Smith had told me that my bathroom heater was on her meter. She suggested that I
use it to save money. She could be quite nice, even generous, at times.
Electricity and water were included in my rent, but not gas. There was a separate
meter for the apartment. My gas bill was eighty cents a month which was ridiculously
small even back then. I suspect that the meter was not actually read. The bill failed to
increase even during the final year of my living there when I did a good bit of cooking on
the gas stove.
Because my cost of living was so low, I was able to save a significant sum of
money. What one spends can be more important than amount of income. It took only a

few months to accumulate enough for a large down payment on a new car. Also, I was
able to buy a number of costly items for Mothers house plus a gold wristwatch for her.
Sometimes I wouldnt even bank my monthly paycheck until I had two of them. Getting
by financially was easy, but I owned practically nothing other than It was a case of "less
is more."
The name of the house was Highland Hall because it was located in the East
Highlands section of Columbus. It reportedly had been built in 1837, although years later
I learned it was well after that. Once, when Mrs. Smith told a prospective tenant the date
of construction, the person innocently asked, "Did you build it originally?" She kept a
straight face. "Oh, no, I was too young. My parents wouldnt let me see to business at that
age."
Somebody had written a poem abut the mansion which Mrs. Smith had
memorized and like to recite in a grandiose manner. I can recall only the start which
went, "When I stand among the splendors of stately Highland Hall, and view the aging
gum tree..." Thats about how long I actually listened to her as my interest in the poem
was minimal. Now I wish I had a copy.
There was a huge sweet gum tree between the front porch and street which was
laced with an extensive wisteria vine that produced incredible numbers of purple blooms
in season. It was a beautiful sight. Judging by what I see on Google Street View, the fine
old tree is gone.
The locally-known story was that the original owner of the place (then a
plantation) had been murdered in the house by his throat being cut. Reportedly, he had
crawled through the house and left a trail of blood from the savage wound. From there he
made his way a few blocks to the shack of a Negro where he died. A jury convicted the
hapless man of murder and he was given a life sentence. Being young and inexperienced,
I put enough credence in the story that a couple of times I looked for any evidence on the
wood floors of blood stains, but found none. But who knows how many times the floor
had been sanded and refinished in the decades since the murder.
Violent murder is the stock-in-trade of ghost stories. My landlady swore that the
plantation owners ghost could be heard occasionally at night crying out, but if so he
didnt make a manifestation during the years I lived there. Still, I would think about the
horrible tale sometimes when about to drift into sleep. Id pull the cover over my head as
if that would provide any protection against a "spirit." Of course I didnt really believe in
ghosts, but imagination could produce the prospect of a "frightful fiend" creeping up
alongside my bed to demand to know what I was doing in his house.
The wild story also included the idea that the rich man had buried treasure
somewhere on the grounds. Reportedly, that was why he was murdered, in an attempt to
make him reveal its whereabouts. There was an article from many years ago in the
Columbus Ledger that related the tale in detail. The reporter must surely have been taken
in as the whole thing was just another of Mrs. Smiths tall tales. She kept the yellowed

news article in a frame in the common area. It was interesting enough that I took it down
and typed a copy of it. I thought my copy no longer existed, but in early 2009 as I was
about to complete the first draft of this book, Delorise found a stack of papers enclosed in
a rubber band. A note in my mothers handwriting said they were things I might want.
Among the items were my typed pages, themselves now yellowed by time. The story had
no by-line. The following is the reporters article:
Hidden Gold, Blood, Tragic Memory in Columbus Home
(From the Columbus Ledger, date of publication and writer unknown)
The sweet gum tree in the front yard is nearly 300 years old.
It has stood there, sturdily, throughout war and peace, and in the dark of the
night its leaves, rustling in the wind, tell a dramatic story of the past.
A story of happiness and sorrow, of hidden goldand of murder.
For a murder once was committed within the walls of old Highland Hall,
home of Mrs. Estelle Collins Smith at 1504 17th Street.
"I wish I knew more about the details of the case," Mrs. Smith said. "My
memories date back to my childhood, and the only story I know is the one
which I remember always hearing."
"It seems that a man named LloydJim Lloyd, I think it was, built this house
in 1837."
It must have been in the forties or fifties that he was found here, one night,
murdered. His throat had been cut, they say, with a very dull knife, so that
there was a great deal of blood."
TRAIL OF BLOOD. "And the blood made a trail, out of the house, across
the road, and through the vacant fields to the shack of an old negro, who
lived on a nearby plantation. Drops of it were found on leaves along the way,
marking a path and the trail ended right at the old negros doorsteps. The
negro was convicted of murder, and sent away to prison, to serve a life
sentence. Many years laterin fact, it was only 18 or 20 years agoan old
man, dying at a town in the Carolinas, called the local judge to his deathbed,
and said that he had a confession to make.
"He said that he had killed Mr. Lloydkilled him because he knew that a
great quantity of gold was kept somewhere in the house, and because he
wanted to get it. Now dying, he wanted the old negro to be set free and this
was done.
"There was a story in the paper about it, but I cant remember the date, and I
dont have a copy. I do remember, however, that they said the negro was old
and tottering. and when they released him, he said that he bore no malice
toward anyone, he was so happy to be free."
HIDDEN TREASURE. Hidden gold, as a matter of fact, was the theme
woven closely throughout Mrs. Smiths childhood.
"My father died when I was very young," she said, "and my brother, P..M.
Collins, bought this house in 1895. There were six of usfour boys and two
girlsand we all came to live here. We always heard that Mr. Lloyd had
buried pots of gold here, gold which has never been found. And as children,
we used to dig and dig in search of the hidden gold.

"My mother told us that we would uproot the pillars of the house, and our
garden was full of holes. My sister and I have said since, that we both ruined
our backs digging for gold. But we never found any. And sometimes I still
have the feeling that I am living on top of a treasure trove."
There is a secret door, just over a landscape picture which now hangs in the
front parlor, Mrs. Smith explained, that led into a passageway which wound
through the house and into the loft. Her brothers used to go in there with
candles, seeking for the treasure.
But the quest was unavailing and many years ago, the secret door was
covered over with wallpaper.
HAND HEWN DOORS. All the doors in Highland Hall are hand hewn, put
together with wooden pegs. And the floors are so hard that a nail cant be
driven through them.
The ceilings are 16 feet high, there is a fireplace in every room, and the
spacious front hall runs 37 feet back to a wide sun porch. This was the end of
the original housea one-story buildingbut some 40 years ago, a second
story was added to the back part of the house.
Mrs. Smiths furnishings are lovely, antique sofas, chairs, brick-a-brac, and
pieces that would bring a gleam to any collectors eye.
A beautiful crystal chandelier decorates the ceiling in the front parlor, while
there are numerous crystal girandoles that tinkle musically in the breeze and
belonged to Mrs. Smiths mother.
And loveliest of all is the huge oval, gilt framed mirror that hangs in the
front hall. "It came from one of the old castles on the Rhine in Bonn,
Germany," Mrs. Smith said, "and I bought it when I was there in the
twenties."
The spacious bedroom, known as the Josephine room, boasts a solid carved
walnut set. The old fashioned marble-topped washstand dates back to the
early seventeenth century, and was the possession of the Mac Donald family,
in the days of the American Revolution, ancestors of Mrs. Smith.
There is also a marble topped walnut highboy, a marble topped dresser, and a
fascinating walnut canopy bed, quilted in green brocade. The room, as matter
of fact, derives its name from the bed, for, "it is identical with the one in the
Palace at Versailles which belonged to the Empress Josephine, save for the
fact that the canopy on hers was lower," Mrs. Smith says. "The whole
canopy, incidentally, comes apart in sections."

Mrs. Smith and her sister, Mrs. Mowen, had grown up in that house and both
assured me that they had diligently searched for the treasure. "We used to go underneath
the house and dig,"Mrs. Mowen said. "But we never found anything. You can still see the
holes we made."
When Mrs. Mowen told something, it was the truth. I was able to find evidence to
support her account. At the back, the underside of the house was several feet off the
ground, which made it easy to get around underneath. There were easily-visible places,
all over, where somebody had dug holes.

I now have reasons to disbelieve the truthfulness of the story. It seems unlikely in
the extreme that a badly injured man would go to the house of his assailant or that he
would be able to do so with extensive blood loss. Nevertheless, in those pre-civil war
days, blacks were sometimes convicted on flimsy or no evidence. It also seems highly
improbable that a Negro who was found guilty of the murder of a prominent white man in
the 1800s would escape the death penalty. Maybe it isnt best to question an exciting
story too closely.
I have written a short story entitled, The Unseen at Highland Hall, which is partly
fictional, but based on the murder tale. It covers a single day in the house.
Columbus had a relatively mild climate, but occasional nights saw the
temperature drop well below freezing. Mrs. Mowen, some year before, wrapped the water
pipes in the crawl space with newspapers for insulation. The inexpensive solution proved
ineffective. On occasional days, there would be no running water for a few hours due to
frozen pipes. Large plumbing bills due to burst pipes came every few years. To keep the
exposed water pipes from further episodes of freezing or bursting, Mrs. Smith had the
underside enclosed with cement blocks shortly after I move there, so I didnt get to do
any secret digging.
I found a $20 bill in a wall cavity alongside the staircase to my apartment. It was a
space where an old window had been when the kitchen was a separate building. I quickly
felt all around, with hope to find more, but to no avail. Upon close examination I
discovered that the bill bore a recent date. I presented it to a delighted Mrs. Smith.
"I know where this came from," she said with an excited lilt to her voice. "Mary was
sitting on those steps and later complained that somebody had stolen her twenty dollar
bill. She kept on so much that I gave her one of mine to replace it. She must have hidden
it in that space." It sounded just like something Mrs. Mowen would have done. She often
lost things and then plagued her sister endlessly about it. Mrs. Smith was inordinately
pleased to get the money back. It was a goodly amount of money in the mid1960s.
"I feel like I should give you some of this," she offered half-heartedly. I immediately
refused. If I had wanted the money, I could have kept it all to begin with. She had no way
to know that I had found it.
Mrs. Smith repeatedly told the story about the supposed secret passage in the
parlor. Her account was so earnest and sincere-sounding that I decided to investigate. The
wall between my original downstairs room and the adjacent parlor was several feet
thickentirely enough to contain a hidden passage. The closet in my downstairs room
had a trap door in the ceiling which was just big enough to admit a person. I stood on a
chair, forced the trap door upward, and awkwardly pulled myself into the space above my
closet. Sure enough, it was the size of a small room. At first, I felt that just maybe I
actually was in a secret room. The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I beamed the
flashlight around in the dense darkness. Any untoward sound or frightening sight would
have sent me scrambling back into the closet for safety. The air in the space was hot and
had a musty smell. I began to sweat.

The far wall adjoined the parlor so I searched it carefully for any evidence of the
hidden panel. To my disappointment, at the place she had repeatedly pointed out as the
location of the secret door, there was only solid wall. The cavernous attic had no floor so
each step, from beam to beam, would have put me at risk of a fall through the ceiling. I
contented myself with flashing the light in every direction long enough to confirm that
the attic, sadly, was empty. I had hoped to, at least, find chests filled with discarded
Collins family memorabilia.
Nevertheless, I never contradicted her when she told the fanciful account. She
delighted in its telling and her visitors enjoyed hearing it. It would serve no purpose to
rebut such an interesting tale and ruin everyones fun. The wide wall between the
bedroom and the parlor simply resulted from a double fireplace in the center and a closet
at each end. The "room" above was due to the height of the main room. Nobody would
want a closet to have a ceiling that high, so a lower ceiling had been installed to make it a
feasible space to hang clothes.
The one extravagant story of Mrs. Smiths that proved to be factual concerned her
niece who was married to one of the millionaire Vanderbilts. I thought it was true because
her nieces from Opelika backed it up. In addition, I often heard her talking to Mrs.
Vanderbilt over the phone. The only phone in the house was in the commons area, an
open public spot. Hard of hearing, Mrs. Smith talked very loud. At length, the Vanderbilts
drove from California to visit. All was just as she had stated. His name was Donald
Vanderbilt, but rather than a snob as I had anticipated, he was a pleasant, friendly person.
His appearance was unimpressive. Candor demands the description short, skinny, and
bald. "I usually introduce myself as Mr. Donald," he explained. "If people hear the name
Vanderbilt, they fawn all over me. Some even try to charge me more for things. I dont
like being cheated." I acted unimpressed and didnt call him anything, so we got along
just fine for the few days of their visit. Mrs. Vanderbilt was very kind and gracious. Since
I was a mere rented, she would have been fully justified to ignore me, but she went out of
her way to chat amiably.
"Aunt Estelle wants to will me things from the house, but all I want are a few
personal items, such as the pictures she painted," she volunteered.
Their luxury car, quality clothes, and elegant jewelry testified to their wealth, but
there was nothing pretentious about either of them. They lived in an upscale
neighborhood at 1025 Canyon View Drive in Laguna Beach, California.
On two occasions, Mrs. Smith sent them $10,000, a significant sum in those days,
for them to keep for her so it wouldnt be taxed at her death. Estate taxes were oppressive
at that time. "If I need it, you can send it back to me. Keep it in California. You can get
more interest there than I can here," she insisted.
Im sure her two Collins nieces in Opelika would have been furious if they had known
what she did. They had greedy eyes for her assets.

Another reason she sent them money that she had trouble finding enough banks to
keep all her funds because the F.D.I.C. insured deposits only up to $10,000 per account.
Not as many banks operated in those days. An amusing incident occurred when Mrs.
Smith maxed out all her current banks. She went to a newly opened bank to start another
account. She was shabbily-dressed as was her custom. "I want to open an account," she
informed the lady at the desk in the lobby. From her disheveled appearance, the employee
jumped to the conclusion that she was there in an attempt to borrow money. "Oh, is that
so?" she responded condescendingly. "Have a seat over there and well get to you when
we have time." Mrs. Smith seated herself on a couch in the indicated direction. Time
passed with no attention being paid to her. When she realized that she was being
deliberately snubbed, she got up in a huff and started toward the exit. "Ive never been
treated like this in my life," she said with a loud voice. A vice president walked into the
lobby at that point and recognized her. He rushed over to see what was wrong.
"Miss Estelle, where are you going? Did something happen to make you mad?" he
asked with concern. "I came here to start an account, but apparently the bank doesnt
want my money," she exclaimed with irritation. "So, Im going somewhere else." After a
stern rebuke of the offending employee, the man succeeding in mollifying her so that she
made the deposit.

Religious belief played a large part in Mrs. Smiths life, although she seldom
attended church. At night she often prayed loudly and repeated the same things over and
over. She confined her prayer to the Josephine Room, but her voice carried over most of
the lower floor. I could understand every word she said. "Why do you keep me here?" she
asked. "I want to go be with my family. Please take me." She repeated similar sentiments
in a pitiful, begging voice. Her prayers never dealt with any other matters than her desire
to die. It was lugubrious to hear her pray night after night like that. I tried not to listen as
prayer is supposed to be personal. Perhaps she didnt realize how her voice carried. I
couldnt keep from hearing it.
Her favorite verse from the Bible was "In my Fathers house are many mansions."
It was clear that she expected to live in a mansion in heaven even as she was already
doing on earth. She stumbled onto a verse in James that says, "You are a mist that
appears for a while and disappears." It puzzled her enough that she asked me about it.
I attempted to explain the truth about death and resurrection, but she was so indoctrinated
by her upbringing that she wasnt open to a new understanding. No matter how much I
reasoned with her, she came right back to the belief that she would be immediately
transported to heaven at her death.
She was a long-time member of the Wildwood Methodist Church which was
mainly for rich people, but she attended only near Easter. The large, brick building had a
most unusual feature. "Drive us by my church and Ill show you something interesting,"
she said one day when I was taking her to the supermarket. We cut off the route and
circled the building. "Look at that," she laughed when we passed the left side. She
pointed to a huge stained glass window with images of angels, animals, cherubs, and
Jesus sitting in the center with a child on his lap. Mrs. Smith explained that it had been

donated by a rich family on the condition that the artist depict their own child sitting on
the lap of "Jesus." So it was done. There sat an image of their surly-looking brat starring
out toward onlookers. It was foolish enough to become a matter of ridicule even among
the religionists. "Can you imagine anybody doing that?" she asked with disgust.
The minister only visited when she failed to submit a pledge or keep it up. The
emphasis of his visit was on money, not her lack of attendance or her spiritual welfare.
"Miss Estelle, I see you didnt turn in your pledge card this year," he complained.
I could hear them chatting in the parlor which adjoined my room. When his visits failed
to produce the desired funds, he apparently quit coming. As far as I know he didnt show
up the last two years I lived there.
I finally decided that the untruths she continually told were a manifestation of
living in a fantasy world and were "real" to her. She told the most awful things about
people who came to the house, supposedly with the pretense to want to rent a room.
According to her twisted version, they had other motives. Usually, they wanted to attack
her or to rob her. She doted on how she managed to outwit them by her cunning.
"I have to ask you to keep your voice down. I have a policeman living here and he sleeps
days," she claimed to have told a man who was about to rob her.
At first I didnt realize none of it was true, but over the years I was present and
heard everything when potential tenants showed up. Many of them didnt like what she
had available and told her so in no uncertain terms. Others would agree to rent a room to
get her to stop exerting pressure, but then they didnt come back. When that happened she
would make up some wild tale as to why she refused to rent to them. Never, to my
knowing, did she refuse any tenant.
Sometimes I was present when her two nieces from Opelika came to visit. She
began to turn to me to confirm the truthfulness of her experiences. Thats one reason I
decided she was fantasizing. She had to know that I knew what she said wasnt true. I
managed to remain noncommittal. More than once, her nieces told me, out of her hearing,
"Aunt Estelle is an actress."
An especially deplorable practice was that she attacked, often in a vicious manner,
renters who finally moved elsewhere. As I expected, that also applied to me. After I
moved back to Alabama, she told her nieces that I had carried away her small stack of
Confederate money. They sent me a nasty letter about it. "Thank you for taking care of
Aunt Estelles Confederate money," it stated. "Theres no need for you to be bothered
with it any more. Send it back and well take care of it" They had to know that her
accusation was consistent with her being a pathological liar. I immediately picked up the
phone and called them. They hadnt expected that and were taken aback. "I got your
letter. If I had her Confederate money, I wouldnt be taking care of it. I would have stolen
it. I know exactly what she did with it," I said with a tone of mild anger, but with a
pretense of helpfulness. I informed them that she had given it to one of her Allen
nephews who lived in Atlanta on Ponce de Leon Avenue, one of the richest residential
sections. When I told them that, they immediately recognized that it was true. She had

attempted to hide from them that she had given it to somebody else. The Collins sisters
had an intense desire to get everything she had. They immediately began to apologize for
their letter. They hoped I hadnt taken it in the wrong way. I took it exactly as they
intended.
If I had wanted to steal something, it certainly wouldnt have been worthless
Confederate money. There were a lot of really valuable antiques in the house, some of
them small enough to be easily portable. In an hour, I could have loaded thousands of
dollars worth of loot into my car trunk if I had been so inclined.
Despite her shortcomings, Mrs. Smith was very nice to me. She regularly fixed
me breakfast and supper although that was not in the rental agreement. I learned that she
had, for years, picked out one renter for such privileged attention. Yet, there was a dark
side to her generosity. I overheard her tell her nieces that I practically begged her to fix
for me, but that was a complete lie. I would greatly have preferred to eat elsewhere, but
as Mrs. Mowen once told her, she forced it on me. The only way to keep her from doing
it would have been to move.
There was a place in easy walking distance called Linwood Lunchroom that
featured a meat and three vegetables for 65 cents. The place also fixed an extraordinary
hamburger steak with gravy and cooked onions for $1.25. That was where I wanted to
eat, but didnt often get to.
Looking back, I should have found other accommodations as soon as I realized
what she was like. I knew it would hurt her feelings if I did, so I stuck it out. Of course it
benefited me in that I could live really inexpensively. With the low cost of living, it was
easy to afford the significant expense at Peabody College in Nashville where I was
working on a masters degree in biology.
The fifth year at Columbus, I firmly refused to accept any more food from her and
managed to make it stick. I was then living in the upstairs apartment which made it easier
to avoid her. Prior to that she had a meal ready when I got in from work and if I didnt
show up, got very offended.
At the same time that she fed me free, she made the circuit of the grocery stores to
buy only the bargains. The clerks hated to see her since the items she purchased were
"loss leaders" to get people into the store. Typically, newspaper advertisements merely
stated the prices of the items, but listed no conditions. In the store might be signs which
set limits or required a minimum purchase. "I saw your ad in the paper, not in the store,"
she insisted. "You have to sell it like you advertised." Actually, she was right. The stores
engaged in deceptive advertisement, a violation of law. They always gave in to her
demands, although reluctantly. One manager initially refused, but she got louder and
louder until he caved. The stores could have changed their advertisements to head her off,
but it was their intent to deceive. The trick usually worked. Most shoppers wouldnt stand
up to them like she did.

Mrs. Mary Mowen was Mrs. Smiths sister. Years before she married and moved
away, but came back there to live after the death of her husband. Highland Hall was their
home place and she thought she had just as much claim on it as did Mrs. Smith. Mrs.
Smith resented her presence and made no secret of it. Often, she insulted her to her face.
Still, she fixed food for her and paid all the bills.
Mrs. Mowen, a cultured, gracious person, was a college graduate. I think thats
one reason Mrs. Smith didnt like her. She hadnt attended college. After her husbands
death early in their marriage, she had to make her living as a clerk in Kirvens an upscale
department store in the main business section of the city.
Mrs. Mowen had a large old cat of which she was extraordinarily fond. Mrs.
Smith hated the animal, resented having to buy it food, and surely detested it being kept
in the house. When I got in from work, I learned that the cat suddenly died. Mrs. Mowen
had a grim countenance, but her sister made no effort to hide a delighted smile. "I
poisoned it," she whispered with a mischievous grin when we were alone in the kitchen.
"Heres what I used," she added as she pulled a bottle from a shelf in the storage room
and held it out for me to see. Later in the evening, Mrs.Mowen confided, "I think Sissy
killed my cat. So cruel, so cruel." I revealed nothing, but expressed genuine sympathy on
the death of her beloved pet. It made me a bit apprehensive that Mrs. Mowen might meet
the same fate. Mrs. Smith greatly desired the $40,000 that her sister had in the bank.
"That money should be mine," she told me on several occasions. "Mary lets me pay for
everything. It isnt right."
A few weeks later, the two had a serious dispute of some sort. Mrs. Mowen came
up missing. Mrs. Smith searched high and low, but couldnt locate her. The sun had set,
so the twilight rapidly deepened into dark. "I dont know what to do. I cant find Mary
anywhere," she said in a panic. "Do you think I should call the police?" "Let me look for
a few minutes," I responded. At her age, it didnt seem likely she could be far away. She
could walk, but only slowly and with caution. I called her as I checked each room to
make sure she wasnt hiding. There was no response. It seemed likely that she had
ventured onto the grounds. I soon found her sitting in the dark on a bench in the side
yard, partly hidden by an overgrown azalea.
"Hey, Mrs. Mowen, beautiful night, isnt it?" I called out so as not to startle her.
When sure that I had her attention, I sat beside her and chatted a bit before any attempt to
induce her to go inside. She was sobbing softly. I felt terribly sorry for her.
"You just cant imagine how bad Sissy treats me," she said.
I did know because I had heard it done often enough. It seemed best to remain
noncommittal yet sympathetic. I quietly listened for a while as she bewailed her ill
treatment. It seemed to help her to talk about it. I asked, "Dont you think we should go
inside? Its getting late." She took my arm and I led her into the house. Mrs. Mowen was
in a dilemma. She had nowhere else to go and she knew it. Her situation reminded me of

Robert Frosts line, "Home is the place where when you have to go there, they have to
take you in." At that moment, Mrs. Smith seemed genuinely glad to see her sister.
When Mrs. Mowen moved back home some years before, she had written Mrs.
Smith to have a garage built for her car, but didnt offer to pay for it. Mrs. Smith did as
asked but continued to fume about it up until Mrs. Mowens death. The car in question
was a large old Buick from the 1930s. The vehicle was in almost new condition inside
and outside. I drove it once to help keep up the battery. Eventually, Mrs. Mowen agreed
to sell the car. Its absence made space for Mrs. Smith to move her Volkswagen beetle into
the garage.
Mrs. Smith was an unsafe driver. She consistently signaled the wrong direction
for turns. I told her about it a couple of times. "Push up for a right turn. Push down for a
left turn." Although she repeated what I said as if to learn how to signal correctly, she
always reverted to the incorrect procedure. She never got in an accident, but I dont know
how she escaped. It helped that she drove only right around the neighborhood. If she
went to Opelika to visit her nieces, or an unfamiliar part of Columbus, I was the
designated driver. Her nieces lived in a house called Collinwood in a nice older section of
town of Opelika.
Mrs. Smith eventually became determined to rid herself of her sister. In collusion
with her nieces, they abruptly shipped her off to a luxurious nursing home in Americus,
Georgia. The building and room were beautiful and the staff cordial and courteous. It was
quite a distance from Columbus. Mrs. Mowen didnt oblige by dying as her relatives had
apparently expected and hoped. The nursing home business office somehow found out
about their patients bank account. That set them on fire to get it in addition to the
substantial monthly charge. To that end, the facility began to invent large extra charges
every month. In a few months, they cut deeply into her money to the dismay of Mrs.
Smith. She saw her sisters money about to slip from her grasp. Something had to be
done.
With the aid and encouragement of her nieces, she arranged to have Mrs. Mowen
committed to the State insane asylum at Milledgeville, Georgia. "I hate to do it, but we
have no choice. She has to go to Milledgeville," one of her nieces declared. The deed was
soon done. At that time it was easy to have a person declared insane and committed. A
relative had only to find a doctor who would agree to sign, and off the person went to the
institution and couldnt get out. Milledgeville was the largest insane asylum in the
United States with over 12,000 inmates. I visited there once with a group of students, but
thats described elsewhere.
Mrs. Mowen was naturally distraught at being put in the insane asylum. She knew
exactly where she was and the nature of the place. "What am I doing here," she asked
over and over. "Why is Sissy treating me this way?"
It was quite true that she didnt belong in a mental institution. She wasnt insane
or even emotionally disturbed, just old and inconvenient. Its hard for some to abide

relatives like that, especially when there may be an inheritance to divide. With minimal
help she could have lived alone in an apartment. Most certainly she could have remained
in the upper class nursing home at Americus. Greed determined otherwise.
Only a few months were required for the scheme to serve its intended purpose and
she died late in December. It was obvious that Mrs. Smith was delighted when she
reported her sisters passing. She never showed an iota of sorrow. Uncharacteristically,
she spared no expense on her sisters funeral. "Theres a time to save money, but this isnt
it," she declared.
Several weeks later, her emotions had cooled. When she shopped for a granite
slab to cover the grave, she argued and negotiated price with the dealer shamelessly.
Mrs. Mowen is buried at Linwood Cemetery. The marker shows her name, dates of birth
and death, her husbands name, and, ironically, the single word "Beloved."
Theres a saying that "What goes around comes around." Some years later, Mrs.
Smiths nieces had her forcibly removed from her home to be sent to a nursing home in
Atlanta where she soon died. When nursing home employees came to take her away, she
broke free and ran to her next-door neighbor, Mrs. Jones. She shrieked, "My house, my
house." That house meant more to her than anything in the world. She couldnt bear the
thought of leaving it. It was a sad end to her life.
Her death cleared up things nicely for her various heirs. The will left the house to
her nieces, but the splendid personal property was willed to relatives in Atlanta on Ponce
de Leon in the ritzy section of town. That greatly reduced the value of the inheritance of
the two nieces. Somehow, they got the furnishing anyway and crowded them into their
much smaller house in Opelika. I know nothing of the details of that, just that it
happened.
The house can be found on Google by entering "Highland Hall." It is on the
registry of historic houses along with thousands of others. Google Street View shows a
close-up by use of the street and house number. It still appears much as it did when I first
saw it in 1962.
My grandparents, in town for an assembly, came by there to see where I lived, but
wouldnt go inside. "The landlady might not like it," my grandmother said. "Wed better
not." My parents visited only once. They spent the night in my apartment while I slept in
a vacant bedroom downstairs on the massive four-poster canopy bed in one of the rental
rooms that happened to be vacant. I was glad of a chance to sleep on that magnificent
bed.
Aunt Edee and Uncle Gaston visited once, but didnt spend the night. They
brought a large dog with them. I scooped him up and carried him up the staircase to my
quarters where he promptly began to drink from the commode. Mrs. Smith would have
been outraged if she knew a dog was inside. She kept a clean house.

It was in Columbus that I started regularly attending the Kingdom Hall. One of
the strangest experiences I had in service occurred there. We were working a section of
big old mansions near downtown. It had formerly been a section of wealth, but was in
sharp decline. I went to a door by myself and knocked. A poorly-dressed young woman
with uncombed hair and no make-up came to the door. I stated my reason for being there.
She immediately invited me inside, but as soon as I entered, she called loudly to another
woman upstairs, "Ive got me a damn preacher."
Her demeanor and appearance, combined with the profane call to her companion
made me suddenly realize that it was a whorehouse. Women reduced to such dire
circumstances are to be pitied rather than ridiculed, so I made a determined effort not to
laugh as I beat a hasty retreat.
"No, no, dont go. Come on upstairs. I want you to meet my friends," she kept
calling out until I reached the sidewalk.
Chapter 15: Columbus High School, Home of the Blue Devils
There were four high school in Columbus at that time: Jordan Vocational High
School for poorer children, Baker High School near Ft. Benning for the children of lower
ranking army personnel, And George Washington Carver High School for blacks of any
standing, and Columbus High School for the upper class kids.
At Dr. Deasons suggestion, I arrived a week before my duties actually started.
There was no reason for my being there. I later learned he had made that suggestion to
each of the new employees, but I was the only one who complied. During that week, I
worked in the office, mainly typing and working the switchboard. The switchboard was
fun. There were four trunk lines receptacles. Amber lights announced incoming or
outgoing calls. Two cords with attached plugs were in front of each trunk line. If a call
came in, I placed the left plug into the receptacle by the flashing light and answered with
the headset. If anyone on campus wanted to call out, the person picked up an extension
and dialed nine. That caused the extension light to flash repeatedly. I plugged the right
cord into the extension receptacle and the left cord into one of the trunk lines. That gave
the employee access to a dial tone.
My having come early worked to my advantage in one major way. Deason had
taken on two new biology teachers. At the last minute, he had to give one up to Jordan
Vocational High School. I stayed and the other one went because I had arrived early and
been working for a week without pay.
The transferred teacher was also from Jacksonville State. I had tipped her off
about the vacancy in Columbus. She had asked when I was to be interviewed. Unknown
to me, she rushed over sooner to try to get the job. I hadnt expected such treachery. It
seemed no harm was done. Both of us were hired. She was furious at being transferred to

an inferior school. I saw her go into the principals office in a huff. But there was nothing
she could do about it. My thought was "It serves her right."
When the rest of the faculty arrived on the first real working day, they assigned us
menial work, especially alphabetizing a seemingly endless stack of cards. I hated doing
that and was inordinately slow at it.
The main building had an original three story section with a large auditorium. A
two story wing addition, location of most of my classes, was much newer. Within a
couple of years, a similar wing was added to the opposite side of the main building.
The library was on the third floor. "Myrtle the Turtle" Blackmon was the librarian. Miss
Blackmon was a fat old spinster and quite wealthy. She and Mr. Thomas, head of the
science department when I went there, had been sweethearts when younger, but nothing
ever came of it. The report was that she was willing but he wasnt.
The school provided a faculty lounge for female teachers near the principals
office. The corresponding lounge for male teachers was off the art room. The same size as
the current girls gym, the space had, years before, been the boys gym. The last year or
two there was an additional teachers lounge added which was for both males and
females. No office equipment was provided, not even typewriters. Comfortable seating
was its only feature.
Copies were made by the janitor at his convenience on a ditto machine which
produced stinky blue pages. It was barely possible to get enough copies for a large
enrollment before the print faded to unreadable. If more copies were needed in the future,
there was no choice by to retype the document. Error correction was so difficult that it
was common practice to "X" out mistakes and retype. The faculty distributed poor quality
materials, but that was true throughout education at all levels. Xerox machines had not
yet been invented.
Calculators had not yet appeared. Adding up test scores and dividing to obtain an
average to equate to a letter grade was usually done by hand. I finally discovered one
machine in a business classroom that could add and then divide. When I pressed the
divide key, the machine shook heavily and clicked nosily for a while before it printed the
average. I was amazed at how advanced it was. I could calculate averages for all of my
students in little more than an hour.
A large, new boys gym had been constructed. The idea of gender equity in sports
had not yet been developed. In addition to the huge gym, it had a full basement level with
excellent facilities for physical education and sports. It made the girls gym, tiny and
attached to the main building, look like the dump that it was.
"There will be a pep rally at 3:00 this afternoon in the gym," the principal
announced over the intrusive public address system each time a competition was
scheduled. Faculty were expected to attend. The noise was deafening.

The principal my first year was the one who had hired me, Dr. John Deason. I
quickly learned that he was universally detested. He wouldnt have been employed or
even taken seriously except for his holding an earned doctorate even if it was only a
doctor of education degree. Not many principals had the doctors degree, so that gave
bragging rights to the school system.
"Hes a smirky smart-alec," one of the teachers warned me in a whisper. "You
cant trust him. Hell cut your throat if he gets a chance. Everybody hates him."
Deason used an evaluation scheme wherein he showed up unexpectedly to
observe in a class. Afterward he wrote a detailed letter about what he had seen. Unlike his
actions in person, the letters were quite courteous and professional. No doubt he realized
that, while what is said can be denied, what is put in writing can be proven.
He also scheduled a series of weekly meetings which took up way too much of
our time. He was condescending and insulting in his demeanor, even to the faculty. In a
meeting where I was present, Deason slipped in late and sat in the back. The subject
under discussion was one for which the group had incomplete information. The chairman
looked at the principal and asked courteously, "Dr. Deason, can you tell us more about
this?" "I am only here as an observer," he responded curtly. The entire group was
astonished at his rudeness.
On one occasion he publicly insulted the guest speaker at a meeting of the PTA.
The presenter was from Columbus College, a part of the University of Georgia System.
He had come to tell about a program to be made available to high school students. The
man began by briefly tracing the history of arrangement. He had barely begun when
Deason rose to his feet and loudly said with obvious disrespect for the speaker, called out,
"Do you intend to tell these people what you have to offer to their children?" It was
terribly embarrassing to both faculty and parents.
To the delight of the faculty and students, Deason got forced out at the end of that
year. He was not terminated for his rudeness and unprofessional conduct. Such things are
hard to prove. He handed the superintendent and board of education the justification they
needed to fire him. The man went on a crusade against culottes, a type of girls garb that
had large, loose separate legs like shorts, but looked a lot like a skirt. Shorts were in
violation of the dress code, as by extension, were culottes. It was almost impossible to tell
culottes from skirts without separating the legs in the center. Deason came up behind a
girl in the hallway and began grabbing at her skirt to see if it was a culotte. She turned
around a slapped him full in the face. The incident was witnessed by a hallway of
students. He was allowed to finish his contract, but was not allowed to return the
following year.
"Im so glad that Deason isnt coming back," I confided to Ann Dismukes, a
chemistry teacher about my age. "Sos everybody," she responded with a wide grin.

The man who succeeded him as principal was Herman Dollar. He had, in the past,
been football coach at Columbus High. More recently, he was principal at Richards
Junior High which fed students to our school. Dollars main emphasis was on sports.
Academic excellence was far down his list of priorities.
"No student is going to fail a course," he informed the faculty. "I dont believe in
giving Fs. You can put them on the report cards, but they wont stay. If you try to assign a
failing grade, Ill just change it." The statement was highly unprofessional, probably
illegal, and almost certainly in violation of accreditation standards, but he enforced it.
To make matters worse, the Muscogee County School District had faculty report grades
on what was called a "Proficiency Sheet." The faculty member had to list each student in
each class, the grade assigned for each six weeks throughout the year, and the final grade
assigned in the course. For each student, there was the question "Proficiency Achieved?"
There were boxes for "Yes" and "No." We had to check one box. At the bottom, the
faculty signature was required to a sworn statement that the above grades had been
assigned on the basis of "Proficiency achieved" by the students. Dollar made a mockery
of the academic process and liars out of the faculty in the case of the worst students.
My all time worst student made an "F" at the end of each six weeks. One time I
noticed him openly cheating on a test. I took the textbook, opened it to the chapter under
consideration. "Here, use this all you want," I invited. The boy looked shocked at my
instructions. For the rest of the testing session, he pawed through the text and wrote
answers. He made a score of 40 out of a possible 100. At the end of the year, I reported
his unbroken chain of Fs, but put the final grade as "D." Acting under compulsion from
Dollar, I checked "Yes" that he had achieved proficiency. I thought surely somebody, at
some level, would say something about it, but not a word was uttered. That illustrated
how little importance was put on academics in an environment ruled by a coach of little
intelligence himself.
Dollar frequently boasted about his war record. One day, in the teachers lounge,
one of the ladies called him on it. "Doesnt it bother you that you have killed so many
people?" He paused and turned a bit pale before answering. I surmised that it was the first
time he had been challenged on the subject. It seemed to shock him. Perhaps the reality of
the horrible things he had done had never occurred to him. "Not a bit" he huffed angrily
and stalked out of the room. The incident had one favorable effect, however. We didnt
have to endure nearly as many of his war stories. He was much better liked than Deason,
but was sometimes unfair in his dealings with faculty.
The State of Georgia had some strange regulations that had accumulated due to
laws passed by the state legislature. Regardless of subject area, all teachers were required
annually to sign an affirmation that they had spend a certain number of hours per week
teaching students to be kind to animals or some such thing. Of course, we all signed the
foolish document whether we had done it or not. There was also a requirement that each
teacher annually sign an affirmation that he or she was not a member of the Communist
Party. What made that so inane was the way the school implemented the law. Each year,
the document was brought around during the last week of the school year. If they had

employed a Communist, he would have had all year to indoctrinate students. Of course,
an actual Communist would not have hesitated to lie about party membership. All it did
was insult the faculty, but it was the law and the infinite wisdom of the legislature must
be carried out.
My initial year, as the last hired, I had a different classroom each period. Some of
them were located in the older part of the building. I had to rush from one location to the
next. With the crowded hallways and only two minutes between classes, it was barely
possible to get there ahead of the students.
My first year, I was assigned as home room teacher in room six which was the
domain of Miss Cora Lee Cheatham, a venerable old biology teacher who bitterly
resented me being in "her" room. A spinster, she wore small glasses with no frames, had
short, gray hair, was a bit too heavy, and wore hopelessly out-of-date clothes. "Do you
mind if I put my coat in the preparation room?" she asked with resentment. "Of course
not. This is your room, Miss Cheatham. I cant help that they assigned me homeroom
here," I replied. Gradually, I managed to win her over by being extraordinarily nice to her
and asking her advice. We became friends. The following year she had to retire due to
sickness so I was able to take over "her" room entirely. She was a packrat. The office and
preparation rooms were filled with decades of accumulated clutter which took me weeks
to dispose of so as to get the area into an orderly condition. Day after day I piled junk in
the hallway for disposal by the janitorial staff.
Mixed in with the clutter was a school check made out to Miss Cheatham which I
took to her apartment several blocks from the school. "Id been wondering where that
was," she said. I doubt that she remembered anything about it. By that point, she was
pretty much "out of it," although she continued to live alone for some time. What finally
became of her, I dont know. She seemed, to me, a tragic figure.
As I moved up in the faculty, the principal switched me to room 119 on the
second floor of the new wing. It became my permanent room for the rest of my tenure in
that institution. At the front was a quality wooden demonstration table with drawers for
storage. The acid-resistant top had a sink with hot and cold running water, a gas outlet,
and electric plugs. Above the chalkboard was an extensive set of pull-down biology
charts. The room was wired for tv cable and contained a television set on a roll-around
stand. The students had individual desks. Along the outside wall ran a counter equipped
like the demonstration table, but with multiple sinks, faucets, plugs, and gas outlets. That
was designed for student lab work.
As with all other rooms, there was a public address speaker which allowed
frequent interruptions of the academic program and the morning broadcast of "Christian"
devotionals during homeroom. The communication system was disruptive and used far
more frequently than actually needed. The annoyance was greater because
announcements were made toward the end of class sessions, but always ended with a few
minutes remaining in the period. After such an interruption of the class, it was almost

impossible to utilize the remaining time effectively. Ironically, the announcements always
started with "Excuse this interruption..."
The laboratory had an adjoining office with a good quality wood desk and
adequate storage. There was an arched outside window plus outer and inner preparation
rooms. Few of the faulty had individual offices, so that was a significant luxury.
There was a clip on the wall outside each classroom. The homeroom teacher was
to place the names of absent student there. A worker came by and picked it up for the
assistant principal who compiled a comprehensive list of school absences. At the
beginning of each class, the teacher called the roll and listed absences and posted them in
the same way. This allowed for a comparison of class absences with class attendance. If a
student "cut" any individual class, it was immediately evident to the assistant principal.
The front office called the home of each absent student to inquire as to the reason the
teenager wasnt in school that day.
Homeroom teachers had to keep a Register of attendance and submit it monthly to
the assistant principal for audit. It was easy to do, but a nuisance. "Keep it in ink, never in
pencil," the assistant principal sternly charged. "Dont ever list the dates across the top
until the actual day. Miss Arnold was an old fuddy-duddy, but most liked her well
enough.
The principal made it a practice occasionally to hold students in homeroom far
past the normal fifteen minutes. There was never advance notice. That changed the class
schedule for the rest of the day which disrupted instructional plans. With nothing to do,
the students became restless and hard to control. A couple of years, I didnt have an
assigned homeroom. That was a big relief as it eliminated the register and babysitting
when the time was extended.
With a former coach as principal, there came to be an undue emphasis on sports.
Football was the biggest issue. I often attended home games since I knew the boys
playing. On occasion I was assigned to a gate to take up tickets, but we were paid extra
for doing that. As I recall, it was ten dollars cash, a significant sum when a big bag of
groceries might run five dollars and a car fill-up was about the same. Faculty pay was
ridiculous, if measured by current standards. At the time, we were considered to be
relatively well-paid.
At a senior picnic at Callaway Gardens, the principal stood with a group of the
younger faculty. In the distance stood a gaggle of the older women. "You see that group?"
he remarked. "Not one of them makes less than $7000." We were duly impressed. The
enormous salaries gave us something to shoot for if we stayed around long enough.
Advancement in pay was based mainly on years of experience.
The cafeteria was, at first, on the lower level of the main building. It contained a
private dining room for faculty. We had a supposedly duty-free thirty minute lunch break.
A separate cafeteria building was later built between the main building and the boys
gym. The library then was moved from the third floor into the old cafeteria location.

Interesting features of the main building were two courtyards that were
completely enclosed by portions of the building. In the year I left, the "Courtyard
Council" attempted to raise money to put fountains in the courtyards. This was in keeping
with a move to install fountains all over Columbus so it could be called "the Fountain
City" instead of its traditional and sensible designation as the "Port City." Ordinances
required fountains at all new business construction. The schools fountains were not yet
installed when I left.
The faculty had assigned parking. An individuals parking spot was an indication
of how well he or she was regarded. The principal held the best position and the assistant
principal was directly behind him. I gradually moved from a far corner of the campus,
past even the student parking area, to a shady space alongside my laboratory. I suspect
that the assigned parking was not as a courtesy, but as a means to check up on whether
we were on campus. If so, it didnt always work with me. I usually walked the two blocks
to school. When I did drive, however, it was convenient to be able to look out and check
on my car. Student vandalism against faculty vehicles occurred with some regularity.
I had three cars during the five years that I lived in Columbus, a Chevrolet, a
Valiant, and a Plymouth. As I look back, I realize that was the time when I should have
bought the convertible Id always wanted. I could have done it, but didnt. For a short
time I used the 1938 Chevrolet that had been lent me by my Father. On the way from
Guntersville, I drove it as high as fifty miles per hour, but around Columbus never
exceeded about forty which was fine for the traffic conditions. Georgia had a required
vehicle inspection. The old vehicle had no serious problems. It passed and received the
required window sticker.
While I had the old car, it was out of the question for me to drive it home for a
weekend visit. It would have invited trouble in view of the cars age. I arranged to ride
with Miss Gwendolyn Richey whose family home was near Geraldine in Marshall
County. She had a recent model, sporty green Ford hardtop. My parents met me at the
Dawson community near Fairview Church.
As soon as I had saved enough for a down payment, I bought a new 1963
Plymouth Valiant. It was a white four-door sedan with a red interior. Its most interesting
feature was the push button automatic transmission for drive, reverse, one, and two. A
handle by the push buttons engaged park. There was no gear lever. Like many
"innovations," this was not popular with the public and was abandoned.
Sometimes I wouldnt move my car for days. This assured minimal expense for
gas except to go home from time to time. Gas was well below thirty cents a gallon. A
typical fill-up was less than five dollars, but that was partly because the tank was small.
No longer in need of it, I drove the 38 Chevrolet to Fayetteville to my
grandparents house. My parents met me there and took it back home. My father drove it
and started slightly ahead of my mother so that they didnt stay in sight. Their route was

along highway 77. Near Southside there is a train crossing that sometimes held up traffic
for a long time. He made it ahead of the train, but she didnt. By the time she reached the
traffic blockage, a long line of cars separated her from the track. After a bit she jumped to
the illogical conclusion that he had been struck by the train. She pulled onto the rough
shoulder and drove all the way up to the tracks to check, despite glares and horn-blowing
from others waiting who assumed that she was making at attempt to get in front of them.
"Dont anybody let her in," one man called out angrily. "She is no better to wait than the
rest of us."
To get back to Columbus from Fayetteville, I rode the Trailways bus. That was the
last long bus trip I have taken to date. I was concerned that I would get motion sick, but
somehow didnt. The bus reeked of diesel fuel and lunged from side-to-side, but I had not
eaten before getting on board. I kept my eyes as near straight ahead as possible and
arrived in Columbus a bit woozy, but not nauseated. "This is my last bus trip," I kept
telling myself silently. That seemed to help me endure the ordeal. Dramamine was
unknown at that time.
I walked the about two miles from the downtown bus station to Mrs. Smiths
house, picked up my Valiant, and drove back to the bus station to retrieve my luggage
which I had stowed in a locker. It would have been too hard to walk that far carrying a
heavy suitcase. To call a taxi didnt enter my mind since I hadnt been brought up that
way. It would have been easy for me to afford, but represented a needless expense.
Mother and I had always walked under similar conditions, so I didnt consider anything
else.
The new Valiant was low-powered six-cylinder and really unsuitable for the long
trip home. I hadnt realized that when I selected the model. It was unable to maintain
speed on even a moderate hill, had no air conditioning, and didnt drive or ride very well.
Poor quality and unreliability were hallmarks of American cars then and for years to
come. Accordingly, at about 35,000 miles, I traded it on a new 1966 Plymouth. I had the
vehicle special-ordered to be equipped just the way I wanted it. It had air conditioning
and the various power features that we take for granted today, but which were seldom
found outside luxury models of that time. It was light yellow with a black top. The black
interior was extremely luxurious, the same interior as found on the Imperial, a luxury car,
for that year. The model, called VIP, was top of the line for Plymouth.
Although a beautiful car, it wasnt a good one. It gave trouble from the very
beginning. Many times it failed to crank and ran hot so often that it was disgusting. Trips
to the repair shop were frequent and expensive. I kept it for a long time mainly because I
liked its looks. In addition, it had been expensive enough that I wanted to at least try to
get some value out of it. Dissatisfaction was common with all American-made cars, but
there was no viable alternative. Such experiences laid the foundation for the turn to
foreign makes in the years ahead.
We had several human skeletons in the biology department. One year there was a
particularly gullible student whom the others tended to pick on and deceive. "A student

at this school disappeared a few years ago. He reported to school one morning and was
never seen again. We found out thats his skeleton hanging there," they assured the
stooge. "Never tell anybody." One of the boys tipped me off about the plot and explained
that they needed some help to fully convince him. "Say something casually in class to
back it up," he urged. "Itll be fun to see his reaction. The next day, I remarked about the
missing student from two years back and how strange it was that he had never been
found. I didnt say that the skeleton was his, since I wouldnt be supposed to know the
terrible secret that the students had learned. His expression of horror showed that he
bought the story. The next day, one of the conspirators came by after school. "Hes
getting ready to call in the police. This is getting out of hand," he said with concern. "We
didnt expect it to go this far." The next day, I pulled him aside and explained the
situation. At first, I thought he didnt believe me, but the furor died down. I learned a
valuable lesson about getting involved in student pranks.
Interestingly, a few years before I went to that school two students had gotten into
serious trouble about a skeleton. They had been jeep riding through an isolated rural
cemetery when one of the graves collapsed under weight of the vehicle. They dug into it
and removed a skeleton from an ornate casket. On one of its fingers was a costly diamond
ring. One of the boys presented it to his girlfriend. They then brought the skeleton to the
school and threw it out on the front steps as a prank. "The principal and head
maintenance man were out there picking up bones and stuffing them into sacks when the
student body began to arrive," one of the older teachers related. "It got in the newspaper.
The family of the dead woman learned about it and pressed charges. It was an ugly
scene." Under Georgia law of the time the only possible penalty for a conviction of grave
robbing was death. The two malefactors were allowed to join the military rather than
stand trial.
Some bones which belonged to the school became so worn and cracked as to be
worthless. I placed them in the garbage can for disposal. When the janitor saw them, he
freaked out and refused to come into the room for weeks afterward.
Student harassment of faculty wasnt rare at that school. A student had broken the
window out of Gwendolyn Richeys new car and strewn paint all through it. Other
teachers had eggs thrown against their houses and cars. Many of us experienced repeated
episodes of toilet paper being strung in the trees at our residences. The second year I was
in Columbus, some students planned to put sugar into the gas tank of my car to ruin the
motor, but a student called me with a warning. I prevented it by buying a lockable gas
cap. Such vicious pranks were a factor in the high turnover of teachers in the Muscogee
County School District. On one occasion, students strewed a thick layer of confetti all
over the front porch and steps where I stayed. Mrs. Smith had already cleaned it up
before I learned about it.
"I know who did it," she declared. "A man came by wanting to rent on of my
rooms and I wouldnt let him have anything. This is his way of getting back at me." Of
course, nothing like that had happened. "No, students from the high school did it," I
explained. "They do that a lot where the teachers live." She stared at me blankly. It was

clear she didnt believe it and liked her story better. She continued to repeat the contrived
explanation for months.
Late one night, students tossed rolls of toilet paper up into the trees and wrapped
strips of it all over the shrubbery, but I found it almost immediately and cleaned it up.
That disappointed them when they drove by the next morning to smirk. A student told
me privately, "They couldnt believe that nothing was there. Theyre still trying to figure
out what happened." In an attempt to keep them from trying again, I said during class,
"Somebody messed up what they thought was my house. It just made the old woman who
lives there have a big clean-up job. I actually live in the brick cottage out back. I dont
care for anybody rolling the place. Do it anytime you want." The cottage was far up the
driveway at the back of the mansion, but visible from the street. That I lived there was
easy for them to believe. It would have been far too risky to come that far from the street.
Both those incidents were during my final year in Columbus. If I had been foolish enough
to return for another year, Id probably have had to move elsewhere to escape the
harassment.
chool integration was just then getting in full swing, which gave valid reason to
fear violence when Columbus High School was scheduled to be fully integrated the
following year. We had a token number of black students the year before I left. I was in
favor of the integration, but rightly worried about trouble. My concern proved entirely
justified. That school was closed the next year for two weeks due to racial rioting.
he city had an oppressive local environment. Columbus, in keeping with southern
towns in general, was rabidly and openly racist. Blacks had few rights and were accorded
minimal respect. At a county-wide teachers meeting, the Superintendent of Education,
Dr. William Henry Shaw, made racial slurs from the stage, along with remarks in favor of
repeated segregation in the schools. It had been a dozen years since the landmark Board
v. Brown decision by the United States Supreme Court. Compliance was slow in coming.
He concluded, "If any of you know how to prevent integration, you better let somebody
know. If not, its going to happen." I overheard one of the principals warn him after his
intemperate speech, "You better watch what you say. Some of the teachers are all in favor
of niggers having rights." Amazingly, the superintendent got away with making such
bigoted statements in public. That would be inconceivable today when a public official
can be fired for telling a single racist joke.
Blacks could not use public facilities, eat in restaurants, stay at hotels, use coin
laundries or buy houses outside colored areas. Rental advertisements in the newspaper
classified were divided into "White" and "Colored" but thinly disguised with the letters
"Col." It was common to see signs in businesses which read "White Only." Public
drinking fountains typically came in pairs, with signs which specified "Colored" over one
and "White" over the other. Negroes could attend movies only if they used a separate
entrance and sat in a designated part of the balcony. Public restrooms were also
segregated. Often there were three with identifying signs, one for "White Men, a second
for White Women, and a third that simply read "Colored." More enlightened places
provided two for colored so that males and females had separate facilities. At many filing

stations, blacks not allowed even to buy gas. The sign "We Serve White Customers Only"
was widespread. The station owners took the view that their places were private property
and they could discriminate if they pleased.
Once a black man pulled up to a pump on the road to Opelika in Alabama. "I need
gas and Ive got just as much right to buy here as anybody else," he demanded. "All right,
Ill give you gas," the attendant replied. The man removed the hose as if to fill the tank,
moved to the side of the customers car, and began to shoot gas into the passenger
compartment. The Negro drove off in a panic as the attendant attempted to light a match
to throw into the car. When the horrible incident was reported in the newspapers, there
was no public outcry from the white community. Most thought the Negro got what he
deserved for being "uppity."
When the faculty took cars at dealerships to be worked on during the school day, a
Negro would climb into the back seat and come to the school to drive the vehicle back for
the work. After school, he returned to pick up the car owner. He again moved to the back
seat. Violation of that custom could have consequences. Taken by surprise, I went along
with it a couple of time. The next time the situation arose, when he started toward the
back seat, I said firmly, "No, you dont. Sit up there. That isnt right." I expected trouble
about it, but nothing was said. I may have been fortunate enough that nobody saw it.
Despite its many shortcomings, Columbus High School was outstanding in many
ways. It had an extensive curriculum which included four years in Latin, Spanish, and
French. Mathematics provided specialized courses that were usually taught at the college
level. There was a senior level class in human anatomy and physiology which became my
assignment during the last couple of years when I had been promoted to head of the
Science Department at the retirement of Mr. Thomas.
There were around 400 students in the graduating class. A large enrollment is
needed to provide sufficient variety of subjects. Small high schools simply cannot meet
the needs of college-bound students.
The more wealthy Jewish children attended Columbus High in such numbers that
on the high holy days the school was unable to function normally due to absences. One
year, Glen Goodman, son of the reform rabbi was one of my students. At his fathers
insistence, he missed far more days for religious reasons than the other Jewish teens.
Glen seemed to like me and sometimes came by after school just to chat. He was a bit
isolated because of his status as the rabbis son and needed a friend. One afternoon, he
told me an outrageous anti-Christian joke. "Did you hear about Easter being cancelled
this year?" he quipped. "They discovered the body." There were a couple of gentile
students in the room who were taking make-up tests. I quickly glanced around to see if
any of them appeared to have heard. I was relieved that they showed no reaction.
"Glen, its okay to tell me something like that, but youd better watch or youll get into
serious trouble," I warned. No doubt, he had heard the joke at home. His parents never
dreamed he would repeat it outside a Jewish setting.

There was an orthodox Jewish community in Columbus, but none of their

children came to Columbus High School. The reform temple, Beth El, looked down on
the other group. They were considered fanatical zealots. Members of Temple Israel
synagogue attempted to maintain good relations with the gentile world. In large, carved
letters across the front of the building was the quote, "My house shall be called a house of
prayer for all peoples." The building was located about a mile from the high school on
Wildwood Avenue.
The children of the upper-level army officers also enrolled. Their fathers were
mostly majors and colonels. The school had a large, active program of ROTC which
provided military training. It wasnt required, but most of the boys participated. Girls
werent accepted into the program except in token numbers and only in certain positions.
A good many students from families of moderate means came from the immediate area of
the school. The students tended to form cliques based on religion or socioeconomic
status. There were active social clubs with selective admission for both boys and girls.
The clubs werent associated with the school.
Some of the teachers were interesting characters. It would go too far afield for the
purpose of this writing to describe them, so Ill mention only one. One of the most
colorful faculty members was Miss Martha Rogers. A spinster in her early forties, she had
a trim figure, but wore glasses and kept her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head.
Martha always wore short skirts and sat on a high stool at the front of her classroom. The
result was that the boys, apparently by her own intentions, got a view that couldnt be
described as "professional." She seemed unaware that it made her a laughingstock.
In the new cafeteria where the teachers sat mingled in with students, Martha, one noon,
seemed agitated and defensive. I didnt hear the early part of her conversation, but
noticed when she began to discuss sex. "Just because Im not married, dont think Ive
missed out on anything," she loudly proclaimed. She proceeded to describe in
considerable detail having had sex in the back of a horse trailer. Students at the adjacent
table were hearing every word as their shocked faces showed. They glanced at each other
and grinned. Clearly, they were amazed to hear a teacher describe such an experience, but
at the same time, they must have been embarrassed at her lack of discretion.
I whispered to Martha, "Watch it, students are hearing you." "I dont care," she
indifferently responded. She continued the story of her sexual adventures while the
faculty at the table sat in stunned silence. If she got into trouble because of it I didnt
know about it. Perhaps nobody ratted her out to the principal.
One afternoon, Martha stopped alongside me as I was walking home. "Get in and
Ill give you a ride home," she offered. "I only have a block to go, but thanks anyway," I
said. "My place is just ahead on the left." I was astonished the next day at work when she
angrily confronted me in the hallway with a baseless accusation. "So you didnt want to
risk ruining your reputation by being seen with me" she said peevishly. I stammered a
response of some type, but she stalked away. After that I avoided her if at all possible.
She was old enough to have been my mother.

Among faculty duties was to monitor hallways before and after school and even
during the two minute break between classes. We were even asked to keep the bathrooms
checked. The task existed in theory only. None of us did it. One time, however, I had to
break up a fight. It was one morning before the start of homeroom. I was at work in my
office. A student rushed in with an exciting report. "Theres a fight going on in the
hallway. You better come quick." Since the school had no security officers, I deemed it
my responsibility to intervene. The altercation was taking place only a few feet from my
classroom door. It was between two tall, muscular boys. Either of them could easily have
overpowered me. Students were crowed around to cheer them on. Just the same, I yelled
out an order. "Stop that right now!" It did no good. They continued to exchange heavy
blows. If it continued one or both would be severely injured. I shoved in between them
and placed a hand on each boys chest and pushed them apart. It wasnt too hard to do, I
think they really wanted somebody to intervene, but neither wanted to appear to lose.
"If you hit me, Ill have you both arrested," I warned. Boys who had watched the fight
seized them both and moved them far enough apart that the fight didnt pick up again.
The crowd quickly dispersed. I went back to my office without any attempt to determine
their names or take them to the principals office.
Mr. Dollar somehow learned about the incident. The next morning, during
homeroom, he came to my classroom door and called me into the hallway. "Who were
those boys fighting in the hall?" he asked. "I dont know," I truthfully responded. "I was
busy and just did what was needed to stop it." "Well, next time, get their names and let
me know," he instructed. He didnt try to make a big deal out of my failing to follow
what he seemed to consider proper protocol. There was nothing in the faculty policy
manual about fights, so there really wasnt much he could say.
It was the next year before I learned who one of the boys was. I had Alex Byars in
my advanced biology class. He and a couple of other students sometimes came by after
school to discuss scientific ideas. Somehow, the subject of the fight came up. "I was one
of them," he admitted with a sheepish grin. Since he was such a nice boy, I was glad that
I had handled it in such a way that he didnt get into trouble.
My promotion to department head became possible when Mr. Thomas finally
retired. He had taught chemistry at the school for decades and advanced to department
chair mainly because of longevity. He had long ago become incapable to serve in that
capacity, yet nobody wanted to demote him. It would have been hard for the principal
not to give me the position. I had been in charge of putting on a district science fair the
year before. The fair was a massive undertaking. I did far better with it than anyone else
had in the past. Responsibility for the district science fair rotated among the science
faculty of the three white high schools.
It was actually Mr. Thomas responsibility, but he wasnt capable of doing it or
much of anything else. He should have retired years before he did. "Do you think you
might see to the science fair?" the principal asked with some degree of trepidation. It was
an awkward situation. "Yes, but Ill do it in Mr. Thomas name," I responded. "I dont
want him to feel embarrassed." Sometimes a good deed is rewarded. That was the

mechanism for advancement. The division chairmanship that I received significantly

enhanced my resume and likely was a factor in my getting employed at Northwest Junior
College.
It was the first year of integration of the science fair which complicated matters. I
was able to bring it off without friction. The brochure which was always produced had
been of quite low quality, but I was able to turn out one that had a professional look
The county coordinator of science instruction and I had done all the work, but at the
banquet that followed, we were not recognized nor were we seated at the head table. The
ones who had done nothing, including Mr. Thomas, took the prominent positions. We
didnt care. We were just glad it was over. We got a free meal at a fancy place out of it.
The dining place was the Black Angus out toward Ft. Benning. At the time, it was the
best steak house in Columbus.
The last year I worked there, the principal assigned me as advisor to the Allied
Medical Careers Club. Membership was for students who planned to enter any of a
number of medical fields. It was supported by the ladies auxiliary of the Columbus
Medical Association. The doctors wives arranged for various tours and speakers, some
of them actually interesting.
We visited a hospital pathology lab where dissections were performed. The lady
pathologist held up a blackened human lung that she had just removed from a corpse.
"This is what happens to people who smoke," she warned. One of the more cocky boys
slumped and fainted flat on his back on the floor. When we got him up, he had blood all
over his sweater. That set off a chain reaction of faints among the students. I began to feel
a bit queasy myself. The doctors wife and I were glad when the ordeal was over. "Ill
never arrange for students to see a place like that again," she declared with determination.
"That scared me half to death."
The club field trip that stands out the most was by a Trailways bus to the mental
institution at Milledgeville, Georgia. At that time it held over 12,000 inmates, and so was
the largest insane asylum in the world. When we arrived I was surprised to find that it
looked a lot like a college campus. There were many elegant buildings and well-kept
grounds. If there were fences, they didnt let us get into those areas.
The facility expected us and arranged an orientation meeting. There we were
divided into small groups to be escorted to the various divisions. The guide of the group I
accompanied was pleasant, friendly, and quite surprisingly candid. "There are many
people here who arent mentally ill in any way. They perhaps were, but recovered long
ago. We cant release them because there isnt anywhere for them to go. The stigma of
mental illness had been so great that their families announced their deaths and buried
weighted caskets. Theres no way they can show up."
Another guide told of a specific case. "We have a young Orthodox Jewish woman
in our ward. Her parents had her placed here when she converted to Jehovahs Witnesses.

Orthodox Jews just dont do that. They will let her out only if she promises to leave the
Witnesses, but she wont agree to it."
A few years after that, class action litigation ended forced confinements of people
in mental institutions. Millledgeville, along with similar places in other states, was
cleared out and closed. The flip side of that gain in human rights was a huge increase in
homeless people roaming the streets. They had been turned out with no place to go and
no way to earn a living. Medication could control the condition in most of the patients,
but without institutional supervision, many of them failed to take the prescribed drugs.
Some of the former inmates were so mentally ill that they needed to remain
institutionalized for life. That didnt happen unless they demonstrated that they were a
threat to society when they killed or seriously injured someone.
The guides let us have direct contact with mental patients who were deemed not
to be dangerous. Some of them had compulsive behaviors. For example one woman sat in
a straight hair and rocked toward the wall all day every day. She took breaks only to
sleep, eat and use the bathroom. Others jabbered aloud continuously and exhibited
strange tics. Another woman had a fetish about rings. She moved among us to touch and
turn our rings. "When I get out of her, Im going to find me a man and have some fun,"
she declared. "Ive escaped before and Ill do it again. They cant watch me all the time."
Others of he inmates seemed totally normal on the surface. They chatted with sensibly
and amiably. It was a strange experience.
I usually went home about once a month during the years in Columbus. The drive
to Guntersville was 4 hours or more depending on traffic conditions. There was no
direct route and little of it was multilane. Until I got a new car, I rode with Miss
Gwendolyn Richey whose parents lived near Geraldine. I had known her at Albertville
when I was a student and she a teacher. Most likely she moved to Georgia because of the
considerable pay difference in those days.
One spring, Miss Richey invited me to go to Callaway Gardens with a group of
her female friends, including her room mate. "Come to my apartment and well leave
from there when all of them arrive," she invited. She shared a garage apartment in a
middle-class section with her roommate. It was nicely, but not elaborately, furnished and
clean. "Come in here. I want you to see our bedroom," she said. It seemed a strange
invitation, but I went with her, not quite knowing what to expect. She pointed out a
regular size double bed. "Thats where we sleep," she said pointedly.
There seemed no doubt what she was trying to convey. Why she thought I needed
to know something that was so completely none of my business eluded me unless it was
to let me know I wasnt to be a boyfriend. Really, both of them were far too old to interest
me anyway. I suppose, at the least, it showed she trusted me enough not to gossip about
them.
Miss Richeys home in Alabama is near Fairview where Delorises mother is
buried. She moved back there, but I have lost track of her. Most likely she is not living

since she would have to be very old. Miss Richey left Columbus the same year that I did.
For a period of years, she worked at a school near her home. I think she went back mainly
to see to her aging parents.
My typical day, while living in Columbus, went something like the following. I
got up about seven, dressed for work, ate breakfast with Mrs. Smith, walked to school,
arrived fifteen minutes before start of homeroom, carried out classes, ate lunch in the
school dining room, relaxed during planning period, stayed thirty minutes after the
dismissal bell, and walked home and had supper with Mrs. Smith. Sometimes Id watch
TV with her for a while with her, but left plenty of time to read or goof off. I had no
television set of my own, although I could have afforded one. The radio I bought at Sears
broke down almost immediately. I didnt purchase another.
I got exercise mainly by walking through the neighborhood. Sidewalks were in
every block, so that made it easy. Wildwood Park was close, so I often walked down
there. Parks were family places, thus safe in those days. Their illicit use as a sexual
rendezvous was years ahead.
Sometimes Id go back to my office at night to work on school matters, but it was
always hard to get into the building since they didnt trust any of the faculty enough to
issue keys. I could only knock until a janitor heard and let me in. Finally one of the
janitors provided me with an illegal master key, but I was always felt uncomfortable to
use it. I left that key nailed to the front of the barn at Mountain View. It would be
interesting to know if its still there.
We had regular meetings of departments, grades, and the entire faculty.
Particularly odious were faculty meetings where Herman Dollar presided. They ran on
endlessly. We had to listen to his inane comments, often the very same words and
phrases, on each occasion. "Its spring and the sap is rising," he said each year as if it
were a new expression. I supposed that he referred to sexual urges on the part of students,
but he never explained it. I sure was glad to avoid such general meetings when I moved
to college teaching. College faculties rarely meet as a group, but carry out their business
through committees.
I easily located another job and left at the end of my fifth year. It was a good
decision that I should have made sooner. Few faculty were happy in that school system so
there was a huge turnover of teachers each year.
One of the main reasons that I left Columbus High was the way Principal Dollar
treated a young teacher, Mr. Wilson. Wilsons students made up money without his
knowledge and presented him with a gift-wrapped bottle of whiskey during class. Taken
by surprise, he accepted the present. "Ill make use of this at the proper time and in the
proper place," he said. "Thank you." When Dollar learned of it, he came down on him
hard. He called an assembly of the students and publicly fired the hapless instructor.
Wilson should have sued, but that wasnt done much back then. Neither the faculty nor
students had sufficient courage to come to his defense. No doubt being fired created a

blot on Mr. Wilsons resume that dogged him for years to come. One thing like that can
make it difficult to find employment. I thought he got a dirty deal.
There were a variety of other reasons why I left Columbus High School. It was
too far from Marshall County, there was no tenure and anybody could be fired at any time
for any reason or no reason. I was irked by the principal saying we couldnt leave campus
during lunch even though it was designated as a duty-free time.
The final straw was something that may seem minor. I took pride in having a nicelooking room and had established a well-balanced aquarium. Some studentsome rich
bastard slipped a huge chlorine tablet into the aquarium. It was the type used to sterilize
an entire swimming pool. Of course it killed the fish and everything else in the aquarium.
I found the fish swimming about in torment with the tablet fizzing away. I tried to save
them, but to no avail. I cleaned the aquarium and put it away in the storage room. I
thought, "Im out of here as soon as I can arrange it." The students cruel act solidified
my determination to depart. Without any such intention, he actually did me a favor. If that
one act had not taken place, I would have stayed another year in Columbus, thus wouldnt
have been employed at Northwest Junior College, and so wouldnt be sitting my
Russellville writing this material. Small things can have tremendous impact on the course
of a persons life.
I said nothing to anybody at the school. It isnt wise to give up one job before
having located another. I began to search immediately and soon lined up a new position.
It was an intense pleasure to notify the principal that I would leave shortly. Temptation to
vent was there, but did it in a courteous way. Its best to depart on good terms. I had
already agreed to return for the next year, so I had to submit a formal letter of resignation.
I filled the letter with insincere expressions and regret at leaving. In addition to the
standard letter sent to faculty who resigned, I got a courteous, cordial handwritten note
from R. Brice Carson, the assistant superintendent in charge of personnel who had
recruited me.
After I had already resigned but was finishing out the academic year, I got the
only hateful phone call from a parent I have ever received. He called me where I was
staying although I had given the school that number only on the condition that it not be
released under any conditions. The parent was surly and obnoxious, but I was courteous
to him although I didnt give in to whatever it was he wanted. I cant remember the
nature of his complaint. When he saw that he wasnt getting his way, he asked in a
threatening tone, "Do you want me to call the principal?" "I think thats a real good
idea," I responded. "Would you like his home phone number?" That rendered him almost
speechless. He stammered a few seconds and hung up without asking for the number.
There was no way he could have caused me any trouble at that point, but of course he
didnt know it. The principal didnt mention it, so I suppose the parent let it drop.
I was careful to leave the biology lab clean and orderly and to have all work
completed in a professional manner. Its a sound principle not to burn bridges on the way

out. To return to that school was far from my mind, but I didnt want to close the
possibility by my conduct. Life sometimes takes unexpected twists and turns.
Mr. Dollar remained at Columbus High School until his retirement in the 1970s.
He died at age 84 in 2007.
When the time came to leave Mrs. Smiths house, I had so few possessions that I
was able simply to load the car and drive away. It didnt bother me a bit to leave there as I
disliked the city of Columbus, the high school, and for the most part where I lived. I
knew from past experience that it would be my time to be slandered by Mrs. Smith and
that did happen as detailed elsewhere. Proof that she started immediately to speak against
me made it easy not to contact her over the remaining years of her life. Theres no telling
what type, or how many, other vicious lies she told about me. That was her standard
practice when anyone moved away. I had seen it done over and over during the five years
I lived there.
Chapter 16: George Peabody College
A strictly chronological account of events isnt possible. This section drops back
to the years that I worked at Columbus High School. It was during that time that I
attended graduate school during summer quarters. It was obvious that I needed a masters
degree. After considering a number of graduate schools, I decided to enroll at George
Peabody College in Nashville, Tennessee. Peabody was one of the few colleges in the
nation that had a much larger summer enrollment than in the regular academic year. That
gave a good choice of graduate courses in biology so that I could get a degree in my
major while still holding a job.
A degree in education wasnt my goal as that would limit me to high school
teaching. I had in mind moving to college instruction at some point. A graduate degree in
ones academic field is the minimum requirement. I finished the master of arts in biology
in only three quarters, whereas others enrolled at the same time took four or five quarters,
or even more, to accomplish the same thing. It was hard work, but I didnt have any other
responsibilities and could do what it took. Over the years one of my strengths is that I
have almost always had the determination to stick with a job until it is done.
The Peabody campus was strikingly beautiful. Most buildings were columned and
many of them ivy-covered. It is built mainly on a quad, with the SR building heading the
campus. That building can be identified by its beautiful dome. It had been contributed by
John D. Rockefeller many years before. The SR building was connected by a columned
arcade to two of the dormitories.
I stayed in West Hall, the only mens dorm on the Peabody Campus, although I
could have stayed on the Vanderbilt campus if I had wanted to. The two places were
already taking preliminary steps toward eventual merger even back then. It was possible
to enroll in either college and take classes at the other. The Joint Universities Library was

in operation as a library supported by Vanderbilt, Peabody, and Scarritt College (now out
of operation). All three had common borders. The biology library on the Vanderbilt
campus was available so I often checked out books there. Peabody also had an extensive
library. As a graduate student, I was provided a desk in a large room in the basement. This
was in the days before computerization, so the card catalog was the tool for research.
West Hall looked impressive from the outside with its ionic columns, but was
quite ordinary inside like college dorms of that period. There was no air conditioning,
only basic furnishings, shared bathrooms, and an old woman who served as housemother.
To live on campus was relatively inexpensive and very convenient. I could walk
anywhere I needed to go which made it possible to go for weeks without moving my car.
Parking was severely limited so it was wise to keep a parking spot as long as feasible.
The Hill Student Union Building, now demolished for new construction, housed the
Peabody Cafeteria plus a grill. I never ate at the grill, but nearly always at the cafeteria.
The food was outstanding and most reasonable in cost. Except for Sunday, it served three
meals a day. There was no meal plan. That allowed me to eat other places without losing
money.
I sometimes walked across the street to one of the cafes that were privately
owned. There was a small steak house almost directly opposite the side of my dorm that
was one of the best I had found anywhere. The service, however, was dismal. A restaurant
in the basement of a nearby high rise was where I got a hamburger steak with all the
trimmings. I would have done that more often, but it cost $1.55, a bit too expensive for
me to feel comfortable.
The Vanderbilt cafeteria was also available, but I ate there only once since it was a
long walk and across heavy traffic. The overhead walkway between campuses was not
built in that day. Besides, I found it, though larger, wasnt a bit better than the one at
Peabody despite being slightly more expensive.
One quarter during my time there, my first cousin, Nancy Camp, was also
enrolled at Peabody. Her father, Leamon, had gotten his masters degree there. She was
working on her bachelors. At the beginning of that term, Leamon and Alva brought
Nancy to Guntersville so that she could ride up to the college with me. We stopped along
the road and had a picnic lunch. Other than that one time I rarely saw her since most of
my classes were in the science building (called the Home Economics Building since that
had been its function when it was built decades before). Nancy and I had been fairly close
cousins in our childhood, but she had become snobbish in demeanor like her mother. It
made me not to want to be around her. Shes still that way all these years later.
In that day, Peabody functioned as a liberal arts college, although after its
acquisition by Vanderbilt, it became a college of education rather than offering degrees in
various academic disciplines. Dr. C.S. Chadwick ("Chad Daddy") was head of biology at
first and then Dr. Caplenor after Dr. Chadwick moved to another college, Emory and
Henry in Virginia. Both were excellent instructors as well as were most others on the
biology faculty. Peabody was known for being able to attract capable professors.

Nicholas Hobbs and Willard Goslin were two whom I had who enjoyed national
reputations.
The college was, however, using a strange biology instructor whom I never had
for a class. The man believed that he was a warlock and carried a pistol. Giff was an
enormous "tub of lard." None of us in the graduate program in biology could understand
why the college had employed him. Maybe he had them under a spell? He later killed his
wife and then himself while he kidnaped her and tried to load her onto a small private
plane. That was years after the college had already found him out and fired him.
Nevertheless, the headline read "Peabody College Instructor Murders Wife." A college
nearly always gets "credit" for the misdeeds of any scoundrel it has ever employed.
While I was enrolled at Peabody, my parents came up with Clytie McDaniel to
share a trip she had won to the Grand Ole Opry. "Clytie sent in a recipe for making
biscuits with Martha White flour," Mother explained. In that day, the Opry was found
only at the old Ryman Auditorium in downtown Nashville. It was a hot place with hard,
uncomfortable seats. It was miserable and the program was uninspired.
"Why dont we leave and go see the cinemascope movie," Clytie suggested after
about a half-hour of the agony. The idea won unanimous approval. Cinemascope was a
new development in technology that was only available in a few theaters. It had a curved
scene for projection of a huge image to give a sort of "surround" impression. But it was in
the early stages of such cinemascope technology and so had problems to be resolved.
"You can see there are three projectors," I whispered. "They dont match up where they
meet." Still, the presentation was unusual enough that we stuck it out. The movie
featured was "Its a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. The comedy featured a number of topname stars of the day.
I usually remained on campus for the weekends except for the 1964 quarter when
I graduated. The house at Guntersville was undergoing a major remodel with the addition
of a den and bedroom, so I wanted to see how that was coming along. Even though I had
a Saturday morning lab, I and went home for about a day most weekends.
For the graduation ceremony, Peabody got one of its alumni, Jesse Stuart, as
visitor and speaker. He was very famous as a writer. We were all impressed to meet him,
especially my Father who loved his book, The Thread That Runs So True. He sat and
talked with Stuart for some time at the watermelon cutting before the ceremony.
The awarding of degrees was held outside, in front of the SR Building. The
college set up a temporary stage and folding chairs. The master of arts in biology was the
key to my advancement to college teaching and all the other academic experiences that
came from that. In a college setting, especially a two-year college, a faculty member is
somehow assumed to be competent to do most anything with a masters degree.
Looking back, I probably should have gone on to get the doctorate. Once one gets
past the masters degree, it is mainly a matter of persistence, time, and money to obtain

the doctorate. But it hardly mattered from a financial standpoint since during my final
work decade or more, I was paid at or above the doctoral level due to various
assignments outside of classroom teaching that I undertook. I wouldnt have made back
the substantial cost of the doctorate, although it might have opened up other opportunities
for me. The title of "doctor" adds prestige and is a key to employment at a university.
Who can know about such "What ifs."
I took only two graduate courses beyond the masters, both with the University of
Alabama. They were in higher education. Both were essentially worthless. The two-year
system has been good to me and continues to provide substantial income through the
retirement system of Alabama. I could have done much worse.
One of my recurring nightmares over the years has been that for some unknown
reason I quit my job at the college and returned to work at Columbus High School. Why I
would dream something like that over and over and hard to understand. It may be due to a
statement made by Mr. Dollar in a faculty meeting on the last day of school the year that I
left. "Were only giving Miss Richey and Mr. Camp leaves of absence and expect them
to return," he joked. That simple statement, made in jest, may have been the trigger to my
having that repeated dream. In that dream, I always return to living at Mrs. Smiths
house, but the house is far grander in my dream than it had been in reality. I would like to
quit having that dream. Its always a miserable mental experience. My feeling each time
is how could I have been such an idiot as to return to Columbus and to high school
instruction.
Chapter 17: My Move to College Work
When I became sufficiently disgruntled at Columbus High, I wrote George
Wallace and asked for information about the junior college system. Actually, his wife,
Lurleen, was Governor at that time, but most everyone ignored her and treated him as
Governor. From the information sent from his office, I picked out a few of the junior
colleges and wrote to ask about employment. I got serious replies from three: Alexander
City State Junior College, Jefferson State Junior College, and Northwest Alabama State
Junior College. I ruled out Jefferson State because I didnt really want to live in
Birmingham. I went for an interview at Alexander City and would have taken
employment there if it had worked out. The dean had a biology teacher who was
unsatisfactory and wanted to hire me to replace him, but was reluctant to go through the
legal quagmire that would result from a firing. I also went for an interview at Northwest
where I found employment as an instructor of biology.
Northwest was not an accredited college when I went there, although I wasnt
aware of that fact. I wouldnt have accepted its offer of employment if I had known. One
of the difficulties was that they used an unqualified person as biology instructor. They
required persons meeting Southern Association standards, so employed both me and Miss
Hester (Jeanette Jolly) to take care of the rapidly growing enrollment.

The college at Phil Campbell had been in operation at its present campus only two
years. It started in the local high school and in a church. Also employed that same time
were the Sparks sisters (now deceased) and Olan Burcham. That, plus certain existing
faculty, provided a core of qualified instructors which was the key to achieving
accreditation the next year.
At that time it was easy to find a college teaching job since not many people had
actual masters degrees in their academic disciplines. A masters in education is what most
teachers held. That was considered a very nearly a "bogus" degree. It didnt qualify them
for college employment.
When I approached the campus for my interview, I had to wait for a family of
skunks to clear the road. It made me wonder what in the world I was considering doing
since it was so different from the urban location of the past five years. But I wanted out of
Columbus and back to Alabama.
In I went for the interview with the college President and Dean. I met first with
Dean Kenneth Taylor (now deceased). I found him to be a strange character. The man
asked utterly inappropriate questions of a type that would be illegal today because they
were so clearly not job related. Yet, he seemed satisfied and took me over to the
Presidents office to meet with James A. Glasgow. That went better.
After the interviews, I began to check to be sure that there was a Kingdom Hall in
the area. The first place I asked was at a filling station at the corner of Hwy 5 and Pike
Avenue in "downtown" Phil Campbell. I encountered an ignoramus. "I dont know any
Jehovahs Witnesses around here, but you can tell them because they drive horses and
buggies" the dirty man said. His demeanor showed that he was being rude rather than
having us mixed up with Amish.
The next inquiry took me to the small cottage of Brother Henle Watson. He filled
me in on the location of the Hall and supplied names in Russellville. The Kingdom Hall
was a deplorable little building. The congregation met in a small, run-down house in a
poor section of LaGrange Road. It was a contrast to the brick, theater-floor building used
by the Columbus congregation. At least there was a place to attend if the job worked out.
A week or so after returning to Columbus to finish out the school year, I got a phone call
from Glasgow. He offered me the job. "Let me think it over. Ill call you back within a
hour," I said. With some misgivings, I accepted. I was about to give up the terrible
known for the terrible unknown. It could be a serious mistake.
After arrival back in Alabama, the next project was to find somewhere to live near
the college. My grandfather, T.J. Morris, went with me to hunt lodging. We spend the
night at the motel at Town Hill, The place was fairly new then and the best available.
We started to look near the college since I had been accustomed to living close to work. It
didnt take long to locate the College View apartments right across the street from the
campus. The complex was almost new; I rented the end unit on the left on the second
floor.

It was furnished, which was essential. I didnt have any furniture of my own. It
had a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. An unusual feature was pocket doors
throughout, although the one to the bedroom was tricky. It was possible to get trapped in
the room if I closed it entirely. The kitchen table was attached to the wall and capable of
being folded upward. It was the nicest place I had lived, but the bathroom had a tub with
no shower. I was not about to put up with that so went right way to the hardware store
and bought enough pipes to rig up a very good shower without doing any damage to the
bathroom. The place had central heat and air which was certainly a luxury compared to
what I had in Columbus.
I might have stayed there for a long time except that it quickly emerged that I was
under inappropriate scrutiny by the college. Two special pioneer boys, assigned
temporarily the area just south of us, were having to sleep in their car. I let them stay with
me for a couple of weeks. After a few days, two special pioneer girls from Winfield came
up to visit and we ate and visited at my apartment. The evening ended early. The next day
I heard about it from the college. Living right below me was Mr. Moore who was a
disgusting sycophant to the college president. No doubt Moore informed the president
that I was entertaining females in my quarters. Moore, likely at the direction of the
president, proceeded to rebuke me.
"If you expect to continue to work here, you cant be doing things like that," he
informed me dogmatically. There was a large front window and the drapes had remained
open. Also, there was an odd number of males to females and the visit concluded early.
The criticism was unjustified.
"Mr. Moore, what I do outside of working hours is no business of yours or of the
college," I responded sharply. "We were just visiting. There was nothing more." I should
have been more discreet in speaking to Glasgows toady. Its a wonder I got asked back
the following year, but at that point in my life I didnt care since jobs were easy to find.
After I thought over the experience, I decided it would be best to move into Russellville.
After only two months at the apartment, I made the change.
I had a fair amount of cash since, at that time, when a teacher moved from one
state to another, the only choice was to draw out the money paid into the retirement
system. That gave me $1400 in cash. That was a goodly amount in 1967. My salary for
nine months at the college was about $7000 gross.
I decided to put that money down on a house trailer, and pay the balance in just
six months. That made a high monthly payment but I was single and able to do it.
Where I bought the trailer was a huge mistake. W.K. Weaver operated two trailer lots in
Muscle Shoals. He was an affable man. I was totally unaware of his dishonesty in
business matters. I violated my grandfathers warning, "Never do business with
Witnesses. They will cheat you nearly every time." I found out how true that was in
Weavers case. In moderation of this, I am reasonably sure that the vast majority of

Witnesses are honest in business matters. But that wasnt what he experienced during his
lifetime and my experience with them has, unfortunately, been similar. The handful of
times I violated my grandfathers advice, I was cheated each time except for my dealings
with Jimmy Chadderdon Jr. I hope that I have learned my lesson.
Weaver showed me a couple of possibilities. The one I should have bought had
recently been traded in for a newer model, but it was not very old. It had three bedrooms
and two baths. But the cost was more than I could handle in the six months I had allotted.
I agreed to take the other one for about $2,300. This was in 1967.
"It has a leak in the dining room, but Ill have it fixed," he promised. "And its
missing a dining room chair, but Ill take care of that."
The trailer was furnished, but just minimally. It was 52 feet by 10 feet, which
provided less square footage than is now in our detached garage. It made efficient use of
space and was reasonably satisfactory for living quarters under my circumstances. At that
point I was little concerned with how unsafe such a structure could be, nor did I care
about the financial folly of spending money on a trailer. It met the immediate need.
It had a tiny end kitchen which was the best organized for its size that I have ever seen.
Everything was right at hand, including convenient storage. The appliances were brown
in keeping with the style of the time. The stove ran on natural gas which I didnt like,
especially since I had to take loose gas bottles and take them to be filled periodically. For
the first time I had a double sink. A nice set of louvered pocket doors closed the kitchen
off from the dining room.
The dining room was big enough for a table and chairs and had a well-arranged
built-in corner cabinet. Soon, I added a portable dishwasher that rolled up to the sink to
be attached when it was time to run.
The living room was just big enough for a couch, chair and television set, but it
had large windows on both side walls. There was a small closet with metal bifold doors
and built-in shelves for additional storage. Wall sconces provided general lighting in that
room. Similar fixtures were located throughout the trailer.
A narrow hallway led to the rest of the rooms. Immediately to the right was a
built-in storage area of doors and shelves. The first door on the right was to a tiny
bedroom with a single bed. It, however, had a large storage closet with built-in storage
below. In later years I added extra shelves over the bed plus some small shelves on a
pegboard that was on the wall to the right of the door. It would have been impossible to
get a double bed into the room, so it must have been designed with a child in mind.
The next door down the hallway led into the bathroom which was surprisingly
large and well arranged. There had been a clothes washer in the bathroom, but it had been
removed. I later put a water heater into that space to replace the minuscule water heater
under the cabinet in the kitchen which had been the only source of hot water. It was so

inadequate that I couldnt take a shower without running out of hot water, so the big new
unit solved a significant problem.
The hallway ended at the second bedroom which was barely large enough to
accommodate a double bed as long as it was forced against the wall on one side. That left
just enough room to slide by the foot of the bed to reach the rest of the room which
consisted of a narrow space along one side of the bed. There was, however, a counter
along one wall and storage under it. The bedroom closet had metal bifold doors and was
surprisingly large for such a tiny residence.
The trailer was very cheaply built with two-inch thick wallsa type of
construction that wouldnt be legal today. I had to hold my hand against the wall in most
rooms to be able to pull out an electric plug from the receptacle. Otherwise, the wall
would pull inward with the force needed to extract the plug. Such thin walls and drafty
windows of the lowest possible quality meant considerable difficulty in heating the
trailer. The drapes in the living room flapped in response to wind outside. I was unable to
stop the air flow, even by adding plastic sheeting over the windows. It was as if wind
blew right through the walls.
The trailer roof was metal which caused it to rumble loudly anytime there was
strong wind. "Roof rumble" was common in trailers of that time. Some controlled it by
placing old car tires around on the roof to hold it steady in wind. I just put up with it. The
cheap roof was great during rain. I could hear the soothing sound as it drummed on the
top of the trailer.
There was central heat from a kerosene furnace, but it worked poorly or not at all.
I had it removed after a few months, and installed a closet in the space where the furnace
had been. Electric heaters did a much better job of heating with the benefit of not having
the stink of kerosene. It was cold inside during freezing weather, but I managed to get by
and didnt really mind it particularly. My quarters had also been cold for other reasons in
Columbus so I was accustomed to a significant degree of discomfort.
It was essential to add air conditioning, which I did right away in the form of an
18,000 BTU Fedders window unit in the dining room. With a fan directed toward the
other end of the trailer, it did a fair job of cooling. After a time I added a 6,000 BTU
window unit in the back bedroom. It made cooling quite satisfactory. I bought the small
unit new, but when I got it home, the compressor was bad which meant that I had to take
it back for repair under warranty. My grandfather was there to visit and helped me place
it securely in the back bedroom window. The trailer was lots easier to cool than to heat.
The trailer was a Frontier, which was one of the better-made ones of that time. I
concluded that poorer brands must be terrible indeed. Later, the government established
regulations that forced manufacturers to improve the quality of the units. Four-inch walls
replaced the thin walls previously used. The low quality dwellings continued to be put
together mainly with staples.

I finally realized that Weaver had no intention of honoring his promises unless I
forced the issue. I had made the mistake of telling my parents that Id soon receive the
promised dining room chair. Every time they visited, my father brought it up and used
Weavers dishonesty as a means to attack the Witnesses.
Finally, I called Weaver and told him he was bringing reproach against the Truth
and he had to do something. He brought a chair that afternoon when he came home from
work, but it didnt at all match the others. A few days later, I took the mismatched chair to
his place of business and insisted that the swap it on the spot for an appropriate one.
Later, I learned that Weaver made a regular practice of cheating practically everyone with
whom he had business deals. Eventually, he was disfellowshiped for his criminal actions.
I paid a couple of different people to eliminate the leak in the dining room, but
they failed to succeed. Ultimately, I got on a ladder, some membrane, and cool seal and
fixed it myself. Finding reliable workers is always difficult.
I had the trailer at two different locations within Valley View Trailer Park.
Originally, it was in a bad location near the entrance. Later, I had it moved to a more level
spot farther back. I remained there for about two years until I had a serious falling out
with the wife of the owner of the trailer park. She was a total bitch as far as her
personality went. Most people who knew her well despised her. Years later she called up
crying to apologize for her conduct. It would have meant more if it had come sooner.
I purchased a reasonably nice lot on Underwood Road and had the trailer moved
there. The lot cost $2500 which was slightly more than I had paid for the trailer. It was
heavily wooded with pines and hardwoods. That provided considerable privacy and a
degree of protection from wind. Looking back, it would be more accurate to describe the
lot as overgrown with brush and trees, especially the back half which was also subject to
flooding during heavy rains. The flooding could not, however, have reached the high
ground where I had the trailer placed. I liked the privacy the place provided and kept the
open areas with grass mowed so that it looked reasonable acceptable. It was several years
before anything we did anything with the swampy area at the back, but Ill speak of that
later.
The trailer was high off the ground at the kitchen end, near the hitch, and nearly
against the ground at the back bedroom. The space underneath was open which was
unattractive and carried the very real risk of frozen pipes during really cold periods.
Once, when grandfather Morris visited, he got locked out of the trailer while I was away
at work. That was long before cell phones so he was stuck. When I got home from work,
he described the experience.
"It started to rain heavy, so I crawled under the trailer and sat on the ground until
the storm passed." It gave us something to laugh about over the years, but I doubt it was
particularly amusing to him when it took place.

After Delorise came around, we enclosed the area under the trailer with customcut pieces of heavy roof tin. I cut the pieces to size and nailed them in place after she dug
a trench to hold them at the bottom. They went tightly and securely in place. That greatly
improved the appearance and completely solved the frozen pipe problem. One piece was
removable so I could store the lawn mower safely.
Over the years, I gradually added decorative items, some of which we still have.
Examples include the plaques now in our kitchen, the crystal bowl in our living room, the
pendulum clock in my office (now inoperative), and the fake bonsai trees in the half bath.
However, I lived in the trailer pretty much as it was until Delorise came to Russellville.
After all, as Maria has asserted, boys are "apes" and can get by with about anything.
I had enough room for my parents to visit and spend the night. Once I kept the circuit
servant and his wife since nobody else had room for them.
Just before I got married, I was at Bethel in Brooklyn for a period of time so that
another circuit servant, Andrew Billy, and Mary Ann, his wife stayed there. Andrew was
tall and distinguished with silver hair. She was fair-skinned, with brown hair pulled back
into a bun, and quite stocky. Both were extremely cordial people and did an excellent job
in the circuit work. They were serving at Guntersville and about to leave for Russellville
to attend a circuit assembly. The Billys had a travel trailer, but didnt plan to take it all the
way to Russellville for such a short time. "I sure hope somebody in Russellville has
arranged for us to have somewhere to stay," he hinted to my parents. He knew I was at
Bethel and was rightly suspicious that nobody else had seen to it. My parents gladly gave
him a key to my trailer so he could use it during my absence. Sister Billy left a nice note,
to express thanks for use of the trailer. She added, "I threw out the ruined food in the
refrigerator. I hope you dont mind." Fortunately, I had left the trailer reasonably cleaned
up before I went to Brooklyn. If I had expected the circuit servant and wife to be house
guests, Id have worked a bit harder on it.
Chapter 20: How Delorise and I came to be together

The first time I definitely remember seeing Delorise was when Mother and I were
driving toward North Town in Guntersville. Delorise was walking toward Sis and Jess
house next to the Catholic Church. Mother told me who she was and spoke favorably of
her.
It was several years after that before I got serious about wanting to find a wife.
When I learned that she was still unmarried, she immediately went, unbeknown to her, on
my "short list" as a good prospect. The "short list" actually held only two names, hers and
Lois Jensen from Phenix City, Alabama.
I had known Lois from 1966 when I was in the Phenix City Congregation for a
year while I lived in Columbus, Georgia. We had been on four or five "dates" during that
year. The first time was with another couple to a Pizza Caf in Columbus. All of us were
friends rather that boyfriends and girlfriends. The other two were Jack Spahos, a Greek
brother, who was later disfellowshiped, and June Leverett, who had an actual boyfriend

serving at Bethel. She was several years too old for Jake which made it okay for her to go
places with him. Pizza had not become, at that time, the popular and universal food that it
is now. I had no idea even how to order or what toppings to request, but Jake and June
did. I found that I liked pizza well enough. After we ate, we intended to see The Sound of
Music, but it was sold out. Later, we did see the Julie Andrews movie, but I have grown
unclear on the details.
There was another sister in the local congregation that I took to a James Bond
movie, along with another couple. I remember her, but cant call her name. I didnt like
her very much at all. Besides, she was actively seeking a husband, so I never went
anywhere with her again. At that point I was just looking for people my age to hang out
with.
Once I took Lois to a local caf in Phenix City and then to her apartment in her
brothers house. We visited there for a while. Another time I took Lois to Callaway
Gardens north of Columbus. We had a good time walking around and seeing the
attractions. She talked the most she ever had. I found some of her ideas peculiar, even
disturbing. The last time I was with her, she invited me to her brothers home and fixed
us a spaghetti dinner. She manifested more of her strange ideas. I wasnt really interesting
in marriage at that time, and not ever to her, I tentatively concluded. Accordingly, I didnt
keep in contact with her after I moved to Russellville.
By coincidence, Lois apparently decided to scout around for a possible husband at
the same time I had decided it was time to think about getting married. I hadnt intended
to contact her, though I knew some of the things I found objectionable about her views
might have changed over the years since I had seen her. I was at the Kingdom Hall in
Sylacauga with my grandfather when Uncle Amos walked up. "You got a letter addressed
to the Kingdom Hall," he said. It was a card enclosed within an envelope, obviously from
Lois since it was postmarked Phenix City, but it merely showed a curled-up cat under
which she had written, "Gottcha on my mind." It wasnt signed. She didnt know where I
lived, but must have recalled me mentioning Sylacauga. I took it as an invitation to
become reacquainted which is what she intended as I later learned.
A few weeks later, my parents and I took a trip in the vicinity of Columbus. It was
a good opportunity to look Lois up. "I want to stay tonight in Phenix City," I said.
"Theres a girl I want to go see." I called Lois and we went out to eat and talk. I made
arrangements to come see her again in a few weeks. We went to Callaway Gardens again
since we both had enjoyed it before. At a country store, she bought me a can of kangaroo
tail soup which I kept at the college for years until the can swelled to the point of
bursting. It was an interesting conversation piece to show to zoology students. Afterward,
we visited at her room at her brothers house for a couple of hours. Most of the things I
hadnt liked about her before were still there. People usually dont change all that much.
Im not sure what all she didnt like about me, or what she thought, but she asked me to
write her. I did write and filled her in on what had gone on in my life in the years since I
had known her. I suggested the possibility that she might want to visit Russellville. She
wrote back a general letter almost immediately. I cant recall any of the content except

that she liked my letter. I had grave doubts that she was a person I wanted as a mate for
life and didnt reply to her letter. When enough time had passed for me to have written
and for her to have received it, she wrote again. It was a not entirely nice "drop dead"
type letter. She apologized for wanting to see me again (the cat card), but said there was
somebody else she cared about in Minnesota where she had lived years before. She
planned to go back there and see if she could take up with him again. She had moved to
Phenix City years before because that relationship hadnt worked out. She told me not to
call or write again because she didnt want to hear from me anymore. It didnt upset me a
bit since I had already decided the same thing. I thought it would have been a lot nicer,
however, if she had inserted the usual platitude about "we can still be friends." The tone
of her letter bordered on what seemed like anger. Ive never exactly understood why. If I
did anything to cause that, I dont know what it was.
My so-called short list was down to one name. If that one proved as disastrous as
the contact with Lois, I would have to start a new list. I didnt know much about Delorise,
nor she about me. I decided to initiate some preliminary contact. At my request, my
parents invited Delorise on a trip to Uncle Gastons house at Fayetteville. They cooked
barbeque on the stone grill that Uncle Gaston had built. That gave her a chance to learn a
bit about my family.
Not long after that, there was an assembly at Russellville. I saw her sitting alone,
so went over to chat. After we had talked a while, she excused herself, got up and moved
somewhere else in the auditorium. I didnt know if that meant "scram," but rather
suspected that it did. My prospects as a suitor seemed grim.
Nevertheless, I didnt quickly give up. After that I called her at home and aroused
her from a deep sleep. When awakened abruptly, she talks "crazy" for a good while and
did so that time. I wasnt aware of that tendency so didnt know what to make of it. Was
she drunk or on drugs? I didnt think so, but wasnt sure. Just the same we made a date to
see "Gone With the Wind" in the Lake Theater at Guntersville. When we took our seats in
the darkened theater, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Gurly Martin of the
local congregation. I suppose he wanted us to know that he and his daughter were back
there. He and his wife had been good friends to Delorise over the years. He later presided
at our wedding.
The next time, we dated, we went to Gadsden to eat at the Panorama which was,
at that time, a quite elegant restaurant. It has been torn down for a long time. Delorise got
her hair fixed in an "updo" which looked extremely nice. We got a good laugh at the caf
when she started to tear open a container of crackers with her teeth, in imitation of what
she had seen her whole life. It embarrassed her, but I thought it was fun and cute for
somebody so nicely dressed and fixed up to act in that one respect like somebody straight
off Sand Mountain (which she was and which I was too). Of course I had been around a
lot more than she had and knew more about how things were done.
Another establishment where we ate in Gadsden had valet parking. It was
uncomfortable to turn the car over to a total stranger. This was our first encounter with a

"salad bar," a fairly new concept for Alabama at the time. Neither of us knew what the
waiter meant when he asked if we wanted to go to the salad bar, so we just had to ask. We
probably figured us for "hicks," but we didnt care. It was interesting to eat there, but
neither of us cared to return.
I came to Guntersville every weekend from then on. I picked her up at her rented
cottage. We often ate at a little table for two at the Kings Inn in Albertville. There was a
nice little place at Guntersville called LePeres that we enjoyed. The Food Basket in
Albertville served good food in those days. We also returned to the Panorama a number
of times.
One time we went back by Delorises cottage so she could brush her teeth. To her
embarrassment, she couldnt locate her door key. I managed to raise a window and get
inside. It was necessary to push the bed away from the window. Everything was clean
and orderly, except for a bit of dust under the bed. Im sure she never dreamed I would
see under her bed.
One time before we married, she came to Russellville to visit. I made
arrangements for her to stay overnight with Minnie Kelly. I would have put her up at a
motel, but figured she wouldnt let me pay for it. Nobody at Russellville knew I was even
going out so it created quite a stir at the Kingdom Hall. One of the Weaver kids did what
the adults wanted to, but wouldnt dare. Todd came up to her to ask, "Are you married?"
We had intended to leave them guessing, but his inquiry put an end to that.
Delorise had a regular wedding shower at Guntersville. She recalls nothing about
it. Of course, I wasnt there. I had asked Russellville people not to give an elaborate
shower since, by combining two households, we were having to get rid of stuff. They
went together and bought her a light green night gown and robe (which was later stolen at
the coin laundry in Russellville).
In addition, the college gave a shower for me on the campus, but Delorise was
still working, which made it impossible for her to attend. I put a framed picture of her on
the gift table. We got many useful items, especially towels and sheets which we needed
and used for years.
Since we both had fully furnished households, we had to merge them into one
before the wedding. That left Delorise without a place to stay. She spent the last few
weeks living with my parents at Guntersville. During that time she sold most of her
household goods.
We got everything ready in Russellville before the wedding. The main things we
brought of hers were her stove, her car, and of course her clothes and personal items. My
stove was an unsatisfactory gas model. I gave it away to somebody just to get rid of it.
Hers was a good quality electric range that she had bought from the high school home
economics department when they got new ones. She and my father brought the stove in a
U-Haul trailer.

Her 1965 model car, a black Ford sedan with red interior, was not in the best of
condition. It had a "possum hunting light" which referred jokingly to one of the
headlights that turned almost straight up due to a wreck that she had some time before. It
didnt have air conditioning, but it was important to us since it gave an extra car for her to
drive when I was at work. Without it, she would have been stranded during working
hours.
Delorise had been employed at the Arrow shirt factory at Albertville before we
started going out. The ladies there had teased her about finding a husband, so she had fun
getting to tell them that she was about to be married. Some didnt seem to believe her
until she turned up with her engagement ring. The supervisor and assistant came to her
wedding. One day she took me there to visit the factory. I was appalled when I saw what
her job wassitting at a huge machine working both arms and both legs at the same
time. The din of the machinery was deafening. It had already damaged her hearing.
"Youre going to have to wear a hearing aid by the time youre forty," a doctor warned
when she had her declining hearing checked. As soon as we got away from the place, I
said, "I want you to go ahead and quit. Give them notice and work out two weeks if you
think you should." I couldnt stand for her to work there any longer than necessary. She
had planned to continue closer to the time of our wedding, but agreed it was best to go
ahead and quit.
The wedding was held at the Kingdom Hall in Guntersville (not the current
building) with Gurley Martin as the minister. Hes the same one who, decades later,
conducted my parents funerals. There was quite a crowd at the wedding. It included
Delorises relatives, my relatives, members of the congregation, and work friends of
Mother.
Delorise borrowed a white wedding gown from a friend who had married only a
few weeks before. We had attended that wedding and found part of it to be somewhat
humorous. When the minister asked the groom the usual question to which he was to
reply, "I do," he turned pale, and seemed at the point of collapse. After an embarrassing
delay, the minister said, "Well, do you?" This brought the hesitating, irresolute reply of
"Y-y-yes."
There was a ridiculously long delay from the end of the ceremony until the bride
and groom appeared at the reception. The guests were exhausted by the time they finally
arrived. Inconsiderate arrangements of that sort had become common. "Were not going
to do it this way at our wedding," I said with determination. "The receptions going to
start immediately after the ceremony. Delorise agreed.
A few weeks later, it was our turn to be married. The rest of the wedding party
wore normal, but dressy clothes. We placed a beautiful arrangement of flowers at the
Kingdom Hall. There were no bridesmaids, maid of honor, tuxedos or other such
extravagances. We decided to put the money that might have been wasted into provision
of a nice reception for the attendees to enjoy.

Ross and Lorene pressured us to have a more elaborate wedding with a sit-down
meal afterward, but we didnt pay any attention to them. Their meddlesome suggestions
extended so far as Ross making an offer of a hundred dollars to "pay" for the meal. Of
course, that wouldnt have touched the cost, but money wasnt the issue. It was our
decision and we were pleased with how it turned out.
Nobody "gave the bride away." Delorises father had been dead a long time.
Besides, we regarded that as a barbaric custom that needed to be discontinued. The idea
that an adult woman "belongs" to some man so that he can "give" her is ridiculous. She
gives herself, we thought.
The only unpleasant thing about the wedding was that Calvin Lynch came with a
foolish grin and loud talk. He obviously was drunk. Before the ceremony, he threatened
me which I chose to ignore, although I was highly tempted to call the police to haul him
away. A look at our wedding pictures, clearly reveals his intoxication. I tried to keep him
out of as many shots as possible, but Sis outrageously interfered. She insisted that he be
included. Sis was accustomed to "ruling the roost" at her house and tried to extend that to
us at least on that one occasion. It either didnt occur to her, or she didnt care, how much
a drunk would damage our wedding pictures. I should have privately told her to "Butt
out," but didnt. If I could do it over, I surely would have put her in her place.
Over the years I have learned that handicapped people are often petty, mean and
demanding. At that time I didnt yet realize how badly she had treated Delorise over the
years. I had the mistaken view that she had served like a mother. Wrong!
It was at our wedding that Delorise formally changed her name from "Lillie" to
"Delorise." It seemed a good time to make the change since she was to move to another
town. Some of her family were extremely nasty about her name preference. It was no
business whatever of theirs. One of her relatives, Lillian, whom she didnt even know,
cried at our wedding because of it. "She was named for me," she lied. "How could she
change her name like that."
Later, Lorene was exceedingly nasty about the name change. She made a series of
lying statements about it. But at least she didnt try to make an issue of it at the wedding.
Its funny how some people will take issue with things that are no legitimate concern of
theirs. Ironically, Ross Landau had changed his own first name some years before.
Vernon had discarded his earlier name of "Bunk." Both those were just fine, but for
Delorise to do the same thing wasnt all right in their eyes.
"Lillie" is a misspelling of "Lily," plus, it is also a name that, in the South, is
customarily assigned to a milk cow. I cant imagine what her Mother had been thinking
of in giving her such a name. Delorise thinks she had in mind a beautiful flower. That
may be true, with the incorrect spelling just being inadvertent. Mrs. Lynch didnt have
much opportunity to get an education through no fault of her own.

As to Delorises family, I thought then, and still think, that a few of them wanted
her to become a perpetual slave to Sis and were appalled when she got married with the
clear intent to move away. That is particularly true of Mike. He was the last one to stop
calling her "Lillie," and then mainly because she had used the other name for so many
years that she didnt even realize when he addressed her and ignored him. The last time I
knew of him using it was at his house when he loudly called her a couple of times with
no response. "Mike, she doesnt even hear you. Shes used another name for years now
and doesnt recognize that name as applying to her unless the person speaks directly to
her," I quietly informed him. He frowned, but made no comment. I truly believe that, in
his case, it was an attempt to demean her. Of course, she would dispute that
interpretation. "None are so blind as those who will not see," says the Scripture. Mike,
over the years has given strong evidence of being an ingrate, although he has
substantially improved in attitude in recent times, but Delorise doesnt want to admit it. I
think, deep down, she knows it is true but prefers to remain in denial. After all, he is her
brother despite his many glaring shortcomings.
Delorise correctly thought that I dont like Mike. His churlish attitude toward her
was the main reason. Despite being grown, he had been accustomed to her handing out
money to him on a regular basis. That totally stopped when we got married. He didnt
like it and was obviously jealous that she now had more materially than he did. Her
marriage also had the effect of making him have to do more for Sis than in the past. That
was something he very much didnt want to do, yet was perfectly happy to have foisted
off on Delorise. People are often quite willing to make work for other people. "They
bind up heavy loads and put them on the backs of others, but are not willing to touch
them with their finger," says the Scripture. At one time Mike admitted that he felt trapped
by Sis and was angry with Delorise because she moved away. I expect that she would
deny remembering it, and perhaps she actually wouldnt remember. He said it just the
same.
Mike rudely avoided her for years. He went so far as to refuse to see her when we
visited at Guntersville. She called and asked him to meet us at Sis house. He refused
every time, although he lived only a couple of miles away. The only way she could see
him was to go to his house no matter what he said. When she asked to come, he always
said no. Yet, he didnt quite have the nerve not to let her come in if she showed up at his
door. "I dont see why you would force yourself on somebody who makes it plain that he
doesnt want to see you," I often objected. My protest did no good. She went anyway.
Sis had pressured Delorise, as a young person, into acceptance of the wrong idea
that, somehow, Mike was her responsibility. She even went so far as to extract, under
duress, a promise to help Mike financially. Thats about like a promise to a robber with a
gun that youll meet him regularly with money. Its an invalid promise. Delorise finally
realized she had been deceived and no longer felt she must help him "because she had
agreed to" as Sis reminded her so many times. Sis even threw that so-called promise in
her face to try to prevent her from moving out after she was grown. "If you do, itll take
all your money to live and you cant help Mike," she whined. "You promised to help
him." Incredibly, Mike was grown at the time Sis said that. His brothers and sisters

continued to refer to him as "the little rascal" even when he was well into his thirties. He
seemed happy to be a perpetual child no matter how much it harmed others.
Sis was severely handicapped and I felt sorry for her because of it. She was hardworking and courageous in the face of terrible pain. That said, I regard her as having been
a fundamentally mean little woman who manipulated and used people around her just as
much as she could.
Toward the end of Sis life, Delorise were on a visit at her house in the Meadow
Wood subdivision when she did something that was a total surprise. I was seated in the
living room. Delorise was back in Sis bedroom. By that time, she was almost entirely
confined to bed because of her worsened physical condition. "Sis wants you to come
back to her room," Delorise said, with a puzzled expression. "I want you to hear this
too," Sis said when I approached the foot of her bed. She proceeded to make a crying
apology to Delorise for the way she had treated her. It appeared to be sincere. Whatever
her past faults, she was, at that moment, a pitiful little woman in a horrible physical and
mental dilemma. She knew she didnt have long to live and seemed to be trying to do
what she could about a serious, years-long injustice. I felt so sorry for her. "I dont know
why I treated you that way," she included among her remarks. Delorise told her that it
was all right and not to be concerned about it. After that I felt better toward Sis, but one
apology couldnt possibly truly make up for the years of mistreatment Delorise
experienced. We had always been cordial to her when we visited prior to the big apology
and continued to be so throughout the rest of her life. No valid criticism could have been
made if Delorise had never had anything to do with her half-sister over the years, but that
wasnt her way.
Some who dont know the true situation seem to regard Sis as having been a
"mother" to Delorise, but nothing could be further from the truth. Delorise owed her
nothing in my opinion. The Guntersville congregation, with lack of knowledge but with
good intentions, had a big party for Sis and Jess on one occasion. We were invited, but
declined. Later, we learned that they praised them in a way that was not appropriate.
"They never had any children, but they raised two children," the speaker misrepresented.
Something like that was what we had expected and felt we couldnt dignify it by our
presence. The statement was not true in any meaningful sense at least as far as Delorise
was concerned. They were more her exploiters than her care givers. She was not a small
child, but thirteen when she fell into Sis clutches. There is much more I could tell about
the outrageous way Delorise was treated, but it wouldnt serve any good purpose. Had Sis
not apologized, I likely would detail it here. Her apology protects her.
If things had been different, we would have helped with Sis during her final years,
but with matters being as they were, there was no way we could justify it. The Scriptures
say that if you "sow the wind," you will "reap the whirlwind." The Scriptures also make
clear that it is "parents and grandparents" that are to be given care. Nothing is written
about siblings or other family members. Everything in the Bible is there for a reason.
When Sis got in really bad shape, but was still at home alone, one of the long-nosed
women in the congregation called in an outrageous attempt to pressure Delorise to

assume responsibility for her. People in the congregation were getting tired of seeing to
Sis and wanted to shift the burden to Delorise. "You have to," she asserted, among other
statements. However, Delorise seems to have forgotten the call and denies that it
happened. I recall it distinctly. We will have to disagree on that point.
We had a young child and lived over 100 miles away so there was no way she
could have done that if she had been inclined. To have brought Sis to our house would
have put Delorise back into the slavery from which she had escaped, so that wasnt an
option. Both of us felt bad about Sis being in such a condition, but it just wasnt our
responsibility or something that we should allow to ruin years of our lives and harm our
daughter.
Mrs. Lynchs wise saying, based on years of personal experience, was "The more
you do, the more they expect, and the less they think of you." It would have been proven
true yet again if we had done otherwise. If I could somehow do it over, Id make exactly
the same decision. There had to be consequences for the way Sis had conducted herself
over years of time.
Sis was cared for, but not by us. The last time Ross was at our house, he started in
about Lorene "missing Sis so much." I was fairly sure he was trying to "pick" me as to
how we felt about her. I just said that how one felt about Sis depended on how much one
knew about her. To stop him from pressing the point, I added that we didnt discuss that
with anyone, including family. He had the good sense to let it drop. Nothing is to be
gained at this point by publicly showing Sis in a bad light. Truth about personal
relationships is often better untold.
Going back to our wedding, because we had been disgusted with the inconsiderate
way weddings and receptions had been conducted recently, we determined to do better. It
had become the practice to announce that the reception would begin directly after the
wedding. Yet, the bride and groom inconsiderately came up to two hours late. The guests
were left to awkwardly stand around. We went immediately from the wedding to the
reception so as to be on hand to greet our guests as they arrived. That was so much better.
The reception was at Val Monte which was, at the time, one of the nicest places around.
We had a large attendance. People seemed to appreciate us making a prompt appearance.
The tables looked very nice. We had rented glassware from a place in Gadsden. The
wedding cake was one of those tiered white ones with a model bride and groom on top.
"Here, hold this," somebody said as they handed me a young baby. We all got a good
laugh as the two of us were photographed at our wedding holding an infant.
We spent the first night at Val Monte in the motel section. The quality of the room
was a disappointment. I hadnt check it before making the reservation, but had assumed it
would be in keeping with the rest of the facility. Val Monte had once been an outstanding
resort, but those days were gone. I wished we had stayed elsewhere.
Because of my work, I only had Monday off in addition to the weekend, so we
spent the rest of our short honeymoon in Birmingham. The white-columned hotel was on

Hwy. 31 near Hoover. We visited the zoo which was the first time Delorise had seen such
a variety of animals. The monkeys were on an island and in rare form the day we visited.
They held up both hands to coax visitors to throw the peanuts. Most of the time, they
managed to catch them midair. We both laughed when she saw a mandrill. "Its wearing a
mask," she exclaimed in shock. It did look that way if one wasnt familiar with the
appearance of the ape.
Since I had to be back at work Tuesday, we arrived in Russellville Monday
afternoon. The first time Delorise left the trailer alone when I was at work, she got lost
when she tried to come home. She had been there only twice before. Three of the roads
that lead off the highway look quite a bit alike. She soon found the way, but was a bit put
out about it.
At the end of the first month after we got married we got a good laugh. The meter
reader knocked on the door. He handed me a note. "I need to let you know that you have
a leak in your water pipes. Your bill is far higher than it ever has been. You need to have
it checked," he advised. I grinned and replied, "I think I know what it is, but thanks for
letting me know." I didnt tell him that it was a two-legged "leak," one that has continued
over the years and even gotten worse. But, oh well, to have somebody to "carry out the
slop" is worth the extra cost.
Both of us had been accustomed to washing clothes at the coin laundry. After a
couple of years, she got tired of that and wanted a washer and dryer. Since there wasnt
room inside the trailer, we bought a shell storage building (10 feet by 20 feet), and had it
set up below the trailer. So things would be done right, we had it professionally wired
for electricity, plumbed for water, drained into the septic tank, and wired for telephone.
We also had carpet installed, but finished the rest of the interior ourselves with paneling.
Being inexperienced with such matters, we picked far too cheap a grade of paneling, but
the final result was pretty much okay. It looked like a room in a house and was nearly
half the size of the entire trailer.
By the use of furniture we had, plus cast-off furniture from my parents house, we
were able to furnish it. Oak bunk beds made it so that it could even serve as an extra
bedroom. We had a dinette table and chairs where we kept a jig saw puzzle going most of
the time. We got a nice washer and dryer plus a deep laundry tub so that we had a
functional home laundry. Both of us worked on the puzzle when we were did the laundry.
It was even better than the trailer as a place to hear rain. The only thing we didnt like
was the need to go outside to get to it. To join it to the trailer wasnt feasible.

We agreed from the beginning that Delorise wouldnt work outside the home.
That went against the general trend of the day. "If you ever start that, well get dependent
on it and you wont be able to stop," I warned. "I make enough for us to get along on one
salary. Youve worked enough." Today it is very difficult for a typical newly-married
couple to pull that off. The United States is set up for two-income families. That pattern
that was established after the end of World War II and has continued to the present. I
think we made the right decision for our circumstances.

We havent always acted wisely in handling finances. Most months, we lived right
up to the edge of income. For many years we often found, due to our poor judgment, that
there was "too much month for the money." Im still convinced it would have been the
same if she had worked. Most people spend all that is available.
There were many months in which we ran completely out of money a few days
before payday. It became necessary to hunt up change to have anything to spend. That
could have been avoided if we had more financial discipline, but thats far from an
uncommon problem with married couples. At least we never got desperately into debt or
failed to meet our bills when due.
Ive described the interior of the trailer above, so now Ill tell about the grounds.
The front third of the lot, toward the street, was heavily wooded with pine and oak. The
space around the larger trees was filled with smaller pines. It provided privacy from the
road and helped keep the wind off the trailer. I was glad to keep the trailer screened as it
was the poorest residence in the neighborhood. I dont expect to have the nicest place
around, but dont like having the worst. To keep it mostly out of sight helped my feelings.
The middle third was open yard with grass. That, plus a strip along the road, was
the only part that required mowing. It was a fairly big job since the total lot was about an
acre and a half. I learned that if I mowed only the part near the road, the entire lot looked
better.
The back third was wooded swamp that had a wet-weather branch running
through it. City maps classified it as flood plain. There were bushes, vines, and briars
everywhere to the extent that it wasnt possible to walk over it. I gradually cut a
meandering path that allowed me to reach the back part. It was uphill from the swampy
part so I cleared out a small space where I could stand and look around. It afforded
almost complete privacy.
After Delorise arrived, we undertook the long-term job of clearing the swamp.
The task was difficult since we had only the most basic tools. We worked on it in the
evenings and at night for a long time. Because we took our time, we actually had a good
bit of fun. A fire for days at a time was required to dispose of the seemingly endless
volume of brush and wood. It died down during the day, but retained enough hot coals
that it roared again within minutes when we added more debris. We often sat in lawn
chairs at night to enjoy the fire and the night sounds. It gave us a pleasant sensation of
being at some distant place. The heat kept ever-present mosquitoes at bay. To burn openly
like that was then legal. With present regulations, it would be almost impossible to
accomplish such a mammoth task.
Once when we were at work in the yard, Delorise barely escaped serious injury.
"Never put gas directly on a fire," I had repeatedly warned. "It can blow up like a bomb."
She apparently didnt believe me. One day a pile of rubbish was only smoldering, so she
took a can and started pouring gasoline onto it. The result was a loud explosion with a

ball of fire that was truly frightening. She wasnt hurt except for being knocked down
backward, but it was never necessary to repeat the warning about gasoline.
Down in the swampy part of our lot, there was a good-sized dead pine tree that
had broken off jaggedly about half way up. We called it the "owl tree" since one of the
interesting birds had taken up residence in a small cavity in its trunk. We enjoyed sitting
near it at night while the fire burned and listening to the owls call out. To our regret, the
owl tree eventually fell. We had no choice but to roll it onto the fire.
While working on clearing the lot, both of us would often get totally filthy. One
night, we had worked until we were exhausted. "Im about to starve," I complained.
"Lets go get something to eat at McDonalds." "Like this?" Delorise objected. "What if
somebody we know see us?" "That isnt likely," I countered. "Anyway, lets do it." We
were eating at a table in one corner, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. A man and
his wife whose accent showed them to be Yankees, asked, "Are you natives?" Im sure
he was asking if we lived in the area, but in our dirty, disheveled state, we both nearly
broke down in laughter. We thought of our appearance as making us look like wild
natives of some jungle. "No, weve just been working in the yard," I replied as I tried to
keep a totally serious expression. He didnt continue the conversation. Likely, he thought
we were crazy. We got a chuckle out of it for days afterward.
Delorise cleared a spot at the back of the lot where she planted a small patch of
cucumbers. The rich soil had been uncultivated for years. She made enough cucumbers to
supply several families. When moved away, a bumper crop remained.
We didnt completely finish the swamp-clearing job until after we had sold the
trailer and land. To leave it "as is" would have been just, but I wanted to do better than
that. "Ive just got to do that last little spot," I insisted. With the power mower, I rid it of
vines and briars and then mowed the rest of the lot and cleared grass from around the
bases of trees. "We should leave it in good condition," I remarked. Both of us had grown
up with the idea that it was bad form to leave a place anything other than clean and
orderly.
That part of town had a severe problem with ticks and mosquitoes, especially
mosquitoes. It was impossible to work outside without a constant battle. At one point I
drew up plans to build a house, but the decided against it mainly due to the pesky,
dangerous insects. There was no feasible way to correct that problem. Location is so vital
in a house.
Chapter 21: The Only Constant in Life is Change
Since our biological clocks were ticking down, we decided it was time for us to
have a baby. We had been talking about the possibility for few months. It was while on a
trip in Arkansas that we made the final decision to discontinue birth control. We stopped
at a striking concrete casting on an Indian rowing a canoe on the road leading to Eureka

Springs. Delorise asked, "Is this a good place to say what I think?" I had, of course, left
the final decision up to her. It would be her health and even life that could be put at risk.
"No, wait until we have more privacy," I whispered. My parents werent far away. I was
sure they wouldnt approve. Their one standard was money. A child would be an
enormous expense. With that attitude, I didnt want to risk sharing the moment with them.
When we reached the town, we drove up to the stately old Crescent Hotel. It was
an ideal place to spend the night, but when I suggested it, my father made his reply that I
had heard so many times over the years. "Its nothing but a fire trap. I wont stay there."
The business had operated on the spot over a hundred years, since 1886, as a luxury
hotel. Originally it was referred to as the "castle in the sky." In all those years it had never
been on fire. The probability that it would ignite on a random night had to be extremely
low.
We slipped away from them and walked around on the extensive grounds. It was
while we sat on a bench in front of the hotel that we made the final decision. Later, we
went back to that same bench with Maria and got a hotel employee to take a picture of us
together. Quite a few things, some of them extraordinary and some unpleasant, took place
during the years between those occasions.
We spent the night at a clean, but ordinary, motel called "Scenic Seven" just
outside Eureka Springs. It was just like my Father to deprive us of a memorable setting
because of sheer parsimony. He wasnt really afraid the Crescent Hotel would burn. Cost
was the determining factor. That overrode all other considerations.
After a few months, Delorise became pregnant. We were euphoric. All seemed
well until the end of the second month. At that point she began to bleed. In keeping with
the doctors instructions, she went to bed, but it did no good. Within about a day she had
a miscarriage. It was a devastating experience. Because I knew about the high incidence
of miscarriages during the first trimester, I had attempted to discipline myself and to
refrain from getting excited or buying baby supplies. Despite knowledge of the need for
caution, we bought one baby outfit. Its still around somewhere. It was the name "Baby
Camp" stitched on it that caused us to buy it. Even after all these years, tears come to my
eyes as I write about the first baby.
Most miscarried babies are genetically or developmentally defective, sometimes
grossly so. That knowledge that doesnt help much when its a personal experience. I
wouldnt have wanted a badly defective baby to go full term, however. The mothers
bodys ability to reject a defective baby spares so much misery for the potential child and
for the parents. Some experts suggest that one in eight conceptions end that way.
Delorise had to have a D & C following the miscarriage but everything went well.
After hospital workers took Delorise away to the operating room, a nurse came down
hard on her about the blood issue in a most unprofessional manner. I have often wished
that I had pursued the matter as the nurse well deserved to be fired. We were more
concerned about other things at that point so let it pass.

It was after this that I decided to fulfill a teenage fantasy by buying a motorcycle.
If Delorise thought it wasnt best, she didnt say anything. I explained the reasons.
"When I was in high school, a lot of boys had motor scooters. They parked them together
under a scope of trees across from the main building. At breaks, we hung out there and
looked at them. I wanted one more than almost anything. I didnt directly ask for a
scooter, but dropped a bunch of hints. It didnt do any good." They could have bought
you one if they wanted to," she sympathized.
To be fair, it would have been a bit hard for my parents to afford. Im sure they
would rightly have considered it to be dangerous. Yet, by their choice, I was isolated far
into the country. A scooter could have revolutionized my ability to socialize with my
classmates. To my parents, that was of no importance.
The Marshall Drive In Theater once gave away a blue scooter that even had a
storage compartment. It was just what I wanted, so I bought tickets on it, with the faint
hope that lightning might strike. It didnt.
I didnt have the desire for a motor bike completely out of my mind. Although in
my early forties, I bought a Honda motorcycle at Longshore Cycle in Florence. It was a
foolish manifestation of what I supposed might be called "midlife crisis." If I didnt do it
then, I knew I never would. "I need you to deliver it to Point Park. I have to practice
riding in a safe location off the road," I told the salesman. We tent-camped for a couple
of days while I learned how to ride it. When it came time to drive it home, I was
apprehensive about crossing ONeal Bridge, so we went all the way down to the bridge
on the Natchez Trace and crossed there. It made a long way home. We found, to our
surprise, that motorcycle riding was a cold experience even in hot weather.
Within a few weeks I felt confident enough to ride the motorcycle anywhere. I
drove it to work regularly, and even made a trip by myself to Guntersville to keep a
dentist appointment. I added a windshield, a back rest for the passenger, and a white
plastic container for transport of small items. In addition, I got a "weather proof" riding
outfit and a black leather jacket. My helmet was a Bell, the best quality available. I
bought mainly because it was the only brand that made one big enough for my head. I
was an intimidating looking figure whom people avoided when I stopped somewhere.
That was fun to see them turn aside in what they hoped was an inconspicuous manner.
There were drawbacks in addition to getting cold. A big truck in front meant
turbulence and stinging on any exposed skin. Bugs were a constant menace. Loose gravel
on the road was a terrible hazard. Careless car drivers were the greatest threat.
The funniest experience with the motorcycle occurred when Delorise returned
home from the Holiday Beauty Lounge. "Oh, no. I forgot to pay for my hairdo," she said.
"Ill have to go back." "Ill take it down to her," I volunteered. It seemed like a good
chance to have some fun at Patricias expense. She didnt know me. I drove the
motorcycle right up to the front of the shop where they could all see me, stalked inside in

my full riding regalia, and asked in as scary a voice as I could manage, "Which of you is
Patricia Hester?" She quaked, "I am." A total silence fell over the beauty shop, workers
and customers alike. All eyes on warily trained on me. I pulled off my helmet, grinned,
and handed her the money. "Delorise forgot to pay you," I said as I turned to leave.
Before I cleared the shop, laughter broke out from the onlookers. I imagined that Patricia
was more relieved than amused.
Delorise and I made one camping trip on the Honda. We circled through the
country and came back to Point Mallards nice campground at Decatur. We didnt realize
that Delorise was pregnant at the time. I had already seen that she couldnt ride safely.
She went to sleep repeatedly as we drove down the road. Id feel her arms go limp and
know what happened. It was terribly dangerous. "I know I could fall off and get hurt, but
I cant help it," she protested when I cautioned her. There was no choice but to quit going
with her. I continued to ride alone for a time, but it wasnt much fun that way. Besides we
soon had a far more important matter to occupy my timea newborn. I continued to ride
locally for a while after Marias birth. I bought diapers and as many groceries as would fit
in the small carrier. Most days I rode to work.
The last time I used the motorcycle, a woman, stopped at a side road, looked me
directly in the eyes and suddenly pulled directly in front of me. I barely managed to avoid
an accident. I could imagine her protest had I wrecked, "I didnt see him. He came out of
nowhere. He was speeding." It would have been a lie. She did it deliberately. There was
no significant danger to her inside the protection of her car. She just didnt want to wait
for me to pass. Motorcycle riders frequently have experiences like that.
I went directly home, parked the motorcycle, and sold it shortly after that. The
risk was just too great. It wasnt due to my being unable to control the machine, but due
to idiots in cars who chose to disregard a motorcycle.
For years after that, I occasionally dreamed that I still had the motorcycle took it
for a ride. Ive gotten beyond that now and wouldnt accept one as a gift if I had to use it.
Its far too dangerous even for young people.
Here are additional details about the second pregnancy that resulted in Marias
birth. After the obligatory waiting period for health reasons, we again discontinued birth
control. To our surprise, she became pregnant again in just a few months. Fertility
declines significantly in both male and female at the ages we were then, but it worked out
for us. The second pregnancy went extremely well. Delorise had a little trouble with
morning sickness, but ate crackers to get over it. She often spewed when she felt sick.
"Well have to name the baby Spew," I joked. When we got past the third month, by
which point a miscarriage was unlikely, we realized that we had an important task to
perform. It was one we should have taken care of much sooner for our own welfare, but it
now became an imperative.
"Weve got to find a house," we concluded. "The trailers okay for the two of us,
but no place to bring up a child." The trailer had been fully paid for a long time. Freedom

from a mortgage payment was a great feeling. But it was cold, drafty, and a hazard in
severe weather. When tornado conditions existed, we had to go elsewhere even if it was
the middle of the night. If a trailer gets on fire, it often burns up completely within
minutes, even before the fire department can arrive. It was much too dangerous to be a
babys home.
We began to search the classified ads for something we felt was affordable, but
still suitable. It was no easy task especially since we were utterly inexperienced in real
estate. We noticed a sign in front of a neat-looking frame house near downtown
Russellville. "It isnt in the best neighborhood," I remarked, but the houses around it look
fairly well. It might be all right. We could at least look inside." In reality, the place was
"on the wrong side of the tracks" in a neighborhood that has continued to decline almost
to the point of being a slum. To buy there would have been a disastrous mistake.
Fortunately, it didnt come to that. I called the real estate broker and made arrangements
for him to come from Florence and meet us at the house. The interior was shocking.
Faded paper peeled in great sheets from the walls in each room, the ceiling bore dark
brown circles from years of leaks, the kitchen was deplorable, and the single bathroom
even worse. The entire house had a horrible odor of uncleanness, neglect, and decay.
"Did you know this house was in this condition?" I asked angrily. "Why didnt you tell us
before you wasted everyones time and gas?" He was rendered speechless and muttered
something incomprehensible. Obviously, he had known. We left abruptly, two important
lessons learned. Location is the prime consideration in real estate. Ask specific questions
before an agreement to see a house.
Later, we noticed an advertisement for a house on "Huckleberry Hill." The
description sounded appealing. I phoned the woman listed as the broker. She informed
me that the place was between Russellville and the Quad Cities. The rural location
sounded a warning to me. "Now I want to be clear on one point," I insisted. "If its on a
dirt road we arent interested at all. Id never consider a house not on a paved road."
"Oh, its paved," she assured. The woman went on to make arrangements to show the
house. We followed her as she turned off highway 43 onto a secondary road. Another
turn took us onto a more narrow, but still acceptable, road. The area was scenic and the
houses neat and well-kept. Up ahead I saw something that shocked. "The pavements
about to end," I said to Delorise. "The heifer lied to us." Sure enough, the road turned to
dirt. Plumes of dust arose behind her car and ours. We could almost taste the musty dust
as it entered through the air conditioner. Looking back, I realize that I should have turned
around and left, without a word, as soon as we reached the end of the pavement. "Since
weve come this far, we might as well go inside," Delorise said. I agreed. We might learn
something more from the experience even if the house was out of the question because of
location. When we got out of our car, I approached the agent and said, "I told you we
didnt want to see a house on a dirt road. Didnt you understand me?" She muttered
something incomprehensible and began to praise the virtues of the small dwelling. Her
blatant lie seemed not to bother her at all. The great room had a soaring ceiling. One of
the bedrooms lay at the top of a long staircase. The grounds were rough and unkept.

"Looks snaky to me," Delorise whispered. When we were ready to depart, I told the
broker, "If you have something on a paved road, give us a call." We never heard from her
again.
We also considered a small brick house in the Oakhill Subdivision south of
Russellville. It was on a corner lot and surrounded by similar neat structures. What we
didnt initially realize was that most living there were poor people whose payments were
subsidized by a government program. Many belonged to the holiness church at the edge
of the subdivision. An agent showed the place. The interior seemed fine, but when we
walked out back, the neighbor right behind and the hill came out angrily to demand what
we intended to do about sewage overflowing onto his land. "We dont own the house. We
are merely looking at it," I explained. It made no difference. He continue to rant. We
knew that we wouldnt consider living that close to such an ignorant and unreasonable
man. Besides, we didnt want a house with septic problems. The dolt did us a favor,
although that wasnt his intention.
A house that we considered on Waterloo Road was spacious, priced right, had two
floors, and featured a huge carport. It was far superior to the trailer. "Theres not a single
closet," Delorise observed with astonishment. For that reason, and because of its location
not being in the best neighborhood, we quickly marked it off the list of prospects.
We even considered moving to the Quad Cities since I worked part of the week
there anyway. An agent showed us a run-down old house in a poor neighborhood.
"You surely must have known we wouldnt consider this dump," I told him frankly. "Why
did you bring us here?" He grinned, a bit embarrassed at my candor. "Well, its been
listed a long time and the owner is getting mad because I havent shown it. Now I can tell
him I have."
Another broker showed us a small house at an affordable price. The rooms were
small, but well laid out. It had an attached garage. We considered making an offer on it.
When we first met the agent, I explained, "We arent prejudiced, but dont show us any
houses in racially mixed neighborhoods. Its a simple matter of safety." We drove back to
the house later in the day for another look on our own. School was out and most people
home from work. "Well, he didnt show us a house in a mixed neighborhood," I admitted.
To our dismay, all the residents were black people.
The best prospect we saw was a place off highway 72. The price, house, and
surroundings were what we wanted. There was a serious problem. "Look at that," I said
as I pointed to a huge open field directly adjoining the residential area. "Anything could
be built there, even commercial structures. Its just too risky. The property value could
drop to nothing."

With the birth rapidly drawing near, we decided to force the issue. We put the
trailer and lot on the market. If it sold, we would be forced to move. "Lets try it without
the use of a broker," I said. "We know how crooked some of them are, and besides, the
agent will take a percentage of the sale. We need every dime we can get." "How much

should we ask?" Delorise speculated. After thinking it over a while, I suggested, "I figure
the most it possibly is worth is $10,000. Thats more than we have in it. The trailers in
poor shape and the lot floods on the back." We stalled around a couple of days before we
set a price. We didnt want to put it lower than we might get, but not high enough to drive
away prospects. "Just for a lark, lets price it at $14,000," I suggested. Maybe somebody
crazy with money will come along. If not, we can always come down."
Incredibly, it sold for the full asking price within just a few days. The buyer didnt
even ask us to come down. If he had offered ten thousand, we would have accepted.
Sometimes, you just get "lucky." We got nearly double what we had in the lot and the two
buildings, plus having lived in it for years. That windfall provided the down payment and
enabled us to purchase furniture.
Delorise was the one who located the house to which we moved. "Come on, I
want you to drive by it," she said. From the street, it looked quite nice. Other houses
around it were comparable. It was close to the school complex. "I really doubt we will be
able to afford it," I said. "Thats going to be an expensive house." "You never know until
you ask," she correctly insisted. "Ill call the agent for details." To my shock, the price
was a very modest $31,500. It had an assumable mortgage that made it a very good deal.
Many mortgages couldnt be assumed. It was a period when mortgage interest rate were
far higher than they are now. Greedy lenders wanted to extract every dollar they could
from people in need of houses. "We can afford it and we like the house. Lets go for it," I
said. The $147 a month payment was extraordinarily small. The house was easy to heat
and cool. The yard, while steep, was small and shouldnt take long to mow. The place had
a lot to recommend it.
The couple, Masingill, who owned the house were not honorable people. Over the
years, we have learned that most people will cheat you if they can. Everything needs to
be specified in detail, written out, and signed in the presence of a lawyer. "We need to
leave these things on the kitchen counter. Hope you dont mind," Mrs. Masingill said.
She gestured toward a collection of boxes and bottles. It seemed strange since the items
could have been removed within a few minutes, but we agreed. After the closing, we
went inside to look around again. The counter was clear of the clutter. "Now I know why
she insisted on leaving that junk on the counter," Delorise said in disgust. They badly
damaged the counter in the kitchen in the process of slicing up deer. It had taken place
after the contract on the house was signed, so they could have been forced to make
repairs. They also dug up some of the shrubbery which was supposed to stay with the
house.
There had already been problems with the Masingills that showed they couldnt
be trusted. At the first attempted closing in the lawyers office, Barry Mansell, husband of
the infamous high school math teacher, made a startling discovery that delayed matters.
"This deed is for the wrong house," he exclaimed as he read the owners name and lot
description. Thats my sons house," Mr. Masingill admitted. "But it wont make no
difference." "Oh, but it does," the lawyer returned. "We cant do anything today. This
will have to be corrected and another closing held." "I had to take off from work for this

one," Masingill fumed. "I aint taking off again." "You will if you expect to sell the
house, the lawyer firmly informed him. After correction of the deed, we went the second
time for the closing and concluded it successfully.
That house on Burgess Street was a small brick structure of about 1,000 square
feet, but it seemed large to us since it was about twice the size of the trailer. We paid
down most of the money we got from the trailer and took over the existing loan with its
modest payment. The financing which we assumed was over a 33 year period which was
financial folly. I told Delorise, "If we stay here, Ill pay it off early since we can do it
without penalty. Thatll save a ton of interest."
The house was already well insulated when we bought it. I went underneath and
wrapped the ducts in thick blankets of fiberglass insulation and insulated the hot water
lines. The utility bill was small. The highest ever bill for water, electricity, garbage, and
sewer combined was $155. Most months it was far less.
The builder had installed a central air conditioning unit that was far too large for
the house. This enabled us to keep it very cold, just as we preferred. People with glasses
would find them instantly fog during hot weather when they went outside. Underneath
the house was the electric central heat. The whole time we lived there, fuses in the unit
periodically blew. The unit was too large for the size of the fuses. I finally bought extras
and laid them beside where they went. It was annoying, but we had excellent temperature
control summer and winter.
There was a single carport with attached laundry room, a combination dining
room and kitchen, a tiny living room which led out to a small front porch, a full hallway
bathroom, a guest bedroom, our bedroom, and Marias bedroom which had a half bath.
"Its so great to have a cover over the car," we agreed. "We can get in and out of the car
without getting wet." At the trailer, we had to park on the side opposite the door and go
way around to get inside. The lack of covered parking with direct access was one of the
worst features of the trailer.
The worst feature of the new house was the living room. It just wasnt large
enough for comfort. When I extended the recliner, my feet almost touched the television
set. The couch and end tables fully filled one wall. There was a double window with a
view toward the front yard and a minuscule covered front porch which led off from the
exterior living room door. The entire room was smaller than some bathrooms in some
houses.
Whichever government architects designed that house should be ashamed. There
are thousands of similar structures throughout the South, all of them financed originally
by the Farmers Home Administration, not to be confused with FHA, the Federal Housing
Authority. They were deliberately designed to be "modest" homeswhich translated to
"tiny and cramped." If anyone added substantially to one, the agency could require that
the loan be repaid immediately and in full. The intent seemed to trap people perpetually

in the minuscule structures. Yet, we didnt realize how small it was for a couple of years.
By contrast with the trailer, it was quite spacious. Our perspective gradually changed.
At one end of the house, the space underneath was, due to the sloping lot, high
enough to stand. If not for the uneven floor, it could serve as a good-sized storage room.
A door from the outside led to this space. Over a period of weeks, I laboriously dug out
enough soil to have a crude storage room with a dirt floor. Unfortunately, the door was
too narrow to get through with a wheelbarrow. I had to carry the dirt shovelful at the time
to the door and toss it into the waiting wheelbarrow. That whole project could have been
done in a few minutes with machinery before the house was constructed. What a lack of
foresight by the builder.
Clean and new-looking, the house was an enormous step up from the trailer. With
the furniture from the trailer and from the laundry building, we were able to fully furnish
our new residence. Of course, we gradually added and/or replaced furniture during the
seven years we lived there.
Grandfather Morris died when Maria was three months old. Some months later,
we rented a large truck and drove to Fayetteville to help clear out the house. It was an
ordeal. The truck available was a behemoth, had manual transmission, and lacked power
steering. The gas tank held about eighty gallons. "I need you to tell me how to deal with
the transmission," I asked the man at U-Haul. "Im not familiar with this shift pattern or
how to do it." "Its right there on top of the knob," he responded indifferently. A diagram
showed the location of the various gear positions, but gave no other instructions. He
refused to give me any guidance at all. All he wanted was the rental money.
The only feasible way to Fayetteville was directly through Birmingham. I dreaded
the thought of the heavy traffic and hills. There would be many starts and stops. Im sure
the transmission was damaged as I struggled with the unknown pattern of the clutch and
gears. It made many strange grinding and whining sounds. I really didnt care as long as
it didnt break down. I had asked help and been refused.
The wheel was extraordinarily hard to turn, especially at low speed. If any vehicle
ever needed power steering, that one topped the list. It was a very dangerous trip and took
a long time in the hulking vehicle. Even on the open road, I felt it necessary not to exceed
about fifty. Nevertheless, we made it without serious incident. The most scary event
occurred in downtown Birmingham at a stop light. "Look at that man," Delorise warned.
"Hes drunk." An older black man came staggering from a service station directly toward
the truck. He went out of sight toward the rear of our rental vehicle. There was large blind
spot behind the vehicle. "He may be under the truck," I said. "I cant just pull off. It
might go over him." I got out and noticed a young black man sitting alongside the service
station. He was looking our way and had to be able to see the man from his vantage point.
"Where did he go?" I shouted. The man only covered his eyes with his hand. I took that
to mean either that he didnt want to see me run over him or that he didnt want to get
involved. Clearly, he wasnt going to help. Apparently, the drunk was directly behind the

truck, thus not visible from any of its mirrors. When we saw him reeling away, we
quickly continued down the road. The neighborhood wasnt one in which to be stopped.
It was a relief to finally reach Fayetteville. My parents were there waiting for our
arrival. The house looked just as it had during the lifetime of my grandparents. To have to
clear it out was an emotional experience. The task was also traumatic to my mother. She
had grown up in that house. "Well take what we want and sell the rest," Mother said.
"Ive got to be finished with this."
Before we could even get started, a car with relatives pulled into the driveway.
Vultures always seem to appear after a death. "You just couldnt wait to get rid of your
fathers things," they snipped sarcastically. It had been months since his death. The house
was a continuing financial drain due to taxes, utilities, and insurance. There was a
significant danger of robbery or vandalism. They were miffed because they wouldnt be
able, somehow, to get a share of the estate to which they certainly had no claim at all. We
ignored the catty comment and went on with the job at hand. They soon drove away
without even a token offer to help with the big job.
We began to load furniture and other items we wanted to keep. A long ramp that
was stowed underneath the truck pulled easily into place. Even with that provision, it was
difficult to move the heavy pieces. When we had everything loaded that we wanted to
keep, there were still items in every room. Mother consulted the Yellow Pages and called
a used furniture dealer who came and carried off the rest for a few hundred dollars. For
the first time since its 1914 construction, the house was empty. It was a sad sight.
It was then necessary to drive to Guntersville since a good many of the items were
to be put there. That greatly lengthened the trip to Russellville, but it had the distinct
advantage of letting us avoid Birmingham. With a load, the vehicle was even harder to
drive. We unloaded the items Mother wanted, spent the night, and got up early the next
morning to go to Russellville. There was no choice but to park the truck so that it blocked
a lane of traffic on Scott Street as we unloaded.
It was all we could do to accomplish the move of some of the heavier pieces. The
most important to us was the bedroom suite which we needed in our guest room to
replace the existing space-consuming twin beds. Thats the suite that is now in our
bedroom on Wilson Boulevard. "That looks a lot better," I observed when we got the
bedroom set up. Delorise didnt say much. I rather suspected that she liked the previous
furniture better. I saw the bed, dresser, and chest from the perspective of family history.
They had been in use as long as I could remember. They had considerable sentimental
value to me.
"The mattress and springs are fairly new," I explained. "I went with my
grandfather to help pick them out. And this is the bed that Brother Macmillian used when
he was a zone servant."

The final result was a house full of furniture but not much walking room. The
trailer had been even worse with only a narrow trail in which to walk. It worked out fine
when we moved the next time to a house over twice the size of that one. Again, we were
able to furnish fully using what we had. In the nearly seven years between, we made do
with the space that we had.
As soon as Maria got big enough to go outside, we realized that the ill-advised
position of the dwelling on its lot created a significant danger. "Scott Street runs too close
to the side of the house," I remarked. "If anybody ran off the road even a little or if she
dashed into the road, she could be hit."
To minimize the danger, we had a chain link fence erected all around the property
to protect her from the street, dogs, and people. We kept the gates locked for protection as
well as to help ensure privacy. At first there was only a driveway gate and a walk gate for
the mailbox, but when we got a travel trailer, we added a large, lockable gate and
driveway at the front of the lot. Ultimately, we wished we had installed five foot high
fencing rather than the standard four foot, especially after a man jumped over the fence.
He was harmless, but the experience made me realize the inadequacy of the lower fence.
A small dog once squeezed under the main gate. It only wanted to play with Maria, but it
frightened her. Other than those two occasions, the fence served us well.
Naturally, my father criticized us for the fence. "I wouldnt have done it, he said
emphatically. "I told you that we did it mainly to protect Maria," I responded. He
continued to scowl disapprovingly. That really irritated us because he was so uncaring
about our childs safety. Besides, it wasnt really any of his business. I had earned the
money for the fence by summer work. As usual, Mother said nothing. She rarely
contradicted him on anything.
The few structural changes we made inside were to build in storage in the main
bathroom, add a narrow pantry with sliding doors to the hallway, and add built-in storage
to a nook in the hallway outside the bedrooms. All were greatly needed and made the
house more livable.
The man who did those jobs for us, a professional cabinet builder, proved
unreliable, although he did good work. He agreed to do the job only if we paid him part
of it in advanceto buy materials he said. It seemed reasonable and he gave the
impression of being a good businessman, so I agreed. It was a mistake. He had our
money and we could kiss his posterior.
I was determined not to be swindled. I called him with increasing frequency,
finally every day and sometimes more than once a day. "When are you coming to do our
work?" I demanded. "Ill be there tomorrow by the afternoon," he assured. "I waited on
you and you didnt come," I said the next day when he failed to appear. That would elicit
a new lie. Finally, I wore him down by sheer persistence and he came and did the agreedupon work. I promptly paid him the balance. "I should wait a few months to pay him and
let him see what its like," I fumed. Yet, it seemed better to do as agreed no matter how he

had acted. Although he was an established business man with a shop, I am convinced
that he intended to cheat us. In that, he is like most people we have dealt with over the
years. I learned a lesson. Never pay any amount in advance to anybody, no matter what
the person says. If the workman cant buy materials on credit at local stores, that speaks
volumes about him. He will cheat you every time.
Because he had done such good work, we foolishly called him again for the final
project. That time I told him that I wouldnt pay him anything in advance. "I think you
know why, I added." He grinned and agreed to do the job without a deposit. Even with
him not having collected anything, I still had to pressure him repeatedly to get him to
finish the job.
"Once a person proves dishonest with you, never deal with him again," I said to
Delorise. "I hope Ive learned that lesson." The leopard cant change his spots, nor the
Cushite his skin. In over twenty years since, I have yet to repeat that particular mistake
although Ive made plenty of others.
The bedrooms were carpeted, but the rest of the house had a cheap grade of vinyl
flooring that was curled upward all around the walls. The installer had failed to place it
beneath the baseboards. The living room also had an unattractive semi-shag carpet. While
living there, we ultimately replaced all the carpeting with better grades except for the
horrid striped carpet in the guest bedroom. "I hate that carpet," I objected often. It was in
excellent condition. Incredibly, Delorise liked it. I couldnt justify its replacement, so
there it stayed, to glare at me each time I entered the room.
My parents, using inherited Morris money, paid for quality ornamental iron
shutters to be installed beside the windows where it was feasible to do so. That helped the
exterior appearance considerably. The work was done by Square Deal Ornamental Iron
out of Florence, a business that has now gone out of operation. There is a big difference
between cast iron and the good quality ornamental iron that we used. Looking back, I
think that much less expensive vinyl shutters would have looked better. Some things one
learns only by experience.
"Were going to give you money to build a deck on the high end of your house,"
Mother informed me. It was an exciting idea. The location was just right for what would
be more a balcony than a deck. I had always wanted a house with a balcony. Windows
were located correctly to convert into doors to provide access from our bedroom and
Marias bedroom. Underneath would provide shelter for the second car. I planned it out in
detail. When I showed them the plans, I got a surprise. "Weve changed our mind," she
said as if it were nothing. I hadnt asked for the money and wouldnt have. But once it
was offered, it was a let-down to find I wasnt going to have the deck after all. Of course,
I tried to hide my disappointment and think I did. The money promised would have come
from the Morris estate. I am almost certain that the change of mind came from pressure
from my father. He had other plans for the inherited money upon which he had not the
slightest claim. His later actions proved that to be the case.

We unwisely decided that red tip shrubs were a good choice for landscaping and
set out a considerable number of them in that hard, rocky soil. The digging was so hard
that I had to sit down while banging away with the pick. It was an exhausting, backbreaking job. They grew quickly, and soon established a solid barrier on the Scott Street
side of the house. "This is terrific. We can sit out here and nobody passing can see us," I
said enthusiastically. Finally we had a bit of privacy in the yard. To our disgust, the first
really cold spell split the trunks, and killed the shrubs to the ground. The ones across the
front outside the fence survived longer, but ultimately died too. That type shrub is not
native to this area and shouldnt be used.
We had the same lack of success with a hedge we tried to establish along the other
side line of the lot. We set them out and they died. Monkey grass, both the white type and
the green varieties, did well. The monkey grass made an attractive border around the
foundation plants and the green version helped close in gaps under the chain link fence. It
was hard digging to get in place, but easier than the shrubs. Delorise did most of the
planting and cultivating of the monkey grass.
Once when Joel Lynch visited, he disappeared outside for a while. It never
occurred to me to see what he was doing. He came back with a smug look on his face.
"I got rid of a bunch of that grass that was growing up at your fence," he boasted. The
dunce had cut a long stretch of our prized monkey grass to the ground. Of course, he
meant well. It seemed incredible that anyone would do something like that without
checking with the house owners. Fortunately, it came out within a few weeks. No
permanent harm was done.
Acuba, with beautiful green and yellow leaves, was along the side of the carport.
It flourished for years to provide needed color, but died within a couple of years after we
sold the place. "I always kept it watered. I bet they didnt a single time," I said when we
drove by and saw it brown and dropping its leaves.
We set out a big clump of Pampas grass, a decorative grass that grows several feet
tall, at the back corner of the lot. It got a good start, but then the neighbors put in a
swimming pool. Within a few weeks, the plant started to die. I soon discovered the
cause. "Theyre emptying their pool right into our back yard," I fumed to Delorise. "The
chemicals are whats killing the Pampas grass." It seemed best to say nothing. Having
trouble with neighbors is a miserable experience. Its usually better to put up with
problems they create. They had to empty their pool periodically and water runs downhill.
There wouldnt have been anything they could have done about it except bring a lawsuit
for damages. I surely didnt intend to do that.
I still have the notion that I want a clump of that grass where we live now, but
cant decide that we have anywhere feasible to put it.
I installed small concrete stepping stones from the carport to the outside basement
door. They looked all right in the store, but we soon learned that they were too small to
use comfortably. "If Id paid only a little more, I could have gotten stones large enough to

be some good," I admitted. Ive learned over the years that it doesnt pay to scrimp on
things. Unless you can get something reasonably satisfactory, it is generally best to wait
until you can or just do without. Long after you have forgotten what you saved, the
distaste of poor quality or the frustration of unsatisfactory performance will remain.
Nevertheless, with care, it was possible to get from the carport to the basement without
getting red mud on our shoes. The little stones were better than nothing.
The lot was littered with surface rock which made it a significant danger to mow.
To pick it up did no good. More would rise to the surface. Once when I mowed, a large
rock sailed through our bedroom window. It destroyed the screen only since the window
was raised. The force was so great that it knocked a hole in the opposite wall. Fortunately,
nobody was in the room. "Ive found just the thing to hide that hole," I said a few days
later. It worked. The pair of small wooden plaques are still in use in our kitchen on
Wilson Boulevard. Whether or not somebody has repaired the hole I dont know.
Another time I was mowing when a small stone hit me in the eye. It blurred my
vision for a few hours. I saw that it was going to be a risk every time I mowed the yard.
For that, and other reasons, I began to seriously consider making a move. The lot was
slanted so much that there was not a single level spot anywhere on it. Actually, a house
shouldnt have been built on that location. To make matters worse, the area alongside the
driveway had sweet gum trees that always produced a bumper crop of the prickly balls.
They were a distinct hazard besides looking messy much of the time. To keep them
picked up was impossible, but I tried. They seemed to multiply like rabbits.
It would have been possible to correct some of its inadequacies by adding to the
house, but there really was nothing that could be done about how unsatisfactory the lot
was. Additions would not have corrected the too-small existing rooms. The neighborhood
was fairly okay, a bit below "middle, middle" class I suppose. Yet, most yards and house
were maintained and the area felt safe. There were arguments to be made that we should
stay where we were.
However, all factors combined to make us start, after seven years, to seek a larger
house in a better location. It was, of course, difficult to want to give up that tiny mortgage
payment and modest utility bill. It was an arrangement we could readily afford even if
hard economic times should develop.
Relatively little of the landscaping we installed still survives today. The house has
been allowed to go down. It needs gutters and a new roof. A series of added internal
fences make it look like somebody crazy lives there. A junky storage building,
inconsistent with the architecture of the house, stands precariously on cement blocks in
the back yard. A perpetual pile of trash partly fills the carport. Leaves are rarely raked and
the grass is often uncut. I hate to see something like that happen to a place we used to
own. "Once you sell a place, you have no more control over it," we recited with
resignation.
Chapter 22: A Child Came Into the World

The following is a jump back in time to describe the most life-changing event of
our lives, becoming parents.
Maria was conceived at the trailer where we continued to live until Delorise was
about eight months into her pregnancy. As detailed earlier, it took considerable searching
to find a suitable house. Even then much paperwork is involved, especially when taking
over an existing mortgage. Delorise went repeatedly to the mortgage agents only to find
our papers still unattended on their desks. "When are you going to see to that?" she
demanded. "You can tell that we are about to have a baby. We need to get moved before
the birth." Promises followed, but little action. Ultimately, they apparently got tired of her
daily visits and did the job for which they were being paid. The adage, "The squeaking
wheel gets the grease" proved true.
My parents plus Don and Sandra Mann helped us move, but we wouldnt let
Delorise do anything out of fear that it might affect the pregnancy. It took many trips with
Dons truck, but we accomplished the move over about a two-day period.
In view of our earlier disastrous experience, we didnt buy any baby clothes and
didnt fix up a nursery. It would have been far too traumatic to have all that stuff around
if things went wrong again.
Delorise carried the baby so well that a few people were surprised when we
turned up with a newborn. She bought maternity tops and maternity pants which helped
her not look "huge." "You have a baby! I didnt even know you were expecting," we
heard several times from casual acquaintances.
Late in her pregnancy, she, along with another pregnant lady, appeared in a style
show at the shopping mall. The idea was to advertise the clothing line of its lead
maternity shop. We had supposed that the shop would give her the top she modeled since
the show involved two trips to the Shoals and lots of practice time.
"They gave me 40% off on it," she laughed.
She was a good sport about it, but their stinginess was irksome and showed a lack
of appreciation. A sale of 40% off wasnt uncommon for the general public. "Dont buy
anything else there," I recommended.
At about 4 months, I got quite concerned because we had never felt any fetal
movement no matter how much we checked. That is typically when the so-called
"quickening" occurs. Actually, it only means the baby has grown large enough that it can
be detected by its movements. It moves from a very early stage.
"I sure hope everything is all right. Surely the baby hasnt died," I thought, but
said nothing to Delorise beyond "watch for any movement." Each passing day increased
my anxiety. Then one night after we had gone to bed, Delorise said with excitement, "Put
you hand here!" Sure enough, the baby was moving very noticeably. From that time

onward we saw and felt movement every day. The activity helped reassure us that the
fetus was doing well. Sometimes we saw a distinct rounded bulge which we took to be its
head.
Id read for years that a fetus can hear both sounds and words. I decided to try an
experiment. After the baby had quit moving for a while, so that we concluded it was
asleep, I got close and made a loud shout. The baby jumped and began to move around as
if it had been frightened. I hadnt expected that reaction and felt bad about scaring her. It
confirmed that she could hear. After the birth, I tried the same thing and saw what I took
to be a similar reaction. It seemed okay that time since I could pick her up for a
reassuring hug.
We learned about Lamaze classes for natural childbirth. There was considerable
concern that anesthesia given to mothers during labor was harmful to the baby. A big
enough dose for the mother was far too much for the tiny baby. The medicine went
through the placenta and into the child. "Well take the classes and do it that way,"
Delorise decided. "I cant risk harm to the baby."
For several weeks, we went weekly to a hospital and took the training along with
a group of expectant parents. The idea was to train the mothers to concentrate on
"panting" and on a focal point. The focal point that we picked was a picture of a baby
girl. Based on the rate of the heartbeat, we expected a girl. The role assigned to the
fathers was that of "coach." He had certain duties to perform to help her deal with the
contractions and other discomforts of the birth process. By the end of the training, we
were prepared for natural childbirth with the father in the delivery room. The idea
frightened me, but I intended to go through with it. If Delorise could do the far harder
part, surely I could fill a support role.
The way the pregnancy developed, Lamaze only helped us recognize when the
birth was imminent. A bit less than two weeks before the projected birth date, her water
broke. We knew the birth would occur within 24 hours. Of course, we called my parents
and drove quickly to Eliza Coffee Hospital where her doctors practiced.
"Look at that," I exclaimed as we passed Wrenwood, north of Littleville. "That
new log house is burning." The nice home burned to the ground only a few months after
its completion. It was not built back, so we suppose they had no insurance. Instead, they
moved into a grubby bus made into a camper and lived in poverty for years to come. We I
look at the site, I usually think of our early morning trip to the hospital.
When she got checked into a hospital room, I called my parents house just to be
sure they were on the way. This was before cell phones. To my dismay, they answered.
"You havent left yet? If you dont hurry up, youre going to miss it," I exclaimed.
Mother later admitted that they had expected that it was only a "false alarm" and that it
would be days before the birth. At the second call they hurried and made it to the hospital
just before the nurses took Delorise away. I think they drove much too fast, but

fortunately nothing bad happened on the way. Mother had, during her younger years, a
history of fast driving, but I never knew her to be ticketed.
After the Doctor Chappell completed the examination, his face showed that he
had unwelcome news. "I think the babys in breech. The only way to be sure is to take an
X-ray." Sonograms were not then widely available. To X-ray a pregnant woman early in
her time is extremely dangerous, but believed to be safe at the time of delivery when the
baby is fully developed. "Okay," I said. "But take only one. Not pictures from a bunch of
different directions. Im concerned about radiation." A short while later, he returned
holding the X-ray. I looked at it while he talked, but I knew what he would say. The baby
was obviously in breech, head up and feet down. That would be a risky position for
attempted vaginal birth. "In view of your age its best that a C-section be performed," he
explained. "The baby could die during a vaginal delivery and you might not be able to
have another." We had no realistic choice but to allow the C-section, a major operation
with risk to the welfare and even the life of the mother. "When will you do it?" I asked.
"Wed do it right now, but a man whose spleen was ruptured in a car wreck is in the
operating room. Without immediate surgery, hell die. It wont be more than an hour."
When they took Delorise went to the operating room, I went to the waiting room
with my parents. Fathers werent allowed during a C-section. All our Lamaze training
was wasted. When Denby unexpectedly showed up. I sure was glad to see her, but my
resolve for self-control dissolved and I started to cry. It embarrassed me for Denby to see
me being weak, but I couldnt help it. I knew it was possible that I could lose them both
in the worst case outcome. Even after all these years, thinking about it has made tears
come to my eyes so much that I cant keep them open and am typing "blind." On edit, the
same thing is happening.
After a while a nurse came in to tell me that it was over and that mother and baby
were both fine. "Its a girl" she said. I was elated. I felt I would be better able to be a
father to a girl than a boy. A boy might well have expected things that would be hard for
me at age 40. With a girl, there would be no problem with attempted military
conscription. Also, I had always heard that one daughter is worth two sons.
We rushed over to the baby viewing area and there she was in the middle of the
nursery, not yet in one of the small cribs. She had just arrived from the operating room.
The vernix, a cheesy looking substance, was matted all over her face, hair, body, and
limbs. She was wet. The yellow stump of the umbilical cord hung loose but tied off. She
was beautiful just the same.
"Oh, look at him," Mother exclaimed. "Its not a him, its a her," I reminded. "A
girl is just what I wanted."
The narrow little table where they had laid her had no sides. Nobody was present
in the nursery other than the other newborns in cribs. I knew that a newborn was
incapable of turning over, but it scared me a bit, especially because she was wide awake
and alert. Just as the doctor had assured us, the spinal injection used for the delivery

didnt reach the baby. She turned her head all the way from one side to the other as she
seemed to look in amazement at the things around her. I supposed that it must be quite a
surprise to go suddenly from a world of darkness to one of bright light. She didnt cry at
all, but seemed to enjoy her new circumstances. None of the other babies looked half as
fine. Others might boast about the superior qualities of their babies, but I had the proof
before me.
The weight showed that she was full-term. I think the Apgar score was nine which
is about what should be expected in a C-section baby. A vaginal delivery is best
biologically for both mother and babe, but wasnt feasible in that case.
A nurse came up the hallway to the viewing window and called my name.
"Come with me and you can see your wife," she said. "Shes in the recovery room."
We went down a short hallway to what looked more like an open work space than a
room. She lay on a Gurney, wide awake put pale. An epidural doesnt render the recipient
unconscious. Her hair had been fixed the day before the delivery so she looked well even
if a bit haggard. We chatted a few seconds about the baby. "Have you seen her?" she
asked. "I just came from there. Shes fine," I assured her. "I think Im going to have to
vomit," she said. I grabbed the vomit container and held it so she wouldnt mess up her
hair, but she didnt do anything but gag. We talked some more about the baby but neither
of can remember what we said.
We had previously decided on David Paul for a boy or Maria Elizabeth for a girl.
Count of the fetal heartbeat during the pregnancy had suggested a girl, but thats not
really reliable since the fetal heart rate is rapid and hard to determine with accuracy.
Sonogram wasnt generally available. We wouldnt have considered amniocentesis since
that carried a slight risk to the baby. To know the gender in advance might have taken
some of the fun out of it we agreed.
Both sets of names were from the Bible to take note of the Jewish religion and the
Christian religion, Maria is a variation of the virgin Mary and Elizabeth for the mother of
John the Baptist. We wanted normal names rather than something weird like I had been
saddled with. We figured either set of names would permit use of either the first or
middle name or a number of nicknames according to the preference of the baby when it
grew mature enough to care.
Its very important after a spinal shot that the patient not raise the head for 24
hours. A nurse came through the recovery room and smacked Delorise across the soles of
both feet to see if she was coming around. This caused her to rise up several inches. This
resulted in the predictable horrible headaches. That was another occasion of nursing
malpractice where we should have pursued the matter but didnt. We have both had a lifelong tendency to take things off people that really should be challenged. I guess we were
just too happy to have a healthy baby to mar it with unpleasantness. "Id better go call
your relatives," I said. "Theyll want to know that everything is all right."

At that time, fathers were permitted in the newborn section of the hospital only
during certain limited hours so I was there when I could be. Before he entered the
mothers room, the father was required to scrub in a special room to avoid transmission
of infection to the baby and then possibly to other babies in the newborn nursery.
One of the father only pretended to scrub. "Youre not going to wash up?" I asked in
disbelief. "Naw. It aint needed," he foolishly replied. I was highly tempted to report him.
He endangered not only his offspring, but the rest of the babies since they shared the
newborn nursery. One would think a parent would be more trustworthy than to fake
scrubbing. I decided to say nothing. That was the wrong decision, but nothing happened
as a result.
The first time I held Maria, I was shocked and frightened. She was incredibly
light. I had tended to babies occasionally over the years, but never had held a newborn. I
wasnt prepared for that. I wondered silently how it would be possible for something that
fragile to live. I became even more concerned when I saw that the ends of her arms, her
hands, the ends of her legs, and her feet were all blue. I rang for the nurse, but she
assured me that was normal. I already knew that and had even spoken of cyanosis in the
newborns extremities during lecture at the college. Objectivity goes out the window
when ones own offspring is involved.
We had attended meetings of the La Leche League which is devoted to the
promotion of breast feeding. The information they provided reinforced our existing ideas
on the subject. We didnt want her to have anything but breast milk for some months.
Cows milk is fine for calves. Milk is species-specific. In the hospital, after one of the
breast feeding sessions was over, an ugly, bossy LPN with dyed carrot hair tried to force
us to feed her water from a bottle with a nipple. "Be sure she takes at least half of this,"
she commanded sharply. I set the bottle on the bedside table without offering it to Maria.
When carrot-top returned, she made a big issue of it. "Okay, well see that she takes it," I
told her. When she left the room, I unscrewed the nipple, poured about half the water
down the sink, and put the top back. When the nurse returned she picked up the bottle to
see if we had complied. She smiled, made a note into her record, and was obviously
pleased with herself became she had forced her will on us. We continued the ruse the rest
of the hospital stay. "I remember that," Maria has said a few times. She has heard us tell
this story often enough that she thinks she remembers it. That wouldnt be possible at one
day old. Its an example of what psychologists call a "false memory." I have a few of
what I know have to be "false memories" myself so know how "real" they can seem.
From what we had learned, some babies seem to want water and others dont. Recent
research has shown that it is unhealthy to give tiny babies water. We thought it best that
she have breast milk only for at least a few months and gave her no water until she
seemed ready for it.
For the first couple of days, Delorise wore the plain white robes provided by the
hospital. On the third day I brought her a green gown with a corsage made of pink baby
socks. When the attendant brought Maria in to nurse, she very obviously recognized the
change. She pushed herself back at arms length from her mother to look it over. An
expression of amazement came on her face, much like I had seen in the newborn nursery.

"Look at that," I exclaimed. "Nobody will believe it if we tell it."

Baby experts agree that a baby cant see well enough to notice things like that, but
we had evidence that they were wrong. Anecdotes like that are not taken seriously by
child psychologists, but I know what we saw. Newborns are far more intelligent and
aware than some want to think.
Maria breast fed until she was old enough to say, "I want some of that milk." She
said it "tasted like candy" when we asked her about it. We never gave her prepared baby
food, but when she got old enough to eat solids, made our own.
After three days, we were to take Maria home. On the day of discharge, I had an
urgent job to do. "We dont have any clothes for her to wear," I said. We had avoided the
strong temptation to buy baby clothes because of our experience with the first baby. It
now was imperative. Mother and I went to Regency Mall where I bought some outfits.
Up to that point she had just worn hospital diapers. She was made ready for the trip home
dressed as cute as any other baby.
The importance of baby car seats had not yet been recognized. At that time a
newborn rode in the front seat of the car in the mothers arms. How unimaginable that
would be now.
Mother spent a few days with us to help out, but attempted to dominate more than
we liked. We had our own beliefs about child-rearing and intended to apply them.
Some of our ideas didnt last long. We had planned to use cloth diapers in the belief that
they were better for the child. After a week, we got enough of that. Some things are better
in theory than they are in reality. All we would have done would be wash and dry diapers.
Disposable, we decided, was just fine.
When Maria was born she had a fair amount of hair, but it soon began to fall out.
Soon there was only a rim around the sides and back. I got a good laugh out of that since
it duplicated my own hair pattern. It wasnt long before it grew back normally placed and
thick.
We borrowed a basinet from Hilton Reed for initial use. At first, we kept the baby
in our bedroom. As soon as Delorise was able to get around we bought baby furniture and
created an attractive nursery. A baby scale allowed us to monitor her growth. We were
relieved to see her increase in weight in a predictable manner. Exclusively breast fed
babies are seldom, if ever, obese. Standard weight charts of that day were based on bottle
feeding, but we knew the facts and were not deceived. Bottle-fed babies often gain
weight faster than is healthy and may have weight problems throughout life.
Maria was very easy to care for. There was none of the intense, prolonged crying
that characterizes many babies. Delorise had always been hard to get awake at night.
Often she was confused when she did awaken. I was concerned she wouldnt hear Maria
or be able to meet her needs, but that proved to be incorrect. She was very attentive and

got right up when the baby called out. I was, of course, still working then so she did
almost all of the getting up during the night, but it wasnt really all that much with us
having such a good baby.
When I got up each morning, the first thing I did was rush to the babys room to
check on her. "Ive got to be sure shes okay," I said. I had a dread that we would find her
dead. It was such a relief when I found her warm and breathing. There had been a series
of cases of SIDS that we knew about. I thought of that every day until she got past the
SIDS age at one year. Thats such a scary period in a childs life.
The baby bed had a music box attached which played "Its a Small World." Maria
went to sleep by that song every night for a long time. She cant recall that, so I wish I
could play the music box and see if to see and hear it would jog her memory. Its around
here somewhere.
We saw to it that Maria got all her vaccinations on schedule, but did so with great
misgivings because of possible of side effects. "It scares me to death," I said to Delorise,
"but I think its a greater risk not to do it. Besides, well have to do it before she can start
school." I think we decided correctly. Maria had none of the usual childhood illnesses
that I remember all too well. However, the only prolonged crying spell she ever had
followed one of the vaccinations. She cried so hard and long that Delorise took her out on
the street to walk with her; Delorise took a bad fall but managed to keep Maria from
being injured. That gave us a real scare.
When she was old enough that it was safe to go out in public, we went to the mall
in Florence for little reason other than to show off our baby while we rolled her around in
a stroller. It was fun especially since people often came up to us and commented on what
a fine looking baby she was. There were, of course, just being truthful. We quickly found,
to our chagrin, that a good many of them thought she was our grandchild. "Nope, shes
ours," I was glad to inform them. Some of them attempted to correct the error which only
made it all the more awkward for them. "Oh, I didnt mean to suggest that you looked
old," some exclaimed. Of course, that was exactly what they thought. We always got a
laugh out of their discomfort. It isnt wise to speculate on peoples relationships.
We were always discreet with breast-feeding and didnt make an "in your face"
display of it like some did. Delorise found that dressing rooms made better feeding
stations than bathrooms. We also found that, with some care, it was possible to hide what
was going on with a blanket.
Delorise had a very strong let-down reflex for milk, so had to wear breast pads to
avoid a wet front to her dress. When the milk started, it shot out in various directions with
some degree of force so it had better be in the babys mouth. We bought a substantial
brown rocking chair at Royal Furniture in Russellville for use at home for feeding as well
as to use to rock her to sleep. Its the one thats in the living room now. Years later, during
a general housecleaning, we found tiny speckles of breast milk on the tops of the rockers.
That brought back some good memories.

After Marias birth, when I went to work each day, Id sort of put her out of mind
with the press of other duties. When it got close to time to go home, I suddenly
"remembered" her with a surge of joy and just couldnt wait to get home.
She was very easily taken care of. We had a basis for contrast because we often
kept James and Jesse, especially James. They were monsters compared to her, but we
loved them. We feel very bad about how they both turned out.
As part of "baby-proofing" the house, I put plugs into all the vacant electric
outlets and placed locks on the lower cabinet doors. It was an unnecessary precaution.
Unlike some babies and tots who seem to have a compulsion to drink drain cleaner,
Maria never put anything inappropriate in her mouth. We had no occasion to use the
number of the poison control center that we kept close at hand. Maria was frustrated by
the cabinet locks. She knew exactly how they worked, but her fingers were not long and
strong enough to operate them. "I watched yall and knew just how you opened them,
but I couldnt do it no matter how hard I tried," she later reported. When I became
convinced how needless the locks were, I removed them to give her access to the
cabinets. She liked to play on the floor with stainless steel pots and pans. They made a
good sound when banged together plus being attractive and shiny.
Although trustworthy, she was still a kid. Once when we were at the zoo in
Birmingham, she started acting strangely. She pulled at her nose in a way we had never
seen before. "Whats wrong?" I asked. She had pushed a peanut up her nose. Of course
we got it out easily enough with a twig I found on the ground. To do something like that
was so unlike her. Maria had little explanation as to why she did it. It got off with her
when she realized she couldnt get it out. Nothing like that ever happened again.
Unlike most babies, Maria never crawled. That debunked the old saying that "You
have to crawl before you can walk." When I saw that she wasnt going to crawl, I looked
it up in "Parents Magazine" and learned that there was no reason for concern. Some
completely normal babies were simply like that. "I thought the floor might be dirty," she
later cited as a reason for not crawling.
In fact, she didnt at all like to be dirty. I recall only one occasion when she
outright played in the dirt. Maria found some loose dirt in the side yard at the little house
on Burgess and wanted to play in it. What a job she did. She got filthy from head to foot.
After a while, she looked up and said, "Im ready to get cleaned up now." That, as far as I
know, was her single experience with playing in the dirt. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy
it.
Maria "walked" for months by holding to the wall. There was a little trail of
fingerprints low on all the walls of the house where she held to move about. This required
her to take a round-about route to reach the living room, but it worked for her. At one
place she had to go the entire interior walls of the guest bedroom to get from her room to
the hallway which led to the living room. She later told us that she remembered looking

at the hallway and thinking "Its right there," but couldnt bring herself to crawl the short
distance to reach the hallway wall.
On the first anniversary of her birth, we were in Rogers Department Store in
Southgate Mall. Delorise was shopping for clothes and talking to the clerk while Maria
stood, supported by her hands on a bench a few feet away from me. I could tell by the
look in her eyes that she was considering something new. I guessed that she was about to
walk out over the open floor.
When Maria took her daily naps, we placed her in the baby bed in her room. The
bed was one of those with bars all around but with one side that lowered. While she
rested, we usually went into the living room to rest, read, or talk. One day, to our utter
surprise, she suddenly showed up in the living room. Maria looked at us with a
mischievous grin. "Howd you get here?" we said in amazement. "Take me to my room
and Ill show you," she replied. I imagined that she was going to show us that she had
learned how to lower the rail, but instead, after I placed her back into the bed, she reached
up, grabbed the top of the rail, climbed over, and lowered herself near enough to the floor
that she could drop down safely. She later recalled, "I had been thinking about doing that
for a long time. I figured that I could do it." When she got out, it dawned on her that she
couldnt get back into the bed and so came to find us. From that point onward, we left the
rail lowered.
It wasnt long before we bought her a canopy bed. Delorise found some foldable
rails that fit its sides and raised them up only at night to ensure that she wouldnt fall off
the bed. When she got mature enough to go to the bathroom alone during the night, the
rails disappeared. As far as I recall, she never fell off the bed.
Diaper changes, normally an odious task, was a pleasure because Maria was so
nice about it. Shes the only baby I never heard of that, when she was old enough to talk,
said "Thanks" after each diaper change. When I changed her diaper, a sang a little song:
"Diaper Dan, the diaper man, give me a diaper as fast as you can," or else I would sing,
"Dry britches, dry britches says I. I must have dry britches or I surely will cry." As far as I
know, I made up both songs, but its possible I heard them somewhere or adapted some
existing tunes. A breast-fed baby doesnt produce stinky diapers. It was a huge contrast
to James and Jesse who smelled like barns.
As to toilet training, we accepted the plain fact that a very young child is
physiologically incapable of early training. We let her determine for herself when she was
ready. I knew that due to teaching the advanced physiology class at the college. Each
term, I discussed external and internal sphincters and their control by the nervous system.
When she got to the age where I estimated that she could achieve the needed control, I
merely made a suggestion. "Let us know when youre ready to start to use the bathroom
like we do." After several weeks she said that she was ready. It worked just fine without
any of the big hassles and bed-wetting most parents experience. She had accidents only
twice, to my knowledge. Both times she was attempting to get onto the commode. The
first time, she started to cry. "Hey, its okay. Everybody has accidents sometimes. Dont

cry. Ill clean it up." I gave her a reassuring hug and kiss. She smiled and everything was
just fine. The desired result was achieved so easily. Sometimes it helps to be a biology
major.
Maria learned to talk with great ease and at an early age, although I cant say for
sure the age of her first word or even what it was. You think you will remember things
like that and dont write it down, but that was a mistake.
Even at three months, she was able to communicate nonverbally about a dozen
concepts. I have them listed on an index card in her baby book. If I can find it, Ill insert
the information at this point.
When she started to talk, it seemed that she quickly perceived the practical value
of speech. She was very much more likely to get what she wanted if she asked for it.
Parental guesses dont always produce the desired result.

Maria almost always repeated anything we prompted her to say. That made it easy
to help her develop an extensive vocabulary. Others commented on the fact that she
would repeat like that. Most babies wont cooperate nearly so well.
We eschewed the use of "baby talk," and talked to her like anybody else except
usually with short sentences and sometimes other clues as to the meaning of words we
deemed unfamiliar to her. I later read that baby talk is actually helpful to language
development, but by then it was too late to test. Theres more than one way to perform
most child-rearing tasks. What we did worked.
Mostly, she picked up speech without formal instruction as children typically do.
Quite quickly, she began to combine words into sentences. She made few, if any, of the
amusing speech errors that most kids some up with. Hers was largely an adult world.
I think it helped that we didnt have a functional television set in the house during the
time she was mastering language. There was an old set that we had used at the trailer
which we put it into the living room, but I deliberately pulled the TV cable loose from the
house shortly after we moved in. We used an outside antenna which let us have enough
reception to get the news from the local station. Its broadcast tower was only a few miles
away. WOWL of Florence is no longer in business. We got the educational channel,
WFIQ, because it broadcast from the same tower at Crooked Oak. That was as much
television as I wanted at that point in our daughters development. It is all too easy to
allow a TV set to become a "baby sitter." We were determined that wasnt going to
happen.
When we decided that she was mature enough, we had the cable installed, bought
a better set, a second set for our bedroom, and installed a VCR. Even as a youngster,
Maria learned how to use the VCR so we didnt have to be bothered with it. I showed her
one time and she picked it right up even if though she could barely reach the controls.
The first VCR tape we bought was "The Wizard of Oz." We figured she was mature
enough to distinguish fantasy from fact and that proved to be the case. I had fun down on

the floor with her to laugh like the wicked witch. If I kept it up too long, she got a bit
scared, and quickly gave me a kiss. That was the accepted signal to stop.
As long as Maria was small enough not to express an opinion, we dressed her
very nicely. Most of her dresses came from Parisian at the mall. For other outfits, we
selected only high quality clothing that looked nice. Once we bought her a really cute
overalls set, but the next time I took her with me to the store, people spoke of her as a boy
despite lace on the sleeves and bottoms of the legs. I made sure the overalls disappeared.
We also learned that it was possible to find really nice baby clothes at yard sales or from
individuals with daughters a bit older than ours.
I began to buy toys at yard sales as well as new in stores. Often I came in with
some new toy and told Maria that it came from the "YS Store." It was years later when
we all found to our amusement that she hadnt caught on to "YS" meaning yard sale.
The truth came out when she asked, "Where is that YS Store where you used to buy me
toys all the time? I never seen one by that name." It gave her and us a good laugh. There
was no intention to deceive her. It just never happened to arise that we explained the
meaning of "YS." It made me think of reports of an occasional child getting into the early
teens before the discovery that there isnt a Santa Claus. She had no idea the YS Store
was fictional.
We wanted her to know the practicality of purchase of some types of items from
yard sales so often took her with us. One time Maria had her own "Toy Yard Sale" where
she disposed of a few of her older things. Mostly we still have her toys stored back and in
good condition. She always took good care of her possessions. The lamb with rollers that
she is Jesse used so much is in the attic, but about worn out from constant use.
It was really fun for me to take her to the toy section of stores. It gave me an
excuse to look at toys without being laughed at. I really wanted her to have an electric
train, and bought two or three. We set them up and they either wouldnt run or fell off the
track over and over. There was nothing to do but return them. Maria tried to show interest
in them, but I finally realized that she really didnt even want a train. I was buying them
for myself, I suppose, since I had wanted one so much when I was a boy. Like Maria, I
wouldnt ask for anything, but my father, on his own, repeatedly suggested, "Im going to
buy you a nice electric train one day." When the opportunity arose, we looked at them in
stores. In that day they were set up and running. It was an impressive sight. The most
amazing one was at Sears in Gadsden. It ran on a long track, had signals at intersections,
and came complete with a depot and other buildings. Id never seen anything like it.
It hurt me that he continually told me he was going to get me an electric train, but it never
materialized. Back then we celebrated Christmas to the extent of gift-giving. I went for
years secretly expecting each morning to find an electric train when I woke up early to
check the presents. I never said a thing when one didnt appear, but it really disappointed
me. I concluded that, while he wanted me to have the toy, we couldnt afford it. That was
understandable. They were more expensive back then than they are now. Naturally I
knew the truth about "Santa Claus" from the beginning. The last I ever heard from my
father on the subject, what he said deeply shocked and offended me. I learned his real

thinking. "I wanted to get you an electric train, but you just arent good enough to deserve
it," he said in a matter-of-fact way a few days after Christmas. I hadnt asked about it or
given him any reason to think that I was disappointed. The remark stunned me. If he felt
that way, I couldnt see why he had, over a period of years, led me to think I would get it.
At no time had I asked or even hinted for one. It wasnt really not getting the toy that
bothered me. It was the depth of his unfavorable view of me. I already knew he looked
down on me, but that was the worst ever. Even after all these years, when I am an old
man, his evaluation of me still hurts and disturbs. After that cruel remark I never expected
or wanted a train again. But the idea came back when I had a child of my own. But a train
is a "boys toy." I realized that I was attempting to live out a childhood fantasy to want
one for my daughter.
Maria didnt spend a single minute in day care, nor did we enroll her in
kindergarten. I checked carefully as to the kindergarten requirements. Local school
officials assured me, "You dont have to send your child if you dont want to. In this
system, its only a play school. We teach nothing of substance." "In that case," I replied,
"well wait and enroll her directly into first grade. Shell be a few months from seven
years old."
When she reached "kindergarten age," we got criticism from other people
although it was none of their business whatever. Disapproving stares and comments
followed when they learned our decision and the reasons for it. I learned to explain once
and follow it by an icy silence if the person persisted.
Looking back, it may have been a mistake not to send her because she probably
needed more interaction with children than she got. Her association was mainly limited to
James and Jesse when it might have been better if she had played with girls. We had good
intentions and there is no good to come from trying to second guess oneself.
Before Maria started school, we took her to the Worlds Fair which was held that
year in Knoxville. Because she was so young, she barely remembers it. She recalls a
talking ketchup bottle and a ride on one of those huge swinging boats. I couldnt get her
to pay attention to the single thing that interested me the most. "Maria, these stones are
from the Great Wall of China," I exclaimed with excitement. "What are we going to ride
next?" was her disinterested response. She was too young to understand their
significance.
My favorite ride was the sky buckets. They took us all around the grounds, well
above the heads of the throngs. Most important to me was that the gentle ride didnt
induce motion sickness.
A person-sized ketchup bottle was a robot operated by remote control by a boy
who sat on a bench a short distance away. He talked to the kids, but when he heard
Delorise laugh, he said, "Whos the hyena?" The crowd got a laugh out of that.
Maria was too young to understand how that was possible. I pointed out the human
operator and she immediately comprehended what was going on.

The boat was a ride that swung quite high back and forth. Motion sickness made it
impossible for me to ride it, so Delorise took Maria on it. She was concerned that Maria
would get hurt and created a stir while it was operating. "Yall dont let my baby fall
out," she screamed. I suppose the commotion her mother created and what we said about
it afterward is why Maria remembers the incident.
Maria caught a virus from some kids with whom she shared a ride. That made it
necessary for us to hunt up a doctor in Gatlinburg where we had out headquarters. It
wasnt anything serious. She fully recovered in a day or so. "Make sure you dont get too
close to her or you can catch it," she warned. It was too late for that advice, but we didnt
get sick. That doctor alerted us to a speech problem Maria had with pronouncing words
beginning with the letter "L." In elementary school she took speech training for a while to
help eliminate the difficulty. Previous doctors had failed to notice it.
We took Maria to Walt Disney World in Orlando. We all had a good time despite
the heat, rain and long lines. I particularly recall a couple of outstanding 3-D movies. One
was Captain Eo, starring Michael Jackson, but Ive forgotten the title of the other one that
showed a boy flying through the air. The ride through the giant "golf ball" was the most
impressive. At one of the cafes, we met a Spanish-speaking woman also named Maria
who took up time with our daughter. Its been so long that other details have become
fuzzy.
While at the campground where we stayed at first, we saw a horrible accident out
on the road. A man pulled directly in front of a semi and was killed. Wreckage of the car
was strewn all over both lanes. It caused much anguish to the innocent trucker. "Ive
never had any kind of wreck in all my years of driving a truck," he said as he shook his
head in dismay.
We didnt stay there the entire time as it rained heavily. I woke up to a heavy drip
of water onto my face. I punched Delorise awake. "The tents leaking bad," I exclaimed.
It only got worse. I picked up an umbrella and opened it over us. By that point, it was
little better than being out in the open. The rain seemed to come right through the canvass
top. We moved to a motel for the rest of the stay.
I thought that we would return to Disney World one more time when Maria was a
couple of years older, but circumstances didnt permit.

Chapter 23: Maria Enters School

When we took her to enroll in first grade, some arrogant individual let us know,
"If she didnt go to kindergarten, she has to do that this year and start first grade next
year." I immediately straightened that out. "Kindergarten was, and still is, entirely
optional. Its nothing but a play school in Russellville. She will start first grade this year."

The person quickly backed down. All it takes is knowing your rights and sticking up for
them. Most people will run over you if you let them.
Maria turned 7 years old in December after starting first grade in the fall. It would
have been ridiculous to have her wait another year for no reason other than to make jobs
for kindergarten teachers. I know all too well how self-serving school employees can be.
I recalled the saying of Miss Arnold, assistant principal at Columbus High School,
"Schools exist for the benefit of children, not as employment agencies for teachers."
The first day of class wasnt a happy one for Delorise or me. We really hated the
necessity to turn her over to be dominated for a big part of the day by others. It didnt
seem to bother Maria.
West Elementary had reasonably good teachers. Maria had an easy time
academically except for mathematics which was a problem all the way through school.
She picked up reading easily since we had laid the foundation through the alphabet and
reading to her. I made a conscious decision not to "push" her to read before she entered
school. I think it was the right idea. We wanted her early days to be free of pressure of
that type so she would have time just to be a kid. Too many structured activities can rob a
child of her childhood.
She was able to read from the beginning with good expression, and easily picked
up phonics, something I had not been taught when I was in elementary school. Thats one
reason why Maria is better than I at pronunciation of unfamiliar words. It was long after I
had finished school before phonics was introduced.
The main criticism the first grade teacher, Paulette Todd, made about kindergarten
being skipped was that Maria didnt color well. But I dont think that was the reason. As a
child, I hated it too because it was such a waste of time, especially to color large blank
areas on a page. If she had attended kindergarten, I doubt she would have colored one bit
better.
The biggest objection I had to West Elementary was the presence of two ignorant
bullies who came over to "teach" physical education. They were coaches who seemed to
"be struggling with the concept of upright locomotion." Looking back, I wish I had made
an issue of their conduct, and taken it to the Superintendent if necessary. Clearly it was
just a way to try to justify hiring multiple coaches to feed the insane sports mania of the
town.
We got pulled into the various school fund-raising activities. The one we hated
most was to pressure the children to sell over-priced candy. Just a few pieces of the stuff
went for around ten dollars. A big part of the money went to the company that supplied
the goods. The playground equipment we worked to finance was not purchased for years.
The ones who raised the money got no benefit from it. If I could do that part over, Id
contribute to the fund-raising, but not get involved in the sale of worthless junk. The
school induced participation by the offer of prizes, but the items were often of such poor

quality that they broke down immediately. One prize Maria won quit working the very
day she got it. The whole thing is a scam on the public, parents, and children.
Because the children of Jehovahs Witnesses wouldnt participate in holidaybased programs, the teachers arranged for a "February Events" program. Maria took a fun
part about brushing teeth. To our disgust, Rocky Stone got up to introduce the program,
and called it a "Valentine Program." Thats just what an ignoramus he was. If the events
hadnt already started, we would have taken Maria home for the day, but decided to let it
pass. The teachers had done all they could to accommodate various viewpoints. They
couldnt have known he would, at the last second, sabotage their efforts.
We drove Maria to school each day and picked her up in the afternoons. Only
once did we have a miscommunication so that neither of us went to get her. "Wheres
Maria?" I asked when I got in from work about 3:30. "I thought you had her," she replied
in surprise. We jumped into a car and rushed over to the school. They had realized she
was stranded and were making an attempt to phone us. Maria was astonished at being
overlooked. Off and on for weeks, she continued to fume about it. She hadnt experienced
anything like that before. We were more careful in the future.
The next school was College Avenue School where her teachers were markedly
inferior to those in the early grades. The building itself was ancient and in a state of
disintegration. Large sections of plaster periodically fell in the classrooms. The floors
had, in past generations, been oiled. The place was a dangerous firetrap, although it never
caught on fire. The building still stands, but is no longer used as a school.
By far the worst of the teachers was Mrs. Gibson whom we nicknamed "Mrs.
Homework." She attempted to make up for her gross deficiencies as a teacher by massive
amounts of pointless homework. We had tried to avoid Mrs. Gibson based on her
reputation, but the principal was a little jerk by the name of Joe B. Pride IV. He was a
"little man" physically and in every other way. He wouldnt budge an inch and we had to
accept Mrs. Homework or else move Maria to a private school which wasnt feasible
since the only one available was run by the Church of Christ. Mrs. Gibson made our lives
miserable that entire school term.
It was during the latter part of the fourth grade that I brought home an electric
typewriter and taught Maria to touch keyboard. That was as soon as her hands were large
enough to manipulate the keys. She took onto it readily and quickly became a proficient
typist.
That summer we enrolled her in Computer Camp at the Bear Creek Education
Center. Rocky Stone was the instructor. In addition to canoeing, swimming, hiking,
boating, and cave exploring, she learned basic programming. She was the only one able
to type well.
When she got home, we had a surprise waitinga computer. It was state-of-the-art
by standards of the time. The machine accepted both large and small diskettes, had a

stupendous memory of 640 K, and a color monitor. We thought that it had truly amazing
power and speed. There was no hassle about fonts since it had only one. The same was
true of font size. It was 12 point. Nobody was bothered with the need to make multiple
decisions.
The printer was dot matrix with a "letter quality" setting which made the dots
almost disappear when that option was used. It was fast. A full page would print in little
more than a minute. The ribbon lasted for weeks before the print became noticeably dim.
The loud, repetitive noise it made could lull one to sleep. But, it was versatile. If a person
was already asleep, it had the power to awaken.
There was no mouse since the device hadnt yet been invented. There were only
vague rumors of the existence of an Internet, but individuals couldnt access it. I taught
her Professional Write, an early word processing program. That computer was a great
help through the rest of her secondary school experience.
Mrs. Harper, her teacher for the next year, was obviously unwell and it affected
her performance in the classroom. Maria used her computer skills for completion of
homework assignments. Mrs. Harper foolishly objected. "It isnt fair to the other children
who dont have computers and dont know how to use them." I decided that I wouldnt
accept that unreasonable conclusion. I went to school and told her, "So-called fairness has
nothing to do with it. All the other parents had the same opportunity that we did. If they
didnt spend on their children or teach them, thats no reason Maria should be penalized.
We are moving into the computer age and we have to accept it." The teacher was unable
to refute the logic of the argument and quickly conceded. It probably helped that I had
both her and her husband as students at the college when they were young. She didnt
want to antagonize me.
The best thing that came from Mrs. Harper was referral of Maria to the gifted
program under the supervision of Mrs. Sharon Daily. Maria went to the main office to
take the qualifying test and was approved for enrollment. Her IQ is virtually identical to
mine. That program continued in one form or another through middle school and got us
involved in scholars bowl and in the Shakespeare Theater in Montgomery along with
other interesting experiences. We saw Shakespeares A Comedy of Errors and his final
play, The Tempest. During middle school, we made numerous trips to Scholars Bowl
competitions. The best they did was finish seventh in the state one year.
That wasnt good enough for Mrs. Daily. She had spent most of her time with an
elementary school team made up entirely of boys. Like some women teachers, she
strongly favored boys over girls. I dont know if she is even aware of what is so obvious
to everyone else.
Even in middle school when Maria was, by far, the best player, Mrs. Daily wanted
very much to make Daniel captain. If we hadnt made regular appearances, I think she
would have done it. Ultimately, Daniel didnt even qualify for the "A" team and became
captain of the "B" team. To Mrs. Daily, gender seemed to override all other

considerations. A further illustration of her incredible bias was the way she dealt with
Matthew, a boy in the gifted program who failed to maintain his grades. That was
supposed to be grounds for immediate dismissal from the program. She allowed him to
continue for months, apparently for no reason other than gender. It became a subject of
adverse comment to the extent that she finally reluctantly suspended him. In contrast, she
suspended fat, ugly Jamie merely because he made a "C" in band. Being male apparently
was cancelled if the boy was gross-looking. Band was not one of the academic core
subjects on which such a decision should have been based.
The middle school was the best experience Maria had in the Russellville school
system. She had reasonably good teachers and seemed to enjoy her work. The building
itself was relatively new and everything was in good condition. One event that stands
out is a presentation Maria worked out, in which she pretended to be Balboa. Complete
with moustache and costume, she did such a good job that the teacher had her come back
each period and repeat the performance.
I think Maria had the potential for stage performance, but when she got to high
school, the drama teacher, Donny Bryan, wouldnt give her a chance. "Youve got a
Southern accent," he said with obvious disgust. Yet, his accept which was like the
stereotype of a gay, was just fine. Im not saying he was gay, only that he "sounded" like
the general idea of one.
Then there was the high school which, for the most part, was an academic
wasteland with inferior teachers combined with incompetent administrators. Coach Cox,
our neighbor across the street, was moved from football coach to principal. It was widely
reported, "He cant even write a coherent sentence." The rumor was that he was so
unlikely to pass the required test for principals that the school system moved him to the
central office to fill a "made" job. That position required no qualifying test.
A professional principal had served for a year prior to Cox, but the teachers so
resented his efforts to make them behave appropriately that he was dismissed by the
toady board of education. "If he cant get along with the teachers, he needs to leave,"
Nell Arnold the chair of the board asserted. Obviously, they didnt investigate why he
didnt get along.
Many of the high school teachers are failures as coaches who have been kept on
because of tenure laws. It appears that their main interest is to draw their salaries until
they can retire. That school is, mostly, an academic disgrace. Ironically, the town boasts
about its excellence.
As an example, one of the teachers continued to carry on instruction as if the
Soviet Union was still in existence. It was what he had been accustomed to doing and
was loathe to revise his class presentation to fit current developments. "You know none of
this is correct, dont you?" a student asked in disgust. "Yeah, but were gonna study how
it used to be," he replied without any apparent embarrassment at this ineptitude as an
instructor.

The biology teacher provided almost no instruction in biology. He spent most

class days in random talk off the subject. He devoted an inordinate amount of time to
promotion of church doctrine as if it were science. The man believed the entire universe
was created in six days, each twenty-four hours in length. The students learned nothing of
scientific method, cells, DNA, or any of the topics customarily covered in biology. It was
beyond a waste of time. "He shouldnt be allowed to receive his salary," I often fumed.
Yet, I didnt do anything about it out of fear or retribution against Maria. I think it was a
valid concern. It was difficult for her to function in college biology as a result of his
incompetence and neglect of duty.
By far the worst teacher in the entire school was Durdunji, one of the math
instructors. He was a Libyan who pretended to be from Turkey. The man was a textbook
picture of a poor teacher in every way. He was a day off all the time. He went over math
concepts only after he assigned nearly impossible homework on the concepts. The
laggard used supplementary problems from sheets that had been copied so many times
that they were essentially illegible. Often, it was impossible to determine if a sign was a
plus or minus and many of the numbers were unreadable. Yet, he was extremely strict in
grading. The process of working a problem didnt matter to him. All he looked for was
the final answer. His favorite saying, "Its either right or its wrong," made it extremely
easy for him to grade tests. It surely wasnt in the best interests of students. I could have
proven that his tests were often grossly unfair. In one case, half the test items were on
concepts not yet introduced. He was lazy and simply used a test he had ready no matter
how inappropriate it was.
The man was bigoted toward females and refused to help them like he did males. I
suspect that is from his Islamic background. He pretended to be aa convert to
Christendom, but had retained at least some of Islams disregard for women.
Incredibly, some of the students and parents praise him as if he were a good
teacher. At some program at the school, his retirement was mentioned and the audience
gave him a standing ovation. All except Delorise and me. We sat on the front row, but
remained seated and pointedly didnt clap when he was given the undeserved recognition.
Over a period of years, he has harmed numerous people in this town, even to the point
that he caused some of them to be unable to graduate from high school. Yet , he is
praised. "Never underestimate the stupidity of the American public" is all too truthful an
adage.
An instructor in what was called "Alabama history" did a horrible job of
instruction. He used material from boring and irrelevant source. Maria had learned far
more on the subject during a unit in the fifth grade. We took her on a trip to see some of
the historical sites. Cahaba, site of the first capital of Alabama was one of the most
interesting. "Large government buildings once stood on this site," I related. "The river
flooded and destroyed them so that the capital was relocated." Whites had torn down a
huge Indian mound at Cahaba to make room for their buildings. Numerous artesian wells
still shot water up from the surface. It had, at one time, been a splendid place.

We visited the site of Fort Mims in south Alabama. There was no sign of the original fort
where a horrific attack had taken place in the 1800s. "This was the worst Indian massacre
in United States history," I said. "Of course, it was called a massacre when the Indians
won and a great victory when whites won." Creek Indians had been seen for days in the
vicinity of the fort, but the commander discounted their significance. Drifting sand had
built up at the entrance so that it was impossible to close the gates when the Indians
attacked. Killed along with whites were a number of Indians who had taken refuge in Ft.
Mims.
Tecumseh had attempted to organize all Native Americans to resist the white
invasion, but many didnt want to go along with him. The result was a civil war among
the Indians at the same time that they attacked the whites. Indian sycophants were viewed
with contempt.
The leader of the raid on Fort Mims was William Weatherford, a chief who was
only part Creek. Despite being mainly white, he sided with the Indians and took the name
Red Eagle. His mother was Sehoy, Princess of the Wind Clan. When Red Eagle saw that
women and children were being slaughtered, he was disgusted, but unable to stop the
vicious attack. The warriors took small children by the feet and bashed their heads against
the logs of the wall of the fort.
We visited the isolated graves of Red Eagle and his mother. Each had permanent
markers. Locals told us, "Indians come there every year and hold a ceremony." The
gravesites had become a dumping ground for household rubbish. We picked up as much
as we could and placed it in plastic bags. "Its a shame to see any graves vandalized like
that," I said.
Actual experience with Alabama history made the fifth grade classroom
instruction far more effective. It wasnt something the school could have done.
Only one student in Marias class, Kevin Hovater, died before graduation. An
adopted boy, he had been a trouble-maker for a long time. On a regular basis we found
double tire tracks in our side yard where a car had cut through at such speed as to tear
down to bare dirt. I tried to watch, but never was able to catch anybody doing it. Finally,
the culprit came with such speed along Summit from the school toward Wilson that,
when he crested the hill, he became airborne. Kevin crashed head-on into a large pine tree
in the yard of the Porter house. He was killed instantly. The crash ripped the motor from
his car and spewed auto parts even into my parents yard. Mother watched as the
ambulance carried him away dead. She took some pictures of the gory scene. After his
death, our yard was no longer damaged, so we know he was the one who had been doing
it. "It was part of a club initiation," someone told us. "They had to drive up the hill on
Summit fast enough to become airborne at the top. He had practiced for weeks and had to
run into your yard to have a place to stop before the road ended."

Maria was on a trip with a group from the school the day Kevin was killed. When
they pulled onto the school grounds and stopped, a highly emotional girl forced her way
on board. "Everybody sit down," she ordered. "I have something awful to tell you."
There was almost no reaction from the group when she announced the news. It wasnt
that they didnt care that he had died. He was widely regarded as a scoundrel and nobody
liked him.
Shortly after Maria got a driver permit, we got an opportunity to buy her a car in
good condition at a bargain price. We couldnt pass it up. Our next-door neighbor, Nell
Arnold, bought a new car and needed to dispose of her Silver Mercury Lynx.
"I only want $900 for it," she said. I think we suspected we might buy it for our daughter
and priced it accordingly. It was worth significantly more. The car had four doors and a
fifth door that raised at the back. It looked, ran, and smelled like a new one. Nell had
carefully maintained it and kept it spotlessly clean in her garage. The biggest problem
was lack of power steering. The vehicle, though small, responded stiffly and heavily to
the steering wheel. "I like it that way," Maria insisted. "When I drive our cars with power
steering, it seems like they dont go straight down the road. I feel in control with this
one."
I had commenced Marias driving lessons at an early age, long before we bought
the Lynx. The first time she drove, she sat in my lap in the truck at the empty parking lot
of the high school. I expected to get by with it. "Look! There comes your mother. Slide
over and let me take the wheel. Dont tell her your were driving," I exclaimed guiltily.
That was in the days before cell phones so Delorise had come to hunt us when we
disappeared without explanation. We ended up telling her Maria had been driving. She
was okay with it. "Its important for her to learn," she observed. "You cant get around in
the South unless you can drive. Just be careful."
When Maria grew enough to reach the pedals, she and I often drove out to Cave
Hollow Road where there was little traffic. When we got out of likely contact with police,
I turned the driving over to her. "If you should have a wreck, switch places with me real
quick," I instructed. "Nobody can prove you were the driver." There was never a serious
problem and she slowly improved in her skills. At no time did we encounter a policeman.
At one point the road makes an ninety degree turn. The first time, she went entirely into
the left lane. "Get over to the right! What are you doing?" I shouted in alarm.
Fortunately, nobody was meeting us. She had somehow thought that was a safer way to
make the sharp turn.
The concept of backing proved more difficult for her. Near the dead end of that
road, I had her pull into a field driveway to turn around and go toward home. "Turn the
wheel this way," I instructed as I gestured with my hand to show the proper procedure.
She didnt see the gesture and to this day maintains that I just said "this way" without any
explanation. Ive given up on convincing her that she is mistaken. It was a while before
she mastered the backing concept.

Maria also took driver education at the school, but the program used archaic,
faulty equipment and was of little value beyond qualifying the student for a discount with
car insurance.
The drivers license clerk who supervised road tests was a grossly obese,
extremely ugly woman with a distinct resemblance to a pig. Her personality was likewise
swine-like. It was enough to intimidate anyone, especially a teenager. Nevertheless,
Maria got her license on the second attempt.
I had assumed she would be enthusiastic to start to drive like most her age, but
she wasnt. Maria realized the danger and that she was inexperienced so she rarely drove
the Lynx. I used it to go to work for about a year. We almost always drove her through the
heavy traffic to school in the mornings. Occasionally, we brought the Lynx and put it in
her parking spot behind the building. She then drove home cautiously.
At one point, she went a few months without driving at all. I became concerned.
"You have to learn to drive or you cant function," I cautioned. We soon headed along
Summit with her at the wheel. She had significantly regressed in driving ability. In front
of her grandmothers house, she ran slowly off the road and into the yard. "What are you
doing! Get back in the road," I shouted in alarm. Gradually, her skills improved, but not
enough. She didnt become a safe driver for a while yet. "Dont run off the road. Watch
where youre going. Dont go so slow, its dangerous" and similar commands
accompanied her every drive when either of us took her for practice.
It was only when she enrolled in the summer session at UNA and had to drive that
she became more able. "Theres nobody saying what to do, so I had to be responsible for
it myself," she explained.
With her almost straight "A" record, Maria should have been able to get a
substantial scholarship. The guidance counselor refused to help her despite repeated
requests. We think it was because she wanted to keep the scholarships for the children of
Christendom. On her own, Maria won a scholarship at UNA for $500 a semester and
kept it for two years so that it amounted to a substantial sum.
During her senior year, Mrs. Malone, one of her favorite teachers, suggested,
"You should enter this writing contest about the use of money. It carries a big award."
She had about forgotten about her entry until a stranger unexpectedly called and asked to
speak to her. "Youve won first place in the Nation and the prize is $5000 in cash. A
representative will come to your school and make the formal presentation," the caller
announced. Maria was delighted to learn that Mrs. Malone, as her faculty sponsor, would
be given an additional $300. Naturally, she was highly pleased at the unexpected bonus.
The local paper carried her picture with a story on the front page above the fold. "Lets
drive Maria around through town and let her see her face looking out of the paper boxes,"
Delorise suggested. We did just that. We managed to keep that windfall intact for her to
build her saving around rather than spend it on college costs. It has since been used up.

When she told James Bennett about winning the money, he smirked, "Its a scholarship.
Dont think youll get it in cash. You wont." Shortly after she received the check, he
visited again so that she was able to show him how wrong he was. Unwilling to admit
error, he made no comment, not even to extend congratulations on the win. That was
typical of his selfishness.

Chapter 24: Other Aspects of Marias High School and College Experience
When still a teenager, Maria served as Spanish instructor in Kids College at
Bevill State Community College. It wasnt a paid position, but she had fun with it and did
an excellent job. One of her students, Katie Murray, got her start with her and went on to
major in Spanish in college. Dr. Nix gave her ten dollars as a reward for the hard work
she did in the program.
Maria was only fifteen-years-old when she enrolled at Bevill State for her first
regular college course, General Psychology with Dr. Emily Chamblee. She and another
youngster her age, Keith, were able to be accepted as regular students under the provision
of the gifted program in Alabama. She got some strange looks, especially since she
participated freely in class discussion. "How old are you?" some of the students asked in
astonishment. She may have looked like a little kid, but didnt act like one. Enrollment
was a good experience for her. Her grade in the class was an "A."
The next summer, she took a college course in intermediate algebra. The
instructor was Caroline Page, but Phyllis Markham did more to help her. It was harder for
her than the psychology, but she still made a top grade. That credit made it unnecessary
for her to take any additional mathematics in order to earn her bachelors degree. She
opted to take a business math course at UNA as an alternative to science.
While still in high school, she took Advanced Placement American history. A high
enough score on the AP examination could result in credit for two college courses.
"I think you should take the examination," Mrs. Rogers urged. "I think youll do well
with it." Maria had decided not to attempt the difficult test, but let the teacher convince
her to proceed. When the score came back, she was delighted. "I get credit for both
courses in American history at the University of North Alabama," she said. "Im sure glad
I let Mrs. Rogers talk me into taking the test."
All combined, she entered the University with twelve semester hours credit,
equivalent to an entire semester. By taking additional examinations, she received credit
for a series of freshman and sophomore Spanish courses. The summer after high school
graduation, Maria took one course at the University to place her under the Catalog in use
at that time. That enabled her to escape some changes in academic requirements as long
as she remained continuously enrolled and graduated within seven years. All this
combined was a huge jump-start to her college career and made it possible for her to be
free from pressure to take a heavy load each term.

While in high school, Maria was by far the best student in Spanish, but was
cheated out of recognition on Awards Night. When that point in the ceremony was
reached, several students looked at Maria as the principal led into announcement of the
recipient. When he called out the name of a boy in the Spanish class who didnt even
speak Spanish, a light gasp arose from some of the students. We were outraged and so
was Maria. The next day, we demanded an explanation from the teacher. "How could
Maria possibly not have been given the Spanish award?" "She was the best, but the
principal said it had to be given to a senior no matter who actually deserved it," she
explained with considerable embarrassment. "She doesnt graduate until next year. Im
sorry, I know it isnt fair." Maria had the recognition stolen from her because she had
taken advanced Spanish at an earlier age than most. That type of ignorant decision was
typical of Coach Cox who had wormed his way into the principals office. When he saw
that we intended to challenge the unethical act, he arranged for Maria to take the New
York State Spanish test. She came out on top and won a cash prize for her performance.
"I may not have got the award, but I can spend what I won," she said in an attempt to be a
good sport about the gross injustice.
Her senior year, Maria was editor-in-chief of the school newspaper. At the same
time she was writing for the Extreme section of the TimesDaily, the local daily
newspaper. She had substantial by-line stories to appear on a regular basis.
Under her leadership, the high school newspaper reached a level of excellence previously
unseen. Included among her accomplishments was the first-ever color edition.
Coach Cox was opposed to the color expenditure, but Maria pointed out "We have raised
far more than enough money from selling advertising to pay for it." He had no effective
counter argument and so backed down. Had an expenditure far higher than that for sports
been suggested, he would have voiced no objection. Its a further illustration of the harm
done to the Russellville school system due to domination by former coaches.
She had another interesting run-in with the principal over the issue of censorship.
Cox asserted the right to censor articles written for the paper. The Supreme Court had
made decisions that supported his right to do so. It was a school newspaper, not a student
newspaper. "Tell Maria I said not to run this article," he instructed the faculty sponsor
when he took offense to her viewpoint. Although embarrassed at the unreasonable
censorship, the teacher conveyed the command to Maria. "All right, thats fine. Ask him
if hed rather read it in the TimesDaily," Maria replied calmly. "It has a far larger
circulation. Thats the choice he has. Ill do whatever he says." It was no idle threat and
Cox knew it. He cowered and made no further attempt at censorship for the rest of the
year.
Near the end of the senior year, the class traditionally holds a talent show in the
school auditorium. Maria played "Danny Boy" on the piano and did very well with it
despite being sick.
There was no official senior class trip. The school had put an end to that years ago
while it continued to promote numerous trips for the athletic teams. The year Maria was a
junior, a group of five, including Maria and James Bennett, arranged for a private "senior

trip" to Nashville. We, along with one of the mothers, went along as chaperones. At that
time, Opryland was still in operation as a theme park. A significant attraction, it had
numerous rides and places to eat. We spent most of the day there. Near the hotel where
we stayed was a museum with the original Batmobile on display. We also visited the
Parthenon reproduction at Centennial Park and the Peabody Campus at Vanderbilt. It was
the first time any of us had eaten at the Hard Rock Caf. "Its so loud you cant even
talk," we complained after completion of the ordeal. It was not only loud, but crowded
and had poor service. A fifteen percent tip was automatically added to bills, so the waiter
had no incentive to please us and he didnt. "If I could do it over, Id demand that the tip
be removed," I later fumed. Often, one thinks of the right thing to do too late. The waiter
was uncaring and flippant. To give him a tip was an insult to the customer.
It was on that trip that James true colors became unmistakable. We had seen
some indication of his personality and behavioral problems all down through the years.
Even as a young child, he attempted to choke Maria if we didnt watch him continuously.
He was also violent toward his younger brother Jesse. The single worst thing he did was
to attempt to shove Maria down a flight of stairs. I saw what he was doing and managed,
with difficulty, to stop him. He was strong even as a youngster. Delorise gave him a good
whipping for that. It was one of the last times we allowed him to come to our house. He
was just too dangerous. "Every time he comes, he tears things up," I said in exasperation.
The child seemed to take delight in damaging whatever he could. He had just deliberately
destroyed our dishwasher. "We cant afford to keep letting him visit. And, even more
important, hes a danger to Maria," I decided.
After that, he became persona non grata until he got old enough to show up on
his own, which he did a few times when they were in high school. On the Nashville trip,
James was incredible rude to us and to Maria. He smirked and made critical remarks at
every turn. We had made the expensive trip mainly for him. James went so far as to
abandon Maria in the crowd at Opryland. He deliberately led the group away without
telling her. She finally found us, but was rightly indignant at the way he had treated her.
Delorise asked him why he did Maria that way, but he made only an indifferent reply.
Everything was about him. Nobody else seemed to matter.
He showed the depth of his lack of care over the matter of Marias senior prom.
James had expressed regret because he failed to attend his own prom. Maria decided that
she wanted to go to hers, but wanted an escort. I suggested the possibility to James with
the thought that he would welcome the opportunity to make up for something important
he had missed. "Ill pay for everything," I offered, "including your tuxedo, prom tickets,
and the meal afterward. Maria just wants an escort, not a boyfriend." "No, I wont do
that," he responded immediately and rudely. "I am going to a building project that
weekend." "Youve done that many times. Cant you skip that one?" I asked. "No. Ive
got a reputation to maintain," he replied with obvious indifference to anything other than
his own wishes. We tried to put the best face possible on his attitude. Maria was, I think,
outraged. The two had been friends for years, yet he wouldnt do something that was
important to her.

She went to the prom alone and had a good time. One of the most outstanding
boys in the senior class escorted her across the stage. She looked fabulous in her green
prom dress and accessories. James selfishness deprived him of an outstanding memory.
We had gone to considerable trouble and expense to help James graduation party to be a
success. In addition, we attended the ceremony to see him graduate about 50th in his class.
The year Maria graduated third in her class, he had said he would come, but didnt show
up. He never offered a word of explanation. Her feelings, and ours, obviously didnt
matter.
We werent too surprised when we learned that James thought he had impregnated
a girl and married her. She, a Caucasian, gave birth to a Negro child. Within a short time,
James joined a branch of the military and was disfellowshiped from the Christian
congregation. After all that, he had the nerve to call one time. He seemed to think we
would engage in friendly chat with him. "I wanted to see how yall are doing," he
asserted. "James, is it true that you have married an outsider, joined the military, and
have been put out of the congregation," I asked. He admitted that was correct.
"Then we cant talk with you," I responded and hung up the phone. I rather suspect that
his father was behind the call. Glen, I think, wanted to see if we would honor the
excommunication as did the members of his family. Glen told me that he was behind
James joining the military. He had to know that it would cut him off from everybody he
had ever known. I hope James will eventually come to his senses, but wouldnt be totally
surprised to hear someday that he has seriously injured or even killed someone, perhaps
even his wife. There is a scary, dark, violent side to his personality.
Denby had hinted at it year before. "James isnt as good as some people seem to
think," she admitted. We knew from personal experience how true that was. He wanted to
appear to be righteous and caring, but to do exactly as he pleased.
When Marias class was engaged in practice for graduation, Coach Cox gave the
group a final insult. "This is the worst class in the history of the school," he lied. He was
the worst principal in the history of the school. The man is a knuckle-dragging cretin, yet
he was promoted to Superintendent of the Russellville City Schools, a position for which
he was grossly unqualified. It meant happy days for athletics, but an academic disaster for
the school system. Not one word of protest came from the public. Several years later he
retired rather than face possible ethics charges, so it has been reported. I dont know
the facts in the case.
The high school lines senior up for graduation based on class rank. Maria was
third in her class, an excellent record. The second place student, Jessica Hillman, should
have been the Valedictorian, but was robbed of it by a family with money and influence.
The "Valedictorians" mother had made repeated trips to the school to demand that her
daughter be given top grades despite her actual performance. She forced Julie into the
gifted program even though she had failed the qualifying examination. "She was in the
gifted program in her school before we moved here," she argued. "I cant see why she
cant be in it here." The school authorities caved to her pressure and admitted her, just
like the teachers gave unearned grades under duress. The adage, "The squeaking wheel

gets the grease" was proven correct again. Money, power, and sheer gall are often
rewarded.
Maria was admitted to UNA at the beginning of the summer semester after high
school graduation. As planned, she took one course. That "grandfathered" her under the
catalog in current use and exempted her from additional math requirements that came
into effect in the fall. She drove from home for that part of her time at the University.
Maria had agreed to commute the entire time at UNA, but I had serious doubts that it was
in her overall best interests. Maria has never been one to get ready on time, the daily
drive could be quite dangerous, campus parking was a horror, at least an hour-and-a-half
would be wasted on the road each day, use of the library would be difficult, and she
would be deprived of a meaningful college experience which inherently includes living
on campus.
Besides those considerations, I felt that Maria wanted to shed her "nerd" image
from high school. A new location with a new set of friends would be a big help. She
needed to have a period of independent living. A university residence hall seemed a
relatively safe way for her to gain needed experience of being on her own.
I had hope that if she stuck with her preference to avoid marriage, she would then
be content to come back home to live after completion of her degree.
I broached the subject to Maria while we were in Birmingham during one of my
parents many medical procedures. I hadnt discussed it with Delorise because I knew
what her position would beinstant and unthinking opposition. "Maria, do you think you
might want to live at the dormitory at the university rather than driving back and forth?" I
asked. The look on her face told me that she liked the idea very much. Because of the
added expense, she never would have asked to do it. Maria proceeded carefully, but as we
discussed the pros and cons, she embraced the idea. The final decision had to be up to
Maria. A young person needs a period of independence from parental supervision.
We had anticipated that Maria would stay at Rice Hall, the main freshman
dormitory. The university had assured us that there would no problem with enough
rooms. When the time came, the story changed. All rooms were filled, housing personnel
now asserted. She would have to stay at LaGrange Hall. We were irritated at first, but the
development proved to be in her advantage. Although an older building, LaGrange was
centrally located and a quieter, safer environment. Her room on the fourth floor was
directly across from the bathroom. The window provided a nice view of other campus
buildings.
Though small, the room was clean and had adequate storage. "It has a telephone,"
I exclaimed in surprise. "When I was in college, there was just one pay phone per floor.
And you have an elevator. Dorms where I stayed were walk-up. Nothing was air
conditioned." Times had changed more than I realized in the nearly forty years since I
had been a college student. Nobody had dorm accommodations like that in my youth.

The SOAR program in the fall was for entering students. Parts of it were for
parents and other sessions for students. We barely managed to attend since Mother was in
the midst of a health crisis from a broken arm. Maria called twice during one of our
meetings, very upset because almost all classes for freshmen were filled. The second
time, the dean in charge of the meeting rudely commented, "I hope thats your
stockbroker." I let him get by with it, but wish I had said in front of the entire group
"Ive got a crying youngster who cant get a schedule because almost everything is
closed." I have a tendency to think of the right thing to say or do too late. UNA foolishly
set class limits artificially low at 25 no matter how many the room would hold. Small
classes are fine as long as enough sections are offered. They didnt do that. The policy
seems designed to ensure that most students cant finish their degrees in the normal four
years. It is quite profitable to the University, but in my opinion, an unethical practice.
She finally got an schedule of twelve semester hours, barely enough to be classified as
full-time. It was inconceivable to me to take fewer than sixteen hours since Id always
done that when I was an undergraduate. Yet, it provided an advantage in that it gave her
an easy load for the period of adjustment to new circumstances.
Marias first roommate was Gabrielle Freeman from Centerville, Tennessee. Her
parents painted the room so that it looked neat and clean. Maria kept the same room for
the years she was enrolled. Gradually, she fixed it up so it looked quite nice. The
TimesDaily did a story about her and pictured her room to show how effective use could
be made of a small space.
At first we purchased a meal plan like I had when in college, but that didnt work
well for Maria. The next semester, we reduced the number of paid meals and later
eliminated the plan entirely. That gave her flexibility to eat on campus if she wished, to
fix something with the microwave in her room, or to select from the large variety of cafes
in Florence. "When I was in college we were forbidden to cook at all in the dorm rooms
and wouldve been thrown out if we violated the policy," I explained. "I hadnt realized
that it wasnt the same at UNA."
She also had a dorm-size refrigerator in her room, another taboo luxury when I
was an undergraduate. Those appliances gave her flexibility when she didnt want to go
out to eat.
Delorise and I ate on campus, at the Student Center and at the main cafeteria
between Rice Hall and Rivers Hall, a few times to see what the food was like. I wondered
if it could be as bad as Maria indicated. "This is truly bad," I admitted. "I can see why
she doesnt like eating on campus. Who would?"
The food was tasteless, occasionally foul, and always greasy. The surly, uncaring
cafeteria workers only added to the unpleasantness. I had assumed that campus food was
comparable to my own good experience. The UNA food was far inferior to what had been
furnished at Jacksonville State when I attended in the early 1960s.
The last couple of years, we arranged for Maria to have year-around housing at
the dorm. That way she had use of her room during university breaks. It served as a

refuge where she could retreat whenever she wanted some privacy, or to spend some time
in Florence. Another advantage was that we didnt have to move her things out and then
back into the dormitory as much. Even with the elevator, that was a major task.
Maria originally selected journalism as a major. It seemed to me that the writing
aspect was the attraction rather than work with newspapers. One year she was a senior
staff writer with the University newspaper, The Florala. She had many major by-line
articles. At the end of that year, she applied for an editorial position that would have paid
her tuition, but it was given to somebody less worthy, but who went along with the wrong
conduct of the paper staff. She decided not to continue as a senior editor the following
year. She wrote occasional articles for the TimesDaily.
Well before graduation, Maria demoted journalism to a minor and took the
bachelor of arts with a major in Spanish. Graduation was held in Flowers Hall in the
presence of a capacity crowd. My mother, who had once feared she wouldnt live to see
me graduate from high school, was there, along with my father. We had seats down front
with a clear view of the proceedings.
Chapter 25: We Move to Wilson Boulevard
As has been true before, this account doesnt follow a totally chronological
sequence. The following drops back to about 1984 to develop more details.
During the seven years that we lived on Burgess Street, we became more and
more aware of the serious shortcomings of that house and neighborhood. The yard was
slanted and rough, but the interior was the main problem. "How could we possibly have
thought it was large?" we asked ourselves. "The rooms are tiny and there are only five of
them." As Maria grew from an infant into an active child, the problem became
significantly greater. There wasnt room for the many things she needed as she moved
into teenage years.
We had some concerns that the neighborhood, never the best, was actually in slow
decline. "Some of the houses need painting and a few are beginning to collect junk on
the grounds," I observed. That would result in a loss of property value. The
neighborhood has actually held its own since we moved away, but we had no way to
know it at the time. Unfortunately, our house has not been well maintained by subsequent
owners. Likely, people are now looking askance at it as a threat to property values.
"It needs a roof, theyve taken off the gutters, most of the shrubbery has died, theres junk
piled in the carport, and theyre letting kudzu take over," I complain when we pass. It was
neat and well kept-up when we lived there. "You have to not see it. Theres nothing we
can do about it," Delorise correctly says.
We began another house search after we had lived there for seven years. We
wanted a bigger, nicer house in a more upscale neighborhood. Once again, it was
Delorise who found what we wanted. She stopped at a large brick house on Summit

Street, the one my parents bought when they moved to Russellville. It didnt have a "For
Sale" sign, but the yard was neglected, knee-high with grass and weeds. It appeared to be
deserted. She noticed a prominent woman, Nell Arnold, at work in her yard at the corner
of Summit and Wilson. Nell glanced in her direction as if to invite an inquiry. She walked
over and asked, "Do you know anything about this empty house? Im looking for one to
buy." "It isnt empty, it just looks that way," Nell replied. "The owners are the Morelands
and they spend months operating the Pageant Hills motel in Cherokee, North Carolina.
Theyll be back in the fall."
Nell went on to suggest that the Guin house next door might be for sale. That
well-known house had been built in 1960 by Judge Guin. It was currently owned by the
Kendigs, but they had fallen into dire health circumstances to the extent that they had
been taken to Texas. Mrs. Kendigs daughter, Mary Lee, wanted to sell the house. Nell
supplied the telephone number.
There is a myth, widely circulated, in Russellville that the house appeared on the
cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Actually, the house was built from a plan from that
organization along with hundreds of thousands of others throughout the United States.
What had appeared on the cover was an architect rendering of the house. The original
blueprints used by the Guins builders are still in the house. Also included, inside the
magazine, was a photo of an actual house built from that plan which did look a whole lot
like the Guin house, lot and all. A close examination will show that its another home.
It makes a fun story that people in Russellville like to relate, so we have seen little reason
to challenge it when somebody tells it to us. We dont originate such discussions since we
know it isnt really true.
From the location and general appearance when we drove in front, I said, "I dont
think that we will be able to afford the house." That was the same thing I had said about
our house on Burgess Street. But this time, I feared that I was correct. "You dont know
until you ask," Delorise replied. Additional reason for concern was the fact that the
Kindigs had asked $90,000, an absurdly unreasonable amount for that house in the 1980s.
If fixed up, it might have been worth the mid 70s. That was the average price for the
neighborhood at the time.
We contacted Mary Lee in Texas and arranged to see the inside. Initially, she
seemed to be a pleasant person. "The key is in a clothes pin bag on a line in the back
yard. Get it and go right in," she invited cordially. We soon learned what a hypocrite she
was and why so many people in Russellville detested her. Without our knowledge, she
phoned a friend of the Kindigs (her mother and step father who technically owned the
house) to tell him (Cecil Langcuster) to go over and stay while we were there. We had
barely started the inspection when he came strode in unannounced. He was an obnoxious
pest who seemed intent, by making continual inane conversation, to keep us from a
careful examination of the house. We tried to be polite, with the thought that he surely
would leave. Langcuster seated himself on the couch and attempted to keep us in one
room by constant chatter. It became obvious that he intended to stay as long as we were
present. "Theres no need for you to stay," I finally informed him. "We have permission

to see the house and need to look around." I stood up with the clear intent to dismiss him.
It was a trick I learned at work to get an unwelcome visitor to leave my office. He
departed reluctantly. Only then were we able to look without hindrance and to discuss the
pros and cons freely.
The entire house was unbelievably cluttered with years of collection of worthless
junk. There were boxes and stacks of paper and magazines. All closets were stuffed.
"Mrs. Kindig must be one of the worst pack rats around," I remarked. "This is just
incredible." The formerly-elegant gold carpet was soiled and worn, the ceilings cracked,
and one bathroom ceiling about to collapse. Color selection in the bedrooms was odious.
One was orange, another dirty green, and the master bedroom a garish violet. The
Kindigs obviously had little decorating sense.
The worst interior feature was the antiquated kitchen. It hadnt been updated since
construction of the house. Over halfway up the walls rose the cheapest version of plastic
tiles, some absent and others cracked. All appliances were old and in poor condition,
although the stove was a deluxe model with two ovens and other novel features. The
dishwasher had never been connected to water or to a drain, so it stood useless. The
quality metal cabinets were in dire need of paint. The linoleum on the floor was once
white, but had turned a dirty yellow. It was porous and lacked any semblance of shine.
Dated florescent ceiling fixtures provided light. The windows were crazily locked such in
a manner that it appeared they couldnt be opened.
The grounds were in dire need of attention. It appeared that the Kindigs had done
little or no yard work in the years they lived there. "Look at these shrubs," Delorise said
with disbelief. Theyre higher than the house." "We can cut them back, but look at the
condition of the paint on the trim," I returned. "Everything with have to be repainted and
the shutters are half-rotted and about to fall apart." The elegant shutters were hand-made,
a striking feature originally. Most of them were beyond repair. Bare wood was visible in
many places.
Thick undergrowth, complete with saw briars, had encroached onto the grounds at
the right side and back. It was November so the gutters were packed with leaves. They
could do nothing but overflow with rainwater. The front and side yards, although they
needed to be mowed, were in better condition. Remains of an old broadcast tower held a
low pine limb up enough for a garden tractor to pass underneath. The tennis court had
degenerated after removal of its fence. The net was in storage.
Still, the yard was level and had potential. The house, although run-down, was
more than twice the size of our first house, with the added advantage of being in an
upscale neighborhood. We thought it would be a suitable house for us at the right price.
We revisited Nell Arnold. "Do you have any idea how much Mary Lee expects to get for
the house?" we asked. "I heard $65,000 mentioned, but Im not sure," she replied. "It
would be a good buy at that price." As the discussion continued, it became obvious that
Nell was greatly concerned about who was going to get the house. Years previously,
when the Guins were about to move, they put a sign in the yard with the price plainly

stated. To the horror of the entire neighborhood, a Negro woman quickly informed them
that she would take it. At that time, one black in a neighborhood had a devastating effect
on property values. Somehow, they managed to abort the sale. After that, they no longer
publicly listed a price. The Kindigs purchased it.
The Kindigs were in Texas with Mary Lee. They had gotten into such bad shape
that they werent even getting enough to eat. It had become a scandal in the town. She
rented a motor home, came to Russellville, and hauled them away despite their
objections. It was all she could do, given the dire circumstances. After a short time, Mrs.
Kindig died, whereupon Mary Lee allegedly forced Mr. Kindig to deed the house to
Ralph Beaton of Washington State who was Mrs. Kindigs son.
When we started negotiation with Ralph, we first thought we would offer $40,000
but decided on $45,000 and later decided to up it $48,000 which was still a bargain price.
We figured the house would sell on the open market for considerably more. To make it
more likely he would accept, we agreed to pay down about $15,000 and finance the rest
with him at 8% interest (about one percent over the bank rate at that time) for ten years.
At the end of the ten years a balloon payment of about $15,000 was due. We were sure
that, by that time, we would have the money or else refinance that small amount. Ralph
proved to be quite reasonable and we soon had a deal and were to move again. We later
learned that others in town wanted the house and were furious that we had beat them to it.
It soon emerged that the contents of the house belonged to Mary Lee. That forced
us to deal with her again. We found her to be a disgusting, rude, and dishonest person as
well as a repulsive tub of lard. She had agreed that the kitchen would stay as it was, but
ended up taking even one of the cabinets and expected us to pay for the kitchen table and
chairs. "Mary Lee, the agreement was that the kitchen stay as it was," Delorise objected.
"Well, it really is," she lied. She even took the refrigerator. How that constituted the
kitchen being as it was somehow eluded us. She, quite simply, was a crook.
We bought some of the furniture in the rest of the house, but not as much as we
might if it had been priced reasonably. She had gotten some woman to appraise the
furnishings, but she had far overpriced them. She seemed to take the view that they were
valuable antiques rather than what they actually were, ordinary used furniture.
Mary Lee also stole a huge mirror and side plaques from the living room that she
had specifically agreed to leave. "I hope it breaks before they get home with it," Delorise
fumed. She "sold" us a Kirby vacuum, but in a couple of days demanded to cancel the
sale although we had already paid for the item. In view of her later dishonesty, we were
fortunate that she refunded our money.
We had intended to buy a good bit more of the furnishings even at an inflated
price, but for some unfathomable reason she suddenly decided not to sell anything more.
Mary Lee didnt have enough courtesy to tell us herself, but had her husband do it. "I
know you will think this is crazy, but shes decided not to sell anything else. If you want

any more, you will have to come to Texas to get it." The man was clearly embarrassed at
the ridiculous notion. That she dominated him was obvious. He did what he was told.
"You mean that with things right here in the house, you think wed come to Texas to buy
them and then have to ship them back!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "Once they leave here,
we have no further interest in anything." "I can sure understand that," he replied.
With the use of the Kindigs old truck, Mary Lee and her family carted to the
landfill load after load of junk that her mother had accumulated. "Were lucky they didnt
just leave it," I told Delorise and Maria. "What a job that would have been for us." Mary
Lee had a moving van haul the remaining furnishings to Texas. There is little doubt that
moving and storage charges far exceeded the value of the items.
When she had all she wanted out of the house, she said, "My mother was bad to
hide money in strange places. If you find any, I want you to send it to me." We never
found any cash, but if we had, I very much doubt we would have given it to her. If she
had been upright and honest, we would certainly have complied. But she was a witch,
spelled with an initial "b." We owed her nothing.
She gave the tax collector in Russellville a bad check for the property tax. For a
while it looked like we might have to pay the several hundred dollars ourselves. It was an
expense we could ill afford. The tax people had a bad experience with Mary Lee and
wanted to make things as difficult for her as possible. "Give us a few weeks. Were going
to do our best to force her to pay up on the worthless check," one of the workers urged.
Under pressure, and with the danger of prosecution staring her in the face, she made good
on the check. It was a relief to us. We needed our money for house repairs.
We learned that Mary Lee had managed to antagonize a good many people in
Russellville in one way or another. She was a totally obnoxious and crude person. It
wasnt long before we heard that she had a serious heart attack. We dont know if she is
still living, but its likely that she isnt since many years have passed.
Our transactions with her brother, Ralph Beaton, were entirely pleasant. We did
what we agreed and so did he. We never met him, but handled everything over the phone
and through the First State Bank. At the front end, Tommy Epperson acted to accept the
down payment in Ralphs behalf. At the end of the agreement, Ralph had come to trust us
enough to let us handle the paper work without anyone to represent him. When we paid
the final amount at the end of the ten years, Mrs. Beaton joked, "You can keep sending
the $350 if you want to. Im going to miss that." We assumed from her statement that
Ralph had given the monthly payment to her as pocket money. On a trip, the couple got
as close as Chattanooga and considered a visit, but decided against it because of the
distance. The last time we heard from Ralph Beaton, he had cancer so we dont know if
he still survives.
The Guin place was only a mile from our previous house. Money was tight so we
decided to make the main part of the move ourselves with our 1977 Ford Ranger truck.
That was a mistake. It was too hard on us, but we got the job done. "If we ever move

again, were gonna hire every stick moved," I declared. "No more of this for us." We
loaded the truck, drove a mile, and then had to unload. It took trip after trip. We had an
amazing number of possessions. We didnt attempt to move heavy appliances ourselves.
Delivery boys from a local store were glad to get extra money for that heavy job.
As had been the case with the move from the trailer to our first house, we had
enough furniture to make it look fully furnished even though it was more than twice the
size of our previous residence.
"The grounds are the next thing on the agenda,." we decided when the difficult
move was completed. It looked far easier than the monumental swamp-clearing job at the
trailer that had begun a decade earlier. Far from an easy job to be completed in a few
days, we worked late into the night for weeks to remove the accumulation of weeds and
bushes from the lot. At that time it was legal to burn outside, so we kept a fire going day
and night until the job was done. Smoke often surrounded Mrs. Reynolds house next
door. The mentally unbalanced old woman had taken an instant dislike to us even before
we moved into the house. No doubt, that intensified her hatred. We were in good
company. She didnt like any of the neighbors.
Delorise did a good job of repainting the wood trim. It would have been better if
we had, at that time, put vinyl trim as we did several years later. We couldnt, however,
afford it at the time. We were considerably in debt and loathe to assume anything
additional beyond the essential. "We can live in it just like it is," Delorise said.
Our mortgage payment was $350 which was over twice what we had been paying.
For several years, Mother had regularly given us a substantial amount of money each
month even though we tried to refuse it and told her we didnt need it. "Youre going to
have it anyway," she declared. She could be incredibly generous at times. Since she had
done that for years, we had assumed that she intended to continue. But as soon as we
committed to the higher mortgage along with a larger utility bill, she stopped. We made it
anyway, but it was hard since we hadnt counted on that.
My theory, based on that and other experiences, is that she didnt want us to have
better than she did. Perhaps thats not the real reason. Its possible that my father found it
out and forced her to discontinue the practice. Certainly she wasnt obligated to give us
anything. Yet, it was a disconcerting surprise when it halted so abruptly at a crucial point.
We knew that the heat/air conditioning was obsolete before we bought the house.
I had inspected the attic and found that the insulation was woefully inadequate. There
were good-sized places where there was no insulation at all. Before the purchase, we had
tried the air conditioning and learned that even in continuous operation, it couldnt bring
the house below 80 degrees. That was too hot for us to be comfortable. Since we couldnt
afford to replace the unit, we had several inches of fiberglass insulation blown into the
attic. That made an immediate, significant difference. We also added an 18,000 BTU
window unit to run along with the central unit. Both in operation made it possible to live
comfortably during the summer, but at a high utility bill. We got by for years, until

December 2005, with a makeshift system. Various repairs and modifications barely kept
it in operation. The duct work leaked so that heated and cooled air escaped wastefully
into the attic.
There were an almost overwhelming number of things that needed to be
done to the house externally and internally, but we moved in and accepted it as it was
until we could reasonably afford to do differently. There were higher priorities than an
updated house. Improvements came slowly over a twenty year period.
The double carport, a feature of homes in the 1960s, proved to be woefully
inadequate as a shelter for the cars. The west side had no wall and the north entrance for
the cars was unprotected. Rain and snow blew all the way across the carport which
largely defeated its purpose. "Weve got to do something about this," I fumed. "We might
as well park outside." The fix came in two stages. We employed Jimmy Chadderdon to
build a solid wall on the west side. That was an enormous help. It blocked the strong
winds that usually came from that direction. The vehicles stayed dry and clean. The need
for garage doors was obvious, but we decided to wait. Circumstances forced the issue
within a few years.
The central support post at the driveway was damaged when we bought the house.
It decayed to the point that the end of the carport began to sag alarmingly. A collapse
seemed imminent if we didnt take action. Chad Wells jacked up the beam and installed a
strong metal support post to the concrete base already in place. With him to oversee the
project, we installed garage doors and made other improvements so that the space
become an enclosed garage as called for on the original blueprints. That made a
tremendous difference in livability. We wished we had done it long before. The project
even received my fathers endorsement. "Id have done that to begin with," he said with
enthusiasm. I was glad that he approved. Jimmy, at the same time that he added the wall,
enclosed the tiny back porch with screen wire. That made it far more useful. Delorise had
opposed the construction on the grounds that she liked to be able to step onto the porch
directly from the yard at any place. It would now be necessary to open a screen door. I
thought the objection frivolous and disregarded it.
My mother seemed determined to belittle the result. Each time I brought her over
to sit on the porch with us, she commented unfavorably on its small size. There was
nothing I could do about that. It was what it was. I also could wish it were larger. "Ive
always wanted a screened porch," I said. "But I didnt realize how easily it could be
done." The porch that formerly had little use became a comfortable place to sit.
Mosquitoes and flies could no longer bother us. An electric plug provided for a fan, lamp,
and radio. We bought inexpensive, yet comfortable, porch furniture. One end became a
refuge for me during the warm months. Delorise and Maria use the space only
occasionally, but I dont care. Its my little domain where I can rest and read while
enjoying the open feel. The two "cave women" prefer darkness.
The creation of an enclosed courtyard with a white vinyl fence followed after a
few years. Once again, I faced family opposition on trivial grounds. "I like to be able to

walk across the yard with nothing in the way," Delorise complained. "Itll make extra
work which we dont need. Besides, Maria has Indian background and likes open
spaces."
I went ahead with the project anyway. Her statement about extra work was
correct. It created far more maintenance than I had imagined. The other objections were
inane in the extreme. To her credit, Delorise supported me and has commented favorably
on the nice little courtyard and the enhanced security it provides.
For the second time, my father expressed enthusiastic approval. I couldnt believe
I had scored twice with him. He liked the courtyard and made several helpful suggestions
as to flowers to decorate it. Mother made little comment. She, I think, believed we
shouldnt have spent the money.
The most extensive project was make-over of the kitchen. We didnt do a
complete renovation, but greatly improved the situation. Instead of an eyesore, it is now a
bright, cheerful space that meets our needs well. The cost was not great, especially in
view of the results we got.
It was January 2009 before we renovated the last room, the judges former radio
room. Guin had been a shortwave radio ham and talked all over the world from that
station. Previously, we had used it mainly for storage. At last, we converted it into a neat
little home office complete with my own computer. There is evident crudeness from the
original construction. For some reason, that room wasnt given the care lavished on the
rest of the house. Its functional just like it is and actually looks well even if it wont pass
a close inspection.
One more major project remained. We removed the carpet that extended
throughout most of the house. The original hardwood floors need to be refinished but
arent likely to get it for some time if ever. The problem is cosmetic and we can live with
it.
Most people wouldnt have lived in the house that long without getting everything
in top shape, but we subscribed to the adage that "You cut the coat according to the
cloth." Avoidance of debt as much as possible has, so far, enabled us to live normally
during unexpectedly hard financial times. Many lost their houses or even went into
bankruptcy. We believe that we will be able to weather the bad economic times relatively
intact if nothing unexpected occurs. "Im sure glad we didnt buy a big house with an
oppressive payment," I said repeatedly. Delorise and I were tempted to make just such a
move after Maria finished college. We both like the idea of living in Florence. We
followed the real estate market closely and even looked at a few houses. It always came
down to the same thing. "To get a place significantly better than what we have will take
everything from the sale of our house, all our extra money, and still require a mortgage to
run for at least ten years. It isnt worth it," I repeatedly declared. Maria made no
comment, but I learned that she was never in favor of a move. She doesnt like change.
"I figured yall wouldnt find anything," she recently remarked. "I like where we are."

With the collapse of the housing market, it would have been a financial disaster if we had
followed through on our inclinations. We could, in the worst case, be looking at a house
"underwater," a situation from which there is no ready escape. Im so glad that our better
judgment prevailed. Everything we have is paid for and theres substantial money which
draws monthly interest. In the absence of a dire emergency, we plan to keep it that way.
Right here in Russellville, a number of the McMansions sold to people who really
couldnt afford them are standing empty due to foreclosure. We dont have the finest
house in town, but its far from the worst. Best of all, its fully paid. A mortgage is a
wonderful thing to be without.
The move to a different house worked out well overall. It would have been
miserable to have stayed where we were with a rapidly-growing child. By the changes we
made, including an outside storage building and a detached garage, we have greatly
increased our satisfaction with the place. There is an available end to add another wing,
but there appears to be no real justification for doing so. Id like to build a deck at that
spot, but Delorise is against it. I may overrule her someday. Time will tell.
Chapter 25: My parents move to Russellville
My parents gradually declined in health for a number of years. The most severe
problem was with my father who, as we later discovered, had developed colon cancer.
Both alcoholism and smoking were contributing factors by their damage to his immune
system. It went undiagnosed, despite obvious indications. His doctor in Guntersville,
Bogess, was old and no longer competent to practice medicine. The doctors negligence
or ineptitude almost cost him his life.
My father knew he wasnt doing well. At one point, a couple of years before they
moved to Russellville, he came up with a plan. "Were going to sell out and move into the
assisted living at the foot of the mountain," he asserted. "We can live in an apartment as
long as were able and then move into the nursing home section." The place operated a
scheme that enabled them to relieve gullible old people of their money. Residents lived,
at exorbitant cost, in apartments as long as they were able and still had money. The move
into the nursing home section took place when all assets were gone. At that point, they
could qualify for Medicaid. The government program, combined with any monthly
income of residents, paid the enormous cost of their care.
As had been her practice, Mother supported his plan, although I was certain that
she didnt really want to do that. I opposed the idea as best I could and somehow he
didnt continue to pursue it. Its surprising that he didnt since he later told me that he
wanted all his assets to be depleted so that he would be taken care of by the government
for the rest of his life. This came from a man who fretted about the cost of a box of
quality crackers as opposed to a cheaper brand.
I am forced to conclude that his true desire was that I didnt get anything from
their estate. At one time, a few years before his death, after they had lived in Russellville

for some time, he made an incredible statement. "I think Im going to will everything to
Vada. She wont have anything much to live on in her old age." He wanted to cut both me
and Maria off without anything. Imagine him even considering such a thing when he had
a son and granddaughter. What made it even more reprehensible was that fact that we had
already given up years of our lives to see to them and even more lay ahead. "The more
you do, the more they expect, and the less they think of you." Mrs. Lynchs truthful adage
again came to mind.
He never mentioned the nefarious scheme again. At that point, he wasnt able to
do it on his own and I certainly wasnt going to help him accomplish such a dastardly
deed. Im fairly sure he must have told Vada about his intentions since, shortly after his
death, she asked a strange question. "Did he leave everything to charity?" It was her
attempt to find out if he had left a will which named her. He had died without a will,
which meant that, by Alabama law, everything went to Mother, then to me, then to Maria
who was next in line. I liked Vada and wish she hadnt inquired like that. Yet, I suppose I
can understand her desire to know since he had doubtless planted the thought in her mind.
During the last several months that my parents lived in Guntersville, Don &
Sandra Mann visited them often. They picked up on the seriousness of the situation.
"You need to do something about your parents," Don privately advised. "They really
arent able to get along on their own. We do as much for them as we can, but they need
more help." His comments helped confirm that there was a need for action and I
appreciated the input. Don and Sandra werent meddlesome, but spoke with good
intentions.
It was out of the question for us to move to Guntersville since I was employed
full-time in a well-paid position. I couldnt have gotten a job anywhere comparable to the
one I had. As long as we lived in the little house on Burgess Street, there wasnt any need
to suggest them moving to Russellville since that section of town wouldnt have been up
to my fathers standards. At that point, we were already actively in search of a better
house.
When we bought the Guin house, my father went through a period of considerable
generosity. He gave us substantial money plus the purchase of items for the house such as
paintings, a large mirror, and an expensive chandelier for the dining room. This was so
unlike him and I am still at a loss to understand it. I wish this represented what he was
really like, but its impossible for that to erase years of evidence to the contrary. Still, he
deserves credit for what he did.
Shortly after we moved to Wilson Boulevard, when everything with them seemed
to be going better, I made a suggestion. "How about selling the home place and moving
to Russellville? Well help you find a house to buy near where we live." I was surprised
and gratified when they both were immediately receptive to the idea. I didnt have to
attempt to persuade them.

"I think they were just waiting for us to ask them to move," I speculated to
Delorise and Maria. "Thatll make things so much better for them and for us. I want them
to remain in charge of their lives and make their own decisions just as long as they can."
Delorise and I spent a couple of months in search of what we thought they wanteda
small house near us where they could downsize. When they visited, we took them around
to look at what we had located. Nothing we found was well received, not even when we
located a couple of places in sight of our house. "I dont want anything like that," he said
with disdain when we drove into the yard of a nearby small brick house. He didnt
elaborate and I didnt question him as to the reason. I had mistaken what he wanted, but
hadnt yet realized it.
The Porter house, an attractive residence near the average for the neighborhood,
stood at the corner of Summit and Mahan. It is visible from our house. The Porters had
been killed in a catastrophic automobile accident near Moulton. Their daughter had
inherited the place and was ready to dispose of it. Mother liked its features, especially the
kitchen. He wouldnt say anything against it in the presence of the Porters daughter, but
when we left he gave his analysis. "Its the poorest house in the neighborhood," he
asserted.
We later drove in front of a large, elegant house for sale that we hadnt considered
due to its size and cost. "I want to look at that one," he said. After we toured the place and
listened to his comments, I we began to understand. He wanted as a big house, much
better than the one in Guntersville, and especially better than ours. The light dawned. We
knew better how to proceed.
Delorise approached the Morelands next door to ask if they knew of a house for
sale in the area. Their place was too large for them and the grounds hard to maintain with
them gone for months. She suspected it might be possible to buy it, but didnt want to ask
directly. He had recently had an operation for lung cancer and had assumed that he
would die shortly. Just after we move into our house, he had walked over to make a
friendly visit. The Kindigs had been dead only a short time. "Ill be the next one to go,"
he said in a matter-of-fact way. No doubt that belief affected his decision. Mr. Moreland
quickly responded, "We just might sell you ours." It seemed that he wanted to get his
wife in a more manageable location before his death. Ironically, he lived another twenty
years.
My parents drove over from Marshall County to look at the house. As we
approached the back door, the interior was visible through the big picture window. The
Morelands had turned on all the interior lights. With their furniture, the place looked quite
elegant. "We wont be able to afford this," Mother whispered. I thought the same, but
since they were there and the owners were waiting, there was no harm to look. With four
bedrooms, two baths, kitchen, dining room, living room, billiard room, den and double
basement garage, it showed very well. My parents liked the place and the fact that the
side of that lot joined the back of our lot. "We could holler out back and forth," I joked
when we finished the inspection and walked toward our house.

Mr. Moreland wouldnt make a price that day. "Im not sure what Ill ask. Give
me a while to think about it," he requested. A couple of days later, he said that he would
sell for $45,000. At first I thought I had misheard him. I estimated that its market value at
the time was about $65,000. "Ill pass it on to my parents and let you know," I said.
They seemed to be hesitant to say they wanted the place. While they delayed, he raised
the asking price to $47,500. I later learned from another person who knew him that he
had decided he had priced it off the top of his head and had gone too low. "Im going up
on it and hope I never hear from them again," he told the man. When he made the higher
offer, Delorise took a chance and instantly accepted. "Theyll take it she said. "They
will?" he said in disbelief.
My parents were outraged at the increase in price, but agreed to buy the house
after coming again and going through it for a second time. My father, within a couple of
days, wanted to back out of the deal. "Tell him Im not interested," he demanded. "He had
no right to go up on the price." After a lot of discussion, he decided to stick to the
agreement. I understood it being hard on him at his age to give up a place he had lived for
decades. Yet, he knew it was something that was needed. He was heading toward a major
health crisis and seemed to know it. I didnt want to get into the position of being forced
to go to Guntersville and haul them away over their objections. It might have come to
that, as developments showed.
Money was not really a problem. They had more than enough in a checking
account, which drew zero interest, to pay for the house outright. The First National Bank
in Guntersville talked them into an agreement to borrow the money, with their checking
as collateral. This was an unwise decision for them, although I am sure the bank got a
good laugh out how easily they cheated them.
My parents had an appraisal done on the house in Guntersville. It was valued at
$49,500. A real estate broker who lived near them had told them the place would only
bring $35,000, but they had the good sense to know that he was lying. We put a "For Sale
by Owner," sign in the yard and priced it at $59,500 to allow for negotiation with the
buyers. Of course, if somebody who wanted to pay the asking price showed up, that
would have been fine.
In the meantime the Morelands moved within a few weeks. We began my parents
move gradually. Each time we visited, we took special items in the car or truck so as to be
able to protect them. As the move accelerated, we rented a U-haul trailer to bring larger
items that we could reasonably manage. When we packed what we could handle, there
was just enough room to side in the picnic table. "Lets take it," I said to Delorise. "It
isnt in great shape, but it can be fixed. I remember that from my childhood. We used to
cook outside and eat off it all the time." A year or so after the move, my father hired
Steve Sandusky to replace the rotted wood with quality redwood. The table, now in our
yard, continues to be useable. So far, we have made it a place to prepare vegetables and
pot plants. With its sentimental value, Im glad we brought it.

The main move was done by a man in Russellville who had a large white moving
van. He asked $900 which was a very reasonable amount, about half the going rate.
My father pitched a fit. "Its too much. I wont pay it," he fumed angrily. They had
already bought the Moreland house. It had gone much too far to back out. I began to
think that I might have to bear the expense myself despite all the money they had piled up
in savings. Eventually, he relented so that the move could continue.
On the big day, we went to Guntersville with the van close behind. The movers
did an excellent job of loading. Everything fit inside except the huge chest-type freezer
full of food from the garden. I assumed that we would have to leave it. "I can take care of
it," the mover declared. To my surprise, he placed it on the lift gate outside the van where
it rode safely to Russellville without any evidence of thaw.
It was only on the day of the move that I got a bit emotional about leaving a place
where I had grown up. When the house was about empty, tears came to my eyes. I knew I
was at the point of sobbing and so quickly went outside. It was unquestionably the best
for them. "The only constant in life is change," I quoted when I regained my composure.
By the time everything was loaded, it was lunchtime. We stopped in South Town
in Guntersville to eat a bite at Burger King. The mover followed us back to Russellville
since the short route that we took would have been hard for a person unfamiliar with the
area. "Be sure to slow a lot before we start down Cotaco Mountain," I cautioned. "Its
steep and youll build up speed alarmingly. Watch me and when I slow, do the same."
I could imagine the truck running away with all their possessions, but the trip was
uneventful.
The movers unloaded the van the same day and placed everything where it went. I
dont see how they managed since it was a huge undertaking. That they did it frequently
must have made them exceptionally strong. Out of sheer exhaustion, they placed one of
the box springs upside down on a bed with the mattress on top. It was the bed where my
parents slept that night. They didnt realize the problem, but commented the next
morning, "We thought that bed was more comfortable than that. It was hard and lumpy."
The main problem was that the front steps partially collapsed due to the weight of
repeated trips with heavy furniture. That same route had been used for the Morelands
furniture. It wasnt possible to get close enough to the back door to unload there. A minor
extra expenditure was necessary to have the steps rebuilt.
We all spent the night in the new house that first night, but never did it again. Our
house was too close to want to stay with them. I think my parents were proud of
themselves for making such a dramatic move at their ages. He commented to my mother,
"Well, we did it!" with enthusiasm when everything was in place. "We sure did," she
replied.
Their new house was so much better than the old one that they just about had to
be pleased. Their furniture fit beautifully and looked much finer than it had at
Guntersville. The setting made all the difference. They purchased the furniture that

belonged to the Morelands in the large bedroom on the west end. A large pool table came
with the billiard room. Other than that. their furniture satisfactorily filled the house
despite its size.
Later, Mrs. Kuykendall, one of their friends from Guntersville, visited. She
expressed astonishment at their nice possessions. "Its the same things we had before.
Youve seen everything over and over," Mother explained.
The new house made everything look more elegant. Mother later said that she
wished her parents could see her house, so I know she was happy with it. Shortly after
she married, her mother had told her that, because of who she married, she would never
have anything.
Over the years that they lived in Russellville, they purchased additional items
such as a grandfather clock and a more suitable table and chairs for the dining room. He
instigated purchase of the clock at Storey and Lee Furniture in Tennessee, and didnt bat
an eye at its cost, $1200. Mother had to insist on the new dining table and chairs. He was
adamantly opposed to the purchase. "It costs $500?" he said with astonishment. "Were
not going to get it." She delayed for several weeks, but finally declared, "Im getting the
table and chairs I want no matter what you say. Im tired of the old ones." The old set
moved from Guntersville was unsuitable. It made her miserable. The old table had been
in their formal dining room where it was used only a few times. It was more for looks
than daily use. The surface was subject to damage from moisture and couldnt be wiped
with a damp, soapy cloth for clean-up. That was one of the few times she stood up to him
on anything. I later learned that she was, at that point, seriously considering divorce due
to his alcoholism.
They purchased two electric lift chairs as it became necessary. Medicare paid
most of the cost. Another new chair replaced a faded one that was relegated to the billiard
room. "I want you to go get me a more comfortable chair I can use in the living room, "
Mother decided. "Ive never bought a chair for my use and Im entitled to one." Over the
years, she rarely liked anything we picked out, so I intended to head off problems about
the purchase. "Well be glad to go after one, but you need to come along and be sure to
get one you like," I insisted. "Whatever you pick out will be fine," she said. "I dont want
to go." The pronouncement gave me a sinking feeling, but there seemed no alternative but
to do as she asked. I didnt want her to get the idea that we thought she shouldnt spend
on a chair for herself. "Well select a nice chair that shell just have to like," I told
Delorise. We shopped around, tried out a number of chairs, and finally selected a brown
one with built-in vibration and heat. I was just sure it would be a winner. As far as I
recall, she sat in it only once. As I had feared, she didnt like it and made no attempt to
hide her disapproval. I never did understand. It was a well-built, comfortable chair with
nice features. When we saw that she never intended to sit in the chair, we moved it from
the living room and into the rarely-used den. In that location, I started to use it when we
watched "Wheel of Fortune" each day. My father learned that I employed the vibration
feature. He commenced to come in there ahead of my arrival and sit in the chair. He

never cared about Wheel of Fortune. It was obvious that he intended to make sure that I
couldnt use it. When I left, he went immediately into another area of the house.
I have never understood why he did that, unless he begrudged the small amount of
electricity that it consumed. I still think of that sometimes when I sit in that chair and
nearly didnt move it to our house years when we closed out their estate. It was an
expensive, comfortable chair which we really needed, so I decided to put aside bad
memories and enjoy its use.
Going back in time, to their arrival in Russellville, there was a major job that had
to be taken care of. Their home place needed to be sold so they could pay off what they
had so foolishly borrowed to pay for the Moreland place. Every day that passed, they
paid more and more interest. As a result of the yard sign, I got unwelcome calls from real
estate brokers who wanted to list the place so they could extort a commission upon its
sale. "I dont need a broker," I firmly told each one. "You can see from the sign that we
are handling the sale ourselves." I was tempted to tell them my true feelings, that they
were little more than greedy economic parasites.
As I expected, it was only a few months before we sold the house in Guntersville
just above the appraisal price, at $50,000. This was $2,500 more than the cost of the
Moreland house. They owned with a house worth far more than their old one and made
cash money on the deal. Despite the success of the real estate transactions, Mother
severely criticized me for years about the finances that accompanied the move. "We lost
all our money when we moved to Russellville," she insisted over and over.
Heres what actually happened. They paid off the bank in Guntersville from the
sale of their old house and then moved their money from checking at Guntersville to
checking and money market accounts at Valley State Bank. For the first time they began
drawing interest on their money, although much less than if they had put it into CDs.
The result was that they ended up with more money than they had at Guntersville plus a
far finer house. Some of the profit made on the old house went to pay interest on the
borrowed money at First National Bank, but it couldnt have been much since they used it
only a short time.
I took her criticism of me for the claimed loss for a good while, but finally got fed
up with it. When she brought it up again, I made her tell me how much they had before
the move and then how much they had now. I demanded to know how she could keep
telling me that they had lost all their money. For the first time, she agreed, and said "I
guess not." Thankfully, that ended the matter and it never came up again. It wasnt like
Mother to be like that so I suspect that he was somehow behind it. He wanted to cast us in
the worst light possible. If misrepresentation would do it, that was fine. On the other
hand, they were old and may have honestly been confused.
As with any building, maintenance and repair had to be done on the Moreland
house. Every time they had to spend, my father brought it up to me in an angry,
accusatory manner as if it was my fault. I truly think he wanted me to pay for any repairs
and would have gladly taken the money if I had been foolish enough to offer. He was a

real case. They would have equal or greater repairs to make at Guntersville as that house
was far older and in worse condition. For example, it leaked most of the time,
occasionally severely. But he never took that into account. "He seems to think that
nothing they have should ever break down or need to be replaced," I often told Delorise
in disgust. "He has to know better than that."
When they had first agreed to move to Russellville, we told them that we would
keep their yard mowed. That had been a serious problem for them at Guntersville. We
had thought that they wanted a small "retirement" house with a yard to match. When they
ended up with a big house on two lots, we still tried to do the mowing. Even with two
push mowers and both of us at work, it was far beyond our ability and available time.
We both ended up exhausted. red-faced and still had our own yard to attend. By the time
we completed one mowing cycle, it was usually time to start over. Toward the end of the
first mowing season, I knew there had to be a change. "We need to go in together and buy
a riding mower," I said. "We have some money from the sale of our house and can pay
half." He was livid. "When we agreed to move here, you promised to keep our yard
mowed. Im not spending on a riding mower." That time, Mother came to our defense.
"When they said that, they didnt expect us to buy a house with a huge, rough yard," she
said. He still refused to make the joint purchase, but the onset of winter temporarily
closed the matter. "Were not going to continue doing their yard next year," I told
Delorise. "Its too much for us. He can hire it done or it can grow up."
By the following spring, we had exhausted our extra money with maintenance on
our own house. Then he announced that he was ready to buy a riding mower. I think he
had realized that we didnt intend to continue our slavery to his yard. I told him truthfully,
"I tried to get you to do it last year and you wouldnt. Weve used up the money we had
to pay our half. If you want one, youre going to have to pay for it." I supposed that
would end the matter, but to my surprise, they promptly bought a reasonably nice riding
mower and had it delivered to the house. That reduced mowing their yard from an hourslong ordeal to a task of just over one hour. It correspondingly reduced the time spent in
our own yard. What a relief it was.
For years I always mowed their yard first even if ours needed it too. I was glad to
do it and took pride in keeping it well groomed. I knew that meant something to him
since he had kept his yard neatly at Guntersville when he was younger. He rarely
expressed any appreciation or approval for my efforts but was quick to criticize if
something didnt look just right. It was particularly hard to mow their front yard
smoothly because it was so slanted. To make matters worse, it grew about twice as fast as
any other area of yard at either house. Each time, I mowed it several times from different
directions to make it as smooth as possible. Still he complained. After some years, I
started mowing our yard first. I had become disgusted with his criticism and ingratitude.
That way if the mower broke down ours would be done. I suppose that others might view
that as petty, but I just had my fill of it. Doing that gave me a small degree of satisfaction
for some reason.

The contrast of their yard with the way the Morelands had kept it (knee-high or
worse) couldnt have been greater. It generated considerable favorable comment from the
neighbors and others who drove on that heavily-traveled street. "Everybody in town has
noticed it," said Mrs. Summers, the neighbor directly across the street. "The way it was,
our property value went down," she asserted.
Mother appreciated my hard work and slipped me money each time I mowed it. I
willingly accepted it since we really needed the money, plus the fact that it helped with
the gas. He never offered a dime even on the gas although he knew full well that part of
that time we struggled to pay Marias college expenses. He wanted me to pay all the
mower maintenance and repair bills, but I refused. It just wasnt fair and we couldnt
afford it. If he had known she gave me money, he would, I feel certain, have put a stop to
it. She always made sure he wasnt around before she did it.
As time went on, my father became increasingly nasty toward Delorise and me.
Ultimately, he began to describe the move to Russellville as "the worse mistake I ever
made." Despite all the things she did to help them, he particularly hated Delorise and
subjected her to repeated verbal abuse, sometimes severe. Most daughters-in-law would
have removed themselves from the situation permanently, but she accepted his reviling
and accusations and kept doing for them at an increasing rate as they became more feeble
over the years.
He was usually nice to Maria, although when she got old enough to wear make-up
and to dress like a grown-up, he never failed to criticize her if she came to his house
dressed casually or without cosmetics. "It really hurts Maria when you criticize her like
that," I explained. "It keeps her from coming as much as she wants to since she would
have to get dressed and redo her make-up to keep you from ridiculing her. You ought not
to do her that way." It made no difference to him and he only smirked and said nothing in
reply. That was typical behavior for him. Whatever he chose to say or do was supposed to
be just fine regardless of its effect on others. He had no intention of doing any different
Until nearly the end of his life, every time I came into the house, he acted shocked
and said with a voice of surprise, "Wont you come in?" His tone and manner implied that
a stranger had walked into the house unannounced. I ignored it for a long time, but finally
asked, "Do you want me to knock and wait for one of yall to come to the door before I
come in?" He never would said that he did, but neither did he say that he didnt or that I
had misunderstood his words and demeanor. I didnt think it was sensible to force them to
come to the door each time I came since it was frequent. His strange behavior in that
regard is one of many things that I will never understand.
I made multiple attempts to iron out a lifetime of problems with him, but without
even a small degree of success. Particularly disturbing was the last attempt where I did
everything I possibly could to mend damaged relationships. I cant now recall what led
up to it, but I was determined to try to make things better if it was at all possible and to do
in a kind way that would allow him to help me, and hopefully himself, feel better.

He had recently said that I thought he was a "nothing but a son of a bitch" and I must
admit that was pretty much accurate. By far the biggest reason was his lifelong practice
of molestation of women, not his stinginess, hatefulness, racism, or mindless devotion to
sports. I sat down by him with Delorise and Mother present and explained specifically
why I felt the way I did. When I finished, he looked toward Mother and asked with a
smirk, "Do you think thats right?" She was silent for several seconds. It was clear that
she was frightened of him, but she indecisively muttered that it was true. He just sat there
and didnt say a single word. I finally asked him if he didnt have anything at all to say.
He said that he didnt. I knew from that point onward that there was no hope to heal the
rift between us that had been building for so many years. He thought that he had done no
wrong.
I was worried that after his death I would be troubled by it and it turned out
exactly that way as I continued to be plagued a few years by unpleasant dreams
concerning him. Even after his death, he still made my life miserable part of the time.
However, there is tentative good news in that, since I have been working intensely on
these recollections, I have stopped having those terrible dreams. Some of the dreams
about him are pleasant or at least neutral. Whether this is permanent or temporary will
manifest itself in time.
For the first several years that they lived in Russellville, my parents were able to
function independently apart from trips to various out of town doctors. Shortly after they
moved, we learned that my father had colon cancer which had already spread beyond the
colon. The true nature of his problem was discovered only when we took him to Dr. Dan
Mirelman in Birmingham. The growth was about the size of a football. Lab tests
identified it as an adenocarcinoma, although the doctor had said immediately after the
surgery that, superficially, it looked like a lymphoma which could be cured by surgical
removal. The cancer had invaded parts of the large and small intestines. It had begun to
form an area of gangrene within itself and he would have died within days had it not been
discovered in the nick of time. Dr. Mirelman performed the surgery, but made it clear that
he didnt expect him to live more than a few months. Over fifteen years later, with a grin,
he told my father after an examination, "Come back to see me next year if Im still
living." His dire prognosis had been wrong.
He turned main responsibility for the case to Dr. Luis Pineda, a cancer specialist
at Brookwood. Under his treatment over a period of years he experienced a remarkable
recovery, and remained free of colon cancer for nearly twenty years to the end of his life
from lung cancer.
After several years, Dr. Pineda begin to find indications that another cancer had
developed outside the colon. "You need to go into the hospital and let me check while
theres time to do something about it," he urged. "Im not going to do it," my father
emphatically and rudely asserted with finality. "Then you need to find yourself another
doctor. Dont come to me anymore," Dr. Pineda said in exasperation. We managed to talk
the doctor into continuing to see him. A couple of years passed, during which we urged

him to reconsider, but he angrily refused. He even went so far as to describe Dr. Pineda as
"an old horse doctor" and to suggest that he only wanted to make more money off him.
Over the years, his medical bills had amounted to hundreds of thousands of dollars, but
Medicare and Blue Cross had paid it all. When he saw statements which showed how
much they paid, he "had a fit" to such and extent that we had to hide them.
Ultimately, he began to have so much trouble that he agreed to enter the hospital.
Tests immediately revealed advanced lung cancer and kidney cancer. It was not deemed
necessary to tell him about the kidney cancer since nothing could be done about it. The
lung cancer was a far more immediate threat. Chemotherapy weakens the immune
system so it is quite common for a cancer survivor to develop other cancers. If my father
had not been a heavy drinker and smoker, he might easily have lived years longer. One of
his sisters lived to be 99 years old.
When he learned about the diagnosis of lung cancer and that it was likely too late
to do anything about it, he angrily said, in an accusatory manner, to Dr. Pineda in our
presence, "Why didnt you find this sooner?" "He tried and you wouldnt let him" all
three of us immediately responded. The doctor didnt have to defend himself. We did it
for him. "Well, maybe so," he conceded.
Im not going to try to describe the numerous trips to various doctors in
Birmingham over a period of about eighteen years as it would be hard to do and
pointless. These eventually came to include many trips for my mother for various
problems, hiatal hernia being a major one. The last several years, both of them had
regular appointments and many hospital stays at Brookwood. For the trips to
Birmingham, I initially took off from work to go with them. The appointments came to be
so frequent that it wasnt possible for me to continue that practice. An employer will
understand occasional absences because of the illness of parents, but what they wanted
me to do would have been beyond reason. In addition, it would have depleted my own
sick leave which I might well have needed if I had become ill. None of that mattered to
them. They severely criticized and pressured to take off from work and go each time.
"If I do that, theres no way I can hold my job," I explained. "Youre going to have to let
Delorise drive you to Birmingham most of the time." This brought a long series of attacks
about Delorises driving and almost everything else she did, accompanied by complaints
about my "unwillingness" to help them. "She looks in the back seat while she drives."
"She scrambles in her purse." "She talks while driving." "She drives too fast." "She
follows too close." On and on went the complaints.
Despite the way she was slandered, she faithfully saw that they got the best
medical care possible. Had it not been for her, both of them would have died years before
they did. Yet, they continually "rewarded" her with contempt and baseless accusations.
Even my mother made numerous efforts to cause trouble between us. It got to the point
that almost every time I was alone with her, she severely attacked Delorise in one way or
another. Finally, I asked her, "What do you want me to do? Divorce her?" I thought that
would shock her, but she merely said with an uncaring tone, "There are worse things."

It was clear that her real intent was to break us up if at all possible. I decided to put an
end to her attacks. "In the future, if you have anything to say against Delorise, youre
going to say it to her face," I said with determination. She didnt tear into her again for a
few days. The next time she started, I stopped her immediately. "Wait while I call
Delorise to come over. I want her to hear this." I picked up the phone to dial. That
stopped the determined campaign of slander in its tracks. It was not a problem in the
future. She didnt have the nerve to attack Delorise if she was present. I wished I have
thought of that years earlier.
We were determined to try to see that both of my parents lived out their lives at
home, not in a nursing home. We came close to success. The main reason was that we
didnt want to see them placed in the horrible environment of a nursing home. Another
consideration was that we didnt want to see everything they had go to one of those
places. All their assets would have been gone within a few months if that had become
imperative. Quite naturally we hoped that something would be left to make our lives and
our daughters easier. But I would have not, however, hesitated to spend everything they
had if it had become necessary for their care.
As lung cancer and attempts to treat it continued to weaken my father, it became
increasingly difficult to manage him at home. We wanted to hire regular help, but the
times we had done it in the past had resulted in him coming on sexually to the paid care
giver. For example, we had used Faye Lawler, a friend and former neighbor, to stay with
them a couple of times. The next time Delorise called her, she refused. Delorise knew she
needed the money and pressed her for a reason. She said it was because he had attempted
to molest her. I confronted him about it. "Why did you do that?" I demanded. "She
wanted it," he replied sullenly. It was the same thing he had said when he attempted to
kiss and fondle our cousin, Juanita Meyers, at his house when she had come to visit.
During one of the Lynch family reunions, he had attempted to molest Jean Tanner, one of
Delorises aunts. He did the same to Bobbie Wilmore, his niece. Essentially, he tried to
kiss and grope almost any female he got alone with over a period of decades. Aunt Alva,
Aunt Edee, Vada,, a nurse at Brookwood, and Marla were among his victims that we
knew about. I could give other specific examples and no doubt there were many other
incidents that I didnt learn about. We are very suspicious that he was barred from going
to the Russellville Wal Mart for the same reason. We were unable to get the same care
giver twice, understandably so. Male care givers arent available.
What brought the situation to a head was a particularly vile attack he made against
Delorise. As she helped get my Mothers breakfast ready, he was cooking eggs, but left
them partially raw. "We need to cook those some more," Delorise said. She was
concerned about Salmonella. He exploded in anger and went on a rampage against
Delorise. "You have a brain the size of a pea!" was one of his comments. Later that day,
we found his shotgun in the billiard room. It was on the pool table, cocked and ready to
insert shells. I havent the slightest doubt that he intended to kill her, but couldnt find the
ammunition. He couldnt very well ask us where it was. It was impossible for him to
carry out his obvious intentions. The fact that he gun was still lying there ready for the
shells showed that he hadnt entirely given up on the wicked plan.

I know that my mother was extremely afraid of him over many years and
suspected that he might kill her. I had tended to discount her fears until that moment. I
saw what he was capable of and was horrified. I hadnt thought him as a potential
murderer. When I made that frightful discovery, I immediately confiscated the shotgun
and took it to our house and hid it in the attic. He missed it within a short time and began
to search for it."Do you know where my shotgun is?" he demanded angrily. I felt I had no
choice but to lie. "I dont know where it is." In fact, I didnt know its exact location. I had
laid it in the dark from the disappearing staircase which leads into our attic. Both he and
my Mother strongly suspected that I had taken it. She pressured me to produce the gun,
saying "Its his gun and he wants it." I continued to deny knowledge of its location when
the subject came up in the future. Id do the same if I could live that period over again.
He had demonstrated intent to perform a violent act and was fully capable of carrying it
out. I think that he might have, in a fit of anger, killed all of us (except Maria whom he
liked) and then taken his own life. Of course, I cannot know that for sure but I do believe
it firmly.
After his death I sold the rifle for $20 to a gun shop in Littleville. I have since
wished that I had sunk it in the river. I considered it at the time, but was concerned that I
might be seen. Any reasonable person would have regarded that as a suspicious act. I
could have had trouble over it. I hadnt realized how hard it is to dispose of a gun. It gave
me a new appreciation of crime dramas on television. When a criminal needs to part
company with a gun, he has a serious problem.
It was after this extremely serious incident that Delorise decided that she would
do nothing more for them unless she was paid at least something. The amount decided
upon by them, $550 a month, and without consulting her was ridiculous for what was
expected but they both acted like it was high pay. My Father particularly resented her
getting anything, and frequently and with obvious resentment, described her as "well
paid." By way of contrast, we, at one time, paid our housekeeper $50 for part of one day
to do basic house cleaning.
For their "magnificent pay," they got all types of services 7/24, with no breaks or
vacations. If they hadnt had money, Delorise would have done for them free, but she felt
that it was only fair she should get something in view of the way they treated her. I totally
agreed. Delorise and I thought it likely that developing circumstances would ultimately
lead to all their assets being used up to pay nursing home bills. Both of us concluded that
we should at least get something in partial compensation for the huge chunk of our lives
that we had given up for them.
We also needed the money. Marias college expenses had drained us right to the edge
financially. Any unexpected expense became a fiscal emergency. Delorise could have
worked somewhere and made far more money for much less work. We were determined
that Maria not have to bear a crushing debt from college expense, like most students. It
leaves them impoverished for ten years or more.

Even though well able to do so, my parents never helped her with college and
fewer than five times bought her any presents. It wasnt that she expected anything, but
the grandparents of other students did things for them so that she couldnt help but see the
contrast. I knew that it hurt Maria. "Yall ought to occasionally buy her some little
present," I told them during the years when they were able to get around on their own.
"We dont celebrate birthdays or holidays, but that doesnt mean we shouldnt get her
gifts." They made no comment in response to my suggestion. They continued to give her
virtually nothing.
My father gave her a purse of change occasionally over the years. He always
insisted that she count it immediately in his presence. The last time he did it, the total
came to eighty dollars. He was taken aback when he realized that much change had
accumulated and would have reclaimed it if he had dared. That was the end of him giving
her the money in the change purse.
I never suggested moving my father into a nursing home, but he became so
unmanageable that both he and my mother said it had to be done. Mother said she wanted
it done as quickly as possible. She, also, was exhausted with his worsening condition
bowel movement strewed on the floor, constant falls, and nasty attitude.
Had it not been for the wonderful help provided by the Russellville Rescue Squad,
we would have been forced to do something sooner. When he fell, he wouldnt, or
perhaps couldnt, make the slightest effort to help us get him up. "Roll over on your
knees. Pull on this chair. Help us get you up," Delorise urged. It was useless. He just sat
or lay there for us to pick up dead weight. It got to the point where we were unable to do
it anymore. Both of us had problems from arthritis in addition to having become less
strong as we aged. The Squad always came promptly, were courteous, and didnt charge.
The last time he fell, my father almost caused serious trouble. After they got him up, he
said that he had "been locked in his room all day." The look on the Squad leaders face
told me that he was considering whether to take the remark at face value. He stayed a
long time, probably trying to decide what, if anything, he should do. It was obvious that
the door couldnt have been locked so as to be impossible to open from the inside. I just
kept quiet on the theory that the less said the better. Finally, the man left without
following up on the ridiculous statement my father had made. It was a close call.
As soon as we were alone, I exclaimed, "Do you realize you told that man we had you
locked in your room all day? Why did you say that?" He responded with apparent
innocence, "I didnt realize I said anything like that." I think he had actually meant to
express the thought that his condition had kept him confined to his room all day, but that
certainly wasnt the way it came out. It could have caused us serious embarrassment had
the official not had enough judgment to see through the statement.
We located a room at Lawrence Place in Russellville. The facility was called
"assisted living" rather than "nursing home." At the time we thought it was a nice
institution. The other residents highly recommended it, at least the ones we saw. It was
affordable within his own monthly income. That way, he wouldnt use up money Mother

might need, or for that matter that might eventually come to us. A regular nursing home
ran about $6000 a month, none of which could be paid by Medicare of Medicaid.
He had a private room that was large and airy with a private bath and home-type
furniture. We took his lift chair and television set and a picture that he especially liked.
The food seemed outstanding and the care acceptable. A hospice helped considerably,
especially coaxing him to eat. We visited at unexpected times and found no apparent
problems except for a few ants on the floor.
Even in his dire physical condition, he continued to flirt by grabbing and kissing
the backs of the hands of the old ladies living there. It was deplorable, but consistent with
his conduct during the previous decades of his life. "Hes a sly fox," the director of the
institution said with a smirk.
The day before he died, Vada and Beamon came to visit. He talked with them
completely normally and praised them profusely for things they had done during their
lives, especially music. Even though I didnt say a word, I had to contrast it with the way
he almost totally refused to acknowledge anything I had done during mine. That was
nothing new, just a continuation of how he treated me most of my life, so I wasnt
surprised. Even at that late time, it would have helped my feelings if he had made some
acknowledgment of my accomplishments. Before he got so bad off, he had been belittling
me one afternoon, and I decided I was tired of it. I gave him a list of some of the things I
had done over the years, particularly in connection with the college and the Southern
Association of Colleges and Schools. They werent earth-shaking, but of consequence
locally and in five states in the South. He sneered, "Toot your own horn, or the same shall
not be tooted." I got up immediately and went home in disgust. Mother admitted that he
was awful to have done like that, but of course she didnt tell him. They seldom discussed
anything of any substance. That had been the case my entire life.
The next day, he died in the early hours of the morning. I had him taken to
Pinkard Funeral Home to be held for pickup by the Albertville Funeral Home. Pinkard
charged far more to transport him two miles than the place in Albertville did to come and
get him and bring him over a hundred miles to their establishment. I told Delorise, "That
was nothing but greed on their part. I dont like being taken advantage of like that."
The next morning I went to Albertville to make necessary arrangements. Since his
death was totally expected, I had already been in contact with the funeral home. My
parents had, years ago, taken out and paid up burial policies for each of us. Liberty
National Insurance had tried to weasel out of living up to its agreement. This attempted
scam had resulted in a class-action lawsuit which force them to honor their commitments.
Just the same, individual funeral homes may still try to pass off the lie that the policy is
only worth $300 toward the $7000 or more cost of a funeral. It actually pays all but about
$2000 as long as one goes exactly by what the policy lists.
I had considered use of the funeral home located on the grounds of the Marshall
Memory Gardens, but they attempted to pass off that fraudulent claim. "It only pays $300
toward the cost of a casket," the director lied.

I made arrangements with Albertville Funeral Home, an honest establishment on

highway 431. It was the place where Mamie, Leon and Cleo had each been taken. It is an
older home, but in good repair and with nice facilities. My parents both requested no
flowers so I went by that except for the casket spray which I purchased for $250 at a local
florist. I think Vada didnt like it, but I felt his wishes should override hers.
My father had repeatedly said, "When I die, I want you to give me to a medical
school for dissection. Thats the cheapest and easiest way to handle it. Do you hear me?"
Each time, I told him frankly that I wouldnt do that. Nevertheless, he insistently repeated
it a couple of weeks before his death. I disregarded it that time and let him interpret the
silence as he pleased. I wouldnt do it, no matter what he said, so there was no use to
dispute it further. I believe the feelings of the immediate family must override the wishes
of the dead. All of us would have been upset if I had gone by his instructions. What he
didnt realize was that after about a year, there would still have been funeral expenses.
Cost, however, wasnt a factor. I had to do what we felt good about.
Gurley Martin of Guntersville conducted the service in a generic way which is
about all that could be done in view of the circumstances, and the manner of life he had
chosen for himself.
We opted for closed casket, but with framed pictures along with examples of
things he had written on display. Vada criticized me for the closed casket in an indirect
way, saying "Some have said that if they arent going to get to see him, they arent going
to come." I really doubt that anybody actually said that. Most likely it merely reflected
Vadas desire to put on a big show of emotion and tears. She tended to do that. "Thats
fine," I responded. "Let them stay at home. I dont care." The arrangement worked out
just fine. It eliminated the usual show of emotion and inane statements about "looking
natural" that Maria and I so detest. Nobody said a word about the casket being closed.
The attendance was small, but understandably so since he had outlived most people who
had known him. Two of his half-sisters came as well as Vada, Beamon, Richard (Leons
son), and Nancy (Leamons daughter) and her husband from Tallahassee, Florida. I am
vague as to who else was there, but the guest book is around somewhere I guess.
That nasty, retard relative of ours who so repulsed me at the Camp reunions came.
Vada tried to insist that I make a big show of making him welcome, but I wouldnt do it.
Id have much preferred that he hadnt come.
After ascertaining that there was no physical need for pallbearers, I instructed that
the burial be done by funeral home employees only. That eliminated an emotional
episode that might have haunted us for years. We went out to eat at Catfish Cabin along
with various family members.
Afterwards, we went to Vadas house so the relatives could visit for a while. Vada
wanted us to go as a group to the Memory Garden to view the grave, but I declined. I felt
that she was still seeking an opportunity to put on an emotional display. We went by

privately before we returned to Russellville. I asked Mother if she was pleased with the
casket and funeral and she said that she was. Apparently she couldnt hear the minister as
she asked in a suspicious tone after the service, "What did he say about Howard?" She
may have suspected that I had asked him to say something unfavorable, but that wasnt
the case. I knew full well that people would be present whom he had wronged, so I only
asked Gurley to make sure not to praise him or to suggest a connection with Jehovahs
Witnesses. It was a service suitable to the circumstances. I hope that Christs sacrifice
will cover his sins.
I had hoped that my mother would outlive him even if just for a short time, but it
turned out to be shorter than any of us could have imagined. After his death she became
increasingly withdrawn to the point that she almost wouldnt talk to us. She told me,
"Howard and I had hoped that we would die at the same time."
We made one family trip to Selma during the filming of the movie, When I Find
the Ocean, but apart from interest in seeing Nell Arnold and her house on the way down,
Mother didnt seem to enjoy it at all. Maria was excited about the chance to appear as an
extra in a movie, but she didnt seem to approve of it. Marias scenes were cut from the
final version.
It was obvious that she no longer had any desire to live. Within a short time she
refused to do anything for herself, much as her own father had done years before. The last
time she walked was from her lift chair in her living room to her bathroom where she
collapsed onto the floor, and refused to make any attempt to help us get her up. I am
almost certain she fell deliberately.
Matters quickly got to the point of desperation. She wouldnt even slide from her
bed to the bedside commode with us there to help. "Push down with your hands and slide
along the side of the mattress," Delorise urged. "You can do it." Mother only pressed
down lightly with each hand. She was determined not to do a single thing for herself. I
recalled how irritated she had been when her father had done the same way.
I knew that it was no longer physically possible for us to handle her. The only
possibility seemed to be a nursing home, but I detested the idea. To place her in such an
institution horrified me. The crisis we had feared for so long was upon us. The next day
she had a previously-schedule appointment in Birmingham with Dr. Pineda. We rolled
her to the van in her wheelchair as we had regularly been doing for a long time. I had
seen that she appeared to be trying to make us get hurt with a deliberate fall. I suspected
that she would try it again when we got to the van. When it was time to go, I sat down
beside her. "When we get ready to transfer you from the wheelchair to the car, please
dont try to fall. If you do, you can hurt yourself and us too. Will you please promise not
to do that?" She made no response. I had, apparently, guessed her intentions correctly.
Finally asked pointedly, "Will you cooperate?" She said, "Ill try," but in a way and with
an expression that told me clearly that she didnt mean it. She planned to fall. We rolled
the wheelchair right up the side of the van. When we attempted to get her the couple of

feet to the car seat, I saw what I can only describe as a "mischievous" look come into her
eyes. I knew was she was about to do. "Watch it, shes trying to fall," I warned Delorise.
Sure enough, she went limp at the most crucial moment and started to the ground beside
the van. "No you dont!" Delorise ordered. It did no good. It was only with extreme
effort that we were able to lift her into the vehicle. I asked, "Why did you do that? You
promised you wouldnt." She made no response. I fully believe it was her intention to
make us get hurt if possible, although I think it was directed more at Delorise than at me.
I cant understand why she wanted to do that. It bothers me a lot even now.
When Dr. Pineda saw her, he said "Ive been expecting something like this."
He was kind and concerned enough to arrange for her to be admitted to Brookwood
Hospital. In the hospital, she continued to decline. Because she was either unwilling or
unable to eat, they began to feed her by IV. "That will work only temporarily," the doctor
explained. "The veins will collapse and we cant keep feeding her that way."
I briefly considered having a feeding tube installed although she had specifically and in
writing forbidden that to be done. Dr. Mirelman, realized my dilemma and came to the
rescue. "Mrs. Eloise, do you want a feeding tube?" he asked. In a strong voice with
determination, she replied "No!" I am so thankful that it didnt come to the point of
having to stop the IV feeding. I believe I would have had to override her wishes and go
with the feeding tube rather than let her lie there and starve to death.
The last night, we rented a room at the hotel at Brookwood Hospital. I made all
the necessary arrangements in the event of her death. The nurses called in the early hours
to tell when it happened. Even though I had given explicit direction to the contrary, the
nurse insisted, "We need you to come to her room." I knew they had fixed her up as best
they could for us to see her in less troublesome conditions. That was the very thing I had
worked to avoid. They intended to substitute their judgment for ours, something they had
no right to do. I didnt want that image burned into my memory and I am so glad I
refused to let them force me into it. "No, were not going to do that," I said. "Please carry
out my instructions. You have them in writing."
Maria was on a trip near Washington, D.C. so we didnt let her know what had
happened until she returned. She was scheduled for arrival at the airport the day before
the funeral. I dreaded telling her, but she wasnt surprised. She recognized that for
Mother to have continued to live under the circumstances would have been far worse than
her death. We would have been forced to place her in a nursing home and thats the main
thing none of us wanted. Thats truly "a fate worse than death" when there is no hope of
getting out and going home.
I made another trip to Albertville for a repeat of what had happened one day less
than six weeks previously. The services and burial were a clone of the previous one, but
with even fewer people in attendance since, as with him, most people who knew her had
already died. Some of the relatives who had come before didnt return.
Once again we went with family to Catfish Cabin. Vernon had been invited, but
he presumptuously took it on himself to extend the invitation to Mike. I had to tell

Vernon that Make was not invited and that he had to tell him so. Vernon didnt like it, but
he later saw the wisdom of the decision. Mike has a practice of making an obvious,
sanctimonious show of praying in a public place. He folds his hands and prays at length
in what certainly gives the appearance of putting on a show of his own "righteousness."
Matthew chapter six is quite plain as to how one should pray. Its to be done privately. I
cant judge whats in his heart, but I know how it looks to others. Not only would it have
been embarrassing, but my relatives at the meal were Church of Christ and Baptist. I
didnt want Mike to create such an unfavorable impression of the Witnesses.
During lunch, Beamon talked at length about his experiences in World War II
which was not at all appropriate since he knew our views on warfare. His experiences
seem to be returning to haunt him so that he seems to need to discuss them, so I wasnt
offended. Yet I can easily imagine Mike having given him a lecture on the evils of
participating in war. I pointed this out to Vernon afterward, and he agreed that it was best
that Mike had been excluded.
Within a reasonable time, we had a bronze marker with appropriate inscriptions
placed at the graves. It provides a vase for flowers which we renew periodically. The
Memorial Garden became increasingly neglected to the point that it was taken over by the
State. It is now maintained far better.
Chapter 26: Settlement of the Camp Estate
As to disposition of the Camp estate, heres what happened. There was no will, so
everything they had, by law, went to me. Since we had taken care of their business affairs
for some years, I knew there could be no outstanding claims against the estate, nor any
other relatives with a claim to a share. That allowed me to safely skip probate and the
substantial cost associated with it.
After a couple of weeks, I began the gradual transfer of items we wanted to keep
from their house to ours. I knew well enough from past experience that if I didnt take the
"bull by the horns," it was possible that everything might stay as it was for an indefinite
time. The possibility of the house being broken into was high. That would result, not only
in the loss of items, but vandalism. Without involving the girls, I got the smaller items
that I wanted, a few at a time, over a period of a few weeks. "You couldnt wait to change
things," Delorise accused. "Looks like you could have left it the way it was long enough
for Maria to get pictures." "Everything over there is mine. Ill do as I please," I
responded angrily. "I dont intend to be dominated or criticized." I knew the real
intention: endless delay. If I had waited a year to commence the transfer, I would have
still heard the same critical comments. In that case, every day of delay cost us money. I
had to take action. When I had done all I could without help, I hired delivery boys from
Dependable Hardware to come and move the heavier pieces. It was an hours-long task
with many trips with the truck between houses. By that time, overt opposition to my
efforts had about stopped.

Even after all that, the house still looked fully furnished, especially since I
swapped similar items between houses in some cases. There was an overwhelming
amount of furniture, plus decorative items. It was impossible to keep more than a fraction
of the total. "Im going to sell the house furnished," I decided. "We could have an estate
sale, but I dont want people from all over town pawing through my parents house and
criticizing. Id rather pile the things up and burn them rather than have that happen."
I had been to estate sales and knew how disrespectful and thoughtless many people
become under such circumstances.
Before I put the house on the market, we determined the monthly cost if we kept
it. The list included insurance, utilities, taxes, lawn care, and repair. We wanted Maria to
realize that we couldnt afford to keep it. "You see that the cost would wipe out my Social
Security check," I noted.
To avoid even the possibility of later recriminations from Maria, we added that we
would turn the house over to her use if she wanted to take over the expenses. Of course
she didnt want to do thatwho would. But it seemed the best way to help her see that we
had to sell it or face financial ruin. To her credit, she was entirely reasonable and realistic
about what could have been an emotional issue. It was the main house where she had
known her grandparents. It had to be a difficult experience for her.
My memories of their time in Russellville were, for a large part, bad ones. I had
been much more disturbed at the sale of the home place years before. I wanted to be rid
of the place as soon as reasonably possible. We didnt attempt to market the house for a
few months since there were many things to be settled. When we sold my Fathers 1964
Valiant, the man who bought it offered us $100,000 for the house. I didnt immediately
accept, but had an appraisal done by an incompetent idiot, Mike Sewell. He was the only
one I could get to do it since the real estate market was booming at the time. His rating
was far below the actual market valueinsultingly so. "Expect an offer in the
neighborhood of $85,000," he asserted.
The tax appraiser had fixed the value at $109,000. I felt that was too high since
there was work to be done for the place to be entirely satisfactory. Accordingly, we
contacted the buyer and accepted his offer if he still wanted the house which he said he
did. He paid us several thousand dollars in earnest money in cash. Ultimately he wanted
to back out of the deal due to sickness. I allowed him to do so without keeping any of the
earnest money. He wasnt my idea of an ideal neighbor anyway, so I was glad.
After that deal fell through, I stalled for a while and didnt try to find another
buyer. Russellville had been overrun by Mexicans. I didnt want to sell to any of them
because of harm to property values, their failure to maintain houses and yards, and their
tendency to move large numbers of people into a single-family residence in violation of
local laws. Quite a number of them were illegal aliens with whom I wanted to have no
business deals. To be candid, the main consideration was that I didnt want them for
neighbors. From what I could determine, if I openly advertised the house I might run into
legal difficulty if I refused to sell to anyone who came up with the money. To get around

that problem, I occasionally put out a "For Sale" sign for short intervals. Quick removal
gave me grounds for the claim that I decided not to sell.
As expected, this generated many phone calls and inquiries. Some of them were
from people who were just nosy and wanted to know how much be planned to ask for the
house. They had no serious interest in purchase. As I had feared, some of them from
Mexicans. As was my right, I quoted a price of $109,000 to some callers, but $190,000 to
others. In retrospect, what I should have done was to decline to price it over the phone,
but I didnt think of that at the time. One Mexican called me at least three times. I learned
to recognize his voice. Of the other Mexicans who called, none actually asked to see the
house. To ask an outrageous price fended them off, which was my intent. I figured that if
one of them came up with the exorbitant amount, we would then sell our house too. That
would give us enough money to buy a luxury house in the Quad Cities. That was a
realistic possibility since Mexicans had paid $250,000 in cash from a suitcase for a house
not far from ours. I dont consider myself as prejudiced against Mexicans, but as forced
to take completely justifiable steps to protect our property value. Also, I feel that those
who are here illegally are criminals and should be dealt with as such. At the same time I
sympathize with their response to the conditions that brought them here. This was a case
where self-interest and the welfare of my own family had to override other
considerations. If my property value dropped dramatically there would be no way to
recover from it at my age.
After that, Mexicans moved into two other houses in our neighborhood but have
been completely satisfactory residents, free from the filthiness and overcrowding that are
sometimes seen in other parts of town. Possibly I was worried for nothing, but it was a
chance I felt that I couldnt afford to take. Id do the same thing again under similar
circumstances.
As often happens, sale of the house resulted from word-of-mouth. Lee Miller
learned about the house and I sold it to him for $100,000. This was $9000 below the tax
appraisal, but I knew that the house needed a good bit of updating. I didnt like the fact
that Lee and his wife are heavy smokers, but that couldnt be enough of a reason not to let
them buy the place. It was sold with furnishings plus a full disclosure of what I knew to
be wrong with it. I told him the furnishings were for him to do with as he pleased, even to
hold an estate sale if he wanted. I dont know what he kept or what he got rid of, but if he
had an estate sale I didnt know about it. His wife recently inherited a fair amount of
money which enabled them to make extensive changes to the inside of the house. They
tore out the walls for the kitchen and dining room, folded those areas into the living
room, and thus created the open floor plan that is currently popular. He removed the
quality paneling from rooms except the den and replaced it with sheet rock. The carpet
removal exposed the hardwood floors. They installed wood laminate floors in rooms that
didnt have hardwood, installed new ceilings and lights, and repainted each room.
The Millers allowed their children to pick out colors for their rooms which resulted in
some truly horrible, garish selections. That was no legitimate concern of ours. At night I
could see an aura of hot pink that glared out the window in my Mothers formerly

attractive bedroom. In the master bedroom they created a much-needed closet across the
front.
The open floor plan was a smart idea and I liked the results, but wouldnt have
done many of the other revisions. We didnt see the job completed but went in a couple of
times while it was in progress. Lees wife, a huge tub of lard, is not friendly, so its
unlikely we will ever see the inside again. Its easy for me to recall it like it was when my
parents lived there which is what I prefer.
When I made decisions as what to keep from the house, I took into account
whether I liked or needed items, their condition, family history, and memories associated
with them. The following provides a partial history of those items plus other articles
found in our house. Perhaps it will be of some interest to Maria. Its unlikely anyone else
will care about such details.
By far the oldest items are two inexpensive ceramic vases that belonged to
Marias great great grandmother Mollie Gaston. They had been on top of the piano at
Fayetteville for as long as I can remember. According to what she said, they were already
there during my mothers childhood. When my mother was young, she accidentally broke
off a couple of the grapes from one of the vases, but hid the fact by ink placed on the
damaged area. That can still be seen upon close examination. They are the only true
"antiques" at well over on hundred years old, but have little or no monetary value.
Sentiment alone makes them worth a spot in the house.
The wash pot that is in the yard outside Marias bedroom windows belonged to
Belle Camp, my step-grandmother. Its the second-oldest thing we own. Belle brought it
with her when she married Milas Camp, my grandfather. It had belonged to her mother.
The legs are largely melted off from decades of fire when it was used to wash clothes.
My father had gotten it from settlement of the Milas Camp estate which is a bit strange
since he hated Belle. I liked her very much and used to visit with her when I could, so
Im glad to have it as a reminder of her.
In the courtyard is a metal glider that had been in the den at Fayetteville where it
served as a couch as far back as I can recall. It was on the back porch at Guntersville and
then on the patio at Russellville. At one point a few years ago, my parents had it
sandblasted. I then spray painted it to the color that I first recall. It isnt of real value and
not comfortable as a seat, but it does carry a lot of memories. I want to keep it as long as
it is feasible.
Also in the courtyard is a set of twin outside chairs that my parents purchased
after they moved to Russellville. They didnt actually use them much due to mosquitoes,
but I like them where they are now and sit in them occasionally when comfort is not a big
consideration. They are beginning to deteriorate so I expect to have to dispose of them
when they become unsightly.

In the den are a number of items from the estate: a barrel table that had been littleused in the living room at Guntersville. It was Mothers main lamp table at Russellville.
A lamp with crystals sets on that table. It has the same history of use as the table. I bought
Mother that lamp years ago and she seemed to really like it which was unusual since I
generally wasnt able to please her with presents.
Crystal lamps at each end of the couch had been in the living rooms at
Guntersville and Russellville, virtually unused. I bought her those too, but she didnt like
them. I kept them anyway since I like them and they match other items from the estate. A
brown recliner with vibration which has been described elsewhere is also in our den.
Crystal "vases" which Delorise and I made from lamps are in the living room. I bought
them for Mother years ago. Those lamps had statues of children on them but it was only
in recent times that I realized that they might be thought to represent "cherubs" despite
the lack of wings. Accordingly, we removed the questionable part along with the wiring
and converted them into shorter, ornamental items. The original crystals were too large,
so we bought smaller versions from an antique mall in Florence. Those lamps where
another gift that was actually well received by Mother which made me want to put some
effort into their salvage without the introduction of questionable elements.
The buffet in the den had been originally bought by me and well received by
Mother which helped make it important to me to keep. A crystal bowl and crystal candle
holders, that I had purchased, had been on the buffet over the years. I have now moved
those items to the hutch in our den. On the buffet in the den are bronze bookends, "End of
the Trail," by Frazier. They had been on end tables at Fayetteville as far back as I can
remember where they were actually used to hold up books. I acquired them when we
cleared out the Fayetteville house. The stylized globe which goes well between them is a
recent acquisition from Rogers Department store in Muscle Shoals.
I have eliminated all but a few pictures, throughout our house, which are not
original oils on canvas. In the half bath is a painting by Mrs. Kuykendall which she gave
Maria. It never belonged to my parents. In the office on the south end of the house is a
painting by Mrs. Kuykendall of a house and mountains which was a favorite of my father.
I never liked it and would have left it in the house except that Maria objected. Over time,
I have grown to appreciate it more. The dark print of a ship originally was over the bed in
the guest room at Fayetteville, and on the guest bedroom wall at Russellville. It is the
same picture that is by the door at Archie Bunkers house which adds to its interest, but
mainly I associate it with the Morris house at Fayetteville. I never really liked the picture
since it is so gloomy but it would be hard to get rid of it. In our living room is a picture of
a Civil War bridge, painted by Mrs. Kuykendall, that my parents gave us as a
housewarming gift. The painting of a tree is by Mrs. Kuykendall was another favorite of
my father, although he didnt like how dark it turned out. They used it with a picture light
in their living room at Guntersville, but that light was one of only about two items that
somehow failed to make it to Russellville. It hung in their den in Russellville. There are
other oils in the house and a couple of prints, but they are recent acquisitions and so not
worthy of comment.

The Duncan Phyffe style sofa in the living room was bought at Guntersville by
my parents when I was in the mid teens. It came from Jarmon Furniture Store in South
Town where Delorise, years later, worked for a short time. Since it had been in the store
window in morning sunlight, it was shopworn when bought. The sofa was used in the
living room at Guntersville for years and later in the den at Russellville. Mother had it
reupholstered while at Russellville so that it now looks acceptable.
The upholstered antique chair with arms in our living room is from Fayetteville.
There was a matching love seat at Aunt Edees house, but its in poor condition. The chair
also had been in bad shape and stored in the attic at Fayetteville. Mother had it refinished
and upholstered after the move to Russellville after it failed to sell in a yard sale when
priced at a mere ten dollars.
On the built-in shelves in the living rooms are items of interest, including an
orange carnival glass bowl and four matching cups that had originally been on the table
in the formal dining room at Fayetteville. I have added a makeshift base to replace the
one broken decades ago at Fayetteville and located two additional cups plus other
matching items from antique stores, but only the bowl and four cups are family
heirlooms.
The pendulum mantle clock is from the Morris house. As to its history, there was
a previous clock that was shaped like it that had been in the family as far back as I can
recall. It finally got where it wouldnt run although my grandfather Morris spent on it
over and over. He became disgusted with it. When I was in my early twenties and on a
visit, we took the clock to new Fayetteville to an antique (read junk) store where he
traded it on the present clock. I figured it would be no good, but he was determined to be
rid of the clock he couldnt fix. It turned out to be reliable, and still works except that the
or they will strike until they run down. Most likely the feature could be fixed without a
great cost. The brand name is Plymouth, but it was made by Seth-Thomas as a cheaper
model clock.
The small brown ceramic dog in the office is from Fayetteville. The two small
black ceramic dogs in the living room are also from Fayetteville. They are of sentimental
value only. One black dog shows where, as a small child, I broke off one of the ears. I
remember the occasion well. I was seated on the floor in the living room, at play with the
dogs when I knocked one of them over by accident. My Mother began to chastise me, but
my grandmother was very gracious about it and said she could fix it.
The grandfather clock from my parents is in our living room where we had it
professionally moved to reduce the risk of damage. It was bought by them after they
moved to Russellville. It is not an antique, but came new from Storey and Lee Furniture
in Leoma, Tennessee.
In the front bedroom is located the old radio from Fayetteville with history as
follows. This was one of the first radios in that part of Alabama. People gathered to listen
to it like they later did when TV was introduced. Among the broadcasts were Judge

Rutherfords sermons. The radio, which was battery powered, dates from before the days
of electricity. The electronic works were removed long ago. It came to be used as a
regular piece of furniture. The compartment for the battery is like a secret compartment.
During the Second World War my grandmother hid copies of the Watchtower there in
case of local persecution. Those original copies are still there along with a coin collection
which is worth about five hundred dollars. As far back as I can remember the radio stood
to the right of the front outside door at Fayetteville. I cant recall where it was at
Guntersville, but at Russellville it was in my fathers bedroom where it was used to store
linens. After we moved it to our house we discovered, in the dark recesses of a lower
shelf, a leather mail bag that grandfather Morris had used on his rural route.
Our bedroom dresser with an attached square mirror was originally from
Guntersville. Mother gave it to us when we bought the house on Burgess Street. It had
been unused in a closed off bedroom. She wanted us to take it since we didnt have one
and she didnt need it. The storage cabinet under the window on the east wall is from my
Mothers bedroom at Russellville with history as follows. We found the item at a yard
sale and bought it for Mother since she needed a bedside table with storage. She was
characteristically ungracious about the gift, made it clear that she didnt like it, and that
we shouldnt have bought it. I think the real objection was to our expenditure of money.
She never let us feel good about the gift.
The bed and the chest-of-drawers with the arched mirror are a set from the guest
bedroom at Fayetteville. We brought them directly from Fayetteville when we cleared out
the house for sale. Mother didnt have space for them or need them but we did. There was
a matched dresser, but it was in poor condition, made worse when the mirror snapped into
two pieces of its own accord. We left the dresser in the storage building at Lees house.
The bed is the one that A.H. Macmillian often slept on when he served in the zone
work around Fayetteville. At that time, many of the friends had little materially so he
often came back to that house to spend the night and enjoy some home cooked food.
On one occasion, he and another brother walked all the way from Talladega Springs to
Fayetteville and showed up about midnight. "Tommy, I hear somebody knocking," my
grandmother whispered. "Get up and see who it is." "I got to thinking about that
comfortable bed," Brother Macmillian said with a grin.
The bed frame was originally unusually short. To make it up was a knuckleskinning chore. Some years ago, Tom Pitts had extenders welded to the side rails. That
work is still clearly evident upon close examination, but hidden by the bedspread in
normal usage.
The chest on the north wall is from Mothers house. It served at Guntersville as a
dresser in her bedroom and later in her bedroom at Russellville. We removed the attached
mirror and left it on a discarded childs chest that we had bought for Maria when she was
a tiny baby. We wished to use the dresser bottom item as a storage chest since there was
already a dresser in our bedroom.

The gold-framed mirror mounted on the wall over this chest is Mothers. The
following is its background. I was with her in the mid 50s when she found that mirror at
an upscale furniture store in Gadsden. She liked the frame and clarity of the image. It was
always her favorite mirror. At Guntersville it had been in her living room, wall mounted
over the buffet. The same arrangement existed in her living room in Russellville.
There was another wall mirror, somewhat similar to it, that I bought for her years ago at
Guntersville. She didnt like it and was so ungracious about it that I left it in the
Russellville house when it sold. I just couldnt get away from the unpleasant memory
associated with it.
In my office is a sturdy bookcase that Grandfather Morris made from the case of
an old organ. It was the last piece of furniture he constructed. It was the only item in her
house that Mother specifically mentioned toward the end of her life. "Please be sure to
keep the bookcase," she asked. Besides some old framed pictures of my Mother and
grandparents in storage, those are all the inherited items that I can immediately recall.
We continued to get occasional, unexpected money from the estate for a couple of
years. Likely the last, was from a life insurance policy that my father took out on me
when I was a tiny baby. It was in the amount of $500, a considerable sum in 1940. The
premium was small, less than five dollars a year. They paid it throughout their lives and I
took it over for a couple of years afterward. On an impulse, I phoned Liberty National to
ask about cash value. To my surprise, the representative said it was worth a little more
than $300. I quickly cashed it out. My father always talked like his having taken out the
policy was something wonderful he did for me. Seeing that, as far as I knew until
recently, I would have to be dead for it to pay, I always wondered how he could view it
that way. If he knew it built a modest cash value he never told me. It benefited me after
all.
Besides monthly interest on the $100,000, currently in a Community Spirit Bank
Certificate of Deposit at less than one percent, the only potential source of money from
the estate is a pair of cemetery lots at Marshall Memory Gardens which might sell for a
few hundred dollars. I have not made any attempt to dispose of them, but need to take
care that soon. My father insisted on the purchase of four lots when I was a youngster. It
was at a time when we really couldnt afford it. As usual, Mother went along with him,
although I am sure she didnt think it wise. I respected his wishes as to burial on the plots,
although I preferred Russellville for the convenience of the survivors.
From the remainder of their money at Valley State Bank, around $25,000, and
from $2000 in life insurance, we make improvements at our house. The most important
was replacement of the antiquated heating/air conditioning system, including ducts.
Clean, modern equipment that is energy efficient was a desperate need. The new system
has a high efficiency filter plus an ultraviolet light built into the duct work. These
modernizations have helped a great deal with allergy as well having provided a solution
to cool during summer. The winter heat is not quite as satisfactory but has resulted in a
significant reduction in monthly bills. I expected a "heat pump" to be less than ideal and

was not surprised. The main problem is in the den where we have to direct a fan from the
living room and even operate additional heaters during bitterly cold weather.
We had the shabby old gold carpet removed to expose hardwood floors. They are
worn, but usable as they are. At some point Id like to have them refinished, but thats a
big hassle besides being a major expense. They are likely to stay as they are indefinitely.
The carpet was a major source of dust and dust mites. In places, the carpets supporting
base had disintegrated into dust. It was a mess which I am thankful to be rid of.
In addition we had a detached garage with two bays constructed by Overton
Garages to house the Mercedes plus to provide room for storage. By the time we had
underground wiring installed to it and to the storage building, plus addition of outside
lights to the main house and miscellaneous other expenditures, we had exhausted the
funds apart from the $100,000. I think we spent the money wisely.
I had first thought to use the hundred thousand to add a new wing to the south end
of the house for Maria. My idea was that it would make her more likely to be satisfied to
continue to live at home. When she showed virtually no interest in the project, I let the
matter drop. Apparently she is satisfied with her present quarters with a den, bedroom,
bath, and garage space. She has always been conservative and wont ask for things, but
since I did make a serious offer without a positive response, I decided to make other use
of the money.
I can see that was the best. We placed the money in a CD where it draws a tiny bit
of interest. If Delorise outlives me, that money will be important to her security; if I
outlive her, I expect to keep at least the principal of the inherited money intact for Maria.
I saw how my father squandered the Morris estate to which he had no claim whatever. I
sure dont want that to happen this time. But who knows what will develop. Time will
tell. Ultimately money will become worthless. We know that for sure.

Chapter 27: Travel with the Southern Association

The basis for college and university accreditation in eleven southern states and
certain foreign countries with branches of U.S. colleges is membership in the Southern
Association of Colleges and Schools, Commission on Colleges. Over the years I became
increasingly involved with that organization as a result of my job. I came to be a member
of the visiting teams who go to colleges in other states to examine compliance and to
make recommendations. We were never allowed to visit colleges in our own State since
we might have a vested interest in doing harm to a competitor.
My first trip was to Northeast Junior College in Mississippi where I went as a
trainee. This got me introduced into the process. In subsequent years I went to other
colleges in Tennessee, Georgia, Virginia, and North Carolina. This forced me to use air
travel more than I had ever expected. There is no need to try to list the colleges or to
detail the visits, but Ill try to mention a few incidents of interest.

For a member of a visiting team, it could easily be a bit of an ego trip. Such
representatives of the Commission are sometimes viewed with a sort of awe. It was
common for faculty to tremble visibly when we came into their areas. I often thought of
the adage, "A consultant is any ordinary person more than one hundred miles from home
who carries a brief case."
At the conclusion of each visit, the Committee holds a meeting with the local
college employees to announce its findings. Those are scary moments for the local
colleges. Not only is the accreditation of their institution on the line, but the
"Recommendations" (mandatory despite the name) can generated much work for them.
"Suggestions" are just what the name implies and can be ignored if they chose. On one
occasion, the college president initially showed anger at our determinations, but quickly
caught himself and managed, with some grace, to say that it would be taken care of.
At another college, the president, upon hearing our largely unfavorable report, came to
the front as is customary to conclude the meeting. His opening statement was "I knew
this was going to happen." He then proceeded to blame everything on his predecessor, a
very unprofessional thing to do even if it happened to be true.
Most of them accepted our finding with courtesy, at least in public. What they
may have said privately we didnt learn since we always left the campus immediately
after the conclusion of that session. "Elvis has left the building."
At a college in Virginia, I
noticed frequent references in the self-study to the "tragic circumstances" surrounding
their college president. On the way from the airport to the institution, I asked the driver,
"I see lots of references to something that happened to the former president. Whats that
talking about?" To the horror of everyone on the van, he explained "About halfway
through the self-study, the college president murdered his wife. Hes now in prison." A
collective gasp arose from the visiting committee. We learned that the president had been
a revered father figure, but his wife had been insane for years. Apparently, the pressure
got too much to bear and he killed her.
In the funny vein, the all-time worst college I visited had done a horrible job with
its self-study to the point that we virtually directed them to do it over again. We went so
far as to recommend denial of accreditation if they didnt. Its customary to allow visiting
teams to keep copies of the self-study plus any other college materials they want. In that
case, even before hearing our final report, they had sent instructions that we were not to
take anything off campus when we left. We all got a good laugh out of that since none of
us would have wanted anything they had unless it was to be used as a worst-case example
of "dont let this happen to you."
Visiting committees are always wined and dined in the most extravagant manner
available in addition to being housed in the finest hotel in the area. The single meal that I
remember best was far more modest. It was held in the dining room of a small college in

Savannah, Georgia that had a cooking program. They provided us with a gourmet meal
which featured grouper. That was my first, and still best, experience with that fish.
In all my travel, no plane was ever late, I never missed a connection, and my
luggage was never lost. One time I got on the wrong van at the destination airport. It was
filled with members of a visiting team headed to another college. Fortunately we
discovered the error before we left the airport. The college being visited usually holds up
signs at the airport gate, but that time the sign simply read "SACS" since neither college
knew that the other had visiting teams coming in at the same time.
Another humorous episode occurred during the orientation meeting of the visiting
committee. Dr. Carter, one of the eight "Lords" of the Commission was present. He felt
unwell and so sat separately at the side of the room. David was ordinarily a well-kept,
distinguished man, but for some reason, he needed a shave, wore casual clothes, and
looked a good bit like a bum. He might easily have been mistaken for a member of the
colleges maintenance staff. A self-important old biddy on the visiting team kept making
references to "that Carter" and what he had supposedly said. After a couple of times,
David realized he was being cited inappropriately and incorrectly. He rose up and said
with indignation, "Im David Carter." Committee members broke into laughter. The
woman was mortified. The rest of us knew David by sight, but she obviously had never
met him. I had known him for years.

Chapter 28: Family Reunions

Of our ancestry, only the Camps, Lynches and, a few times, Gastons hold
reunions in so far as I know. Only one time was there a reunion of the many descendants
of Milas Camp, (my grandfather. It was held at his house on Thaxton Avenue in
Albertville. It is described in detail in my book, The Granny Room: A Story of a Southern
Family. Despite its success, it was never held again.
The general Camp reunion in Marshall County was started some years ago by my
father and Vada King, daughter of Mamie Camp Gibson. For years it was held at the city
building in Albertville. I attended each year as long as my father was able since it was
important to him. Some of the Camps are particularly unpleasant people. I never enjoyed
it a single time. The one who irked me the most is a semiretarded man, dirty in
appearance, who always met people at the cars to force his help to bring food into the
building. We really didnt want him to touch our food but found it very difficult to
prevent. Another particularly odious old man talked loud and almost continuously with a
know-it-all attitude even though he was quite obviously an ignoramus. He often tried to
force specific food items on people. Two or even three refusals were sometimes not
enough to silence him. On one occasion, he announced to all around him that our cousin,
Tula Camp Washam, after the death of her husband, had asked him, "Come to my house
and make love to me." We all knew with near certainty that it was a lie. Such a thing
would be totally out of character for Tula. After that, I made up my mind that I wouldnt
listen directly to him anymore even if I had to tell him off. Tula was dead at the time of
his slander, therefore unable to defend herself. I felt that even if it were somehow true, he

was a rat to tell it. It never came to my having a direct confrontation with him. That was
best. After the death of my Father, I determined not to go to that reunion again. To make
it worse they have moved it to a church far out into the country near Fyffe.
The Lynch reunion was held for several years at Sportsmans Lake in Cullman.
We went every year until it was made clear that Lelas children were not welcome. Lela is
Delorises Mother. We didnt know what led to that for some time, but later found out that
the main reason was that Joel Lynch had deliberately knocked down Uncle Bill, an old
man, in a dispute about a game of horseshoes. His action, somehow, was held against all
his brothers and sisters. I suspect that Lorenes racially mixed grandchildren played at
least some additional role in the exclusion. She asked one of her older aunts, "Is it okay if
I bring my grandchildren to the reunion?" "You can bring them," the woman responded
haughtily, "but if you do, nobody else will come." Our participation in the Lynch reunion
obviously ceased for a time, but it was eventually revived as a separate meeting for the
children of Lela and their descendants. It was held once or twice at Vernons house in
Southside, but that became unfeasible after he and Judy broke up. The group met
informally at Mike Lynchs house a time or two, but they didnt serve as real hosts. Their
house was too small and parking inadequate. A reunion lasting two or three hours wasnt
very satisfactory considering how far people have to travel. We began to hold it in
Russellville where it was far more successful. After a couple of times, Toni let it be
known that she wanted to hold it at her house the next year so we backed away to let her
take over. However, she never brought it up again. The result was that the reunion was
missed for at least one year and possibly two. Its hard to remember such details with
certainty.
After that we took up as hosts again, although it appears unlikely that it will be
held anymore. The top attendance has been eighteen people at any one time, although
others have come some years. Health problems of family members plus the increased
expense of travel have made it unfeasible to continue.
We attended the Gaston reunion near Childersburg a few years since we learned
about it. It was held at Kymulga Gist Mill in a screened pavilion. We like all the ones we
have met there and enjoy seeing the creek, covered bridge and old mill. It has been
discontinued due to lack of support. We have heard nothing from its organizers for years.
The following provides a bit of information about our Gaston relatives:
Erasmus (Razz) Gaston was my Grandmother Josies father. He was referred to
as "Uncle Razz" because he didnt want to be addressed as a grandfather. He died before I
was born, but somewhere we have a picture of him outside the house at Fayetteville.
Razz had been a saw miller, in which capacity, he generated lots of money although he let
some man in Birmingham beat him out of most of it. His family traveled as the mill
moved, which made it necessary for him to use private tutors to educate his children.
He had congenital (present at birth) cataracts which is due to the action of a dominant
gene. His baby glasses are here somewhere, possibly in old of the oldest brown vases in
the den. None of his children had the condition which means that the gene dropped
completely out of his line.

According to what I have heard, Razz was a mean, uncaring old man. I think there
is a possibility that he had illegitimate children, perhaps with Negroes, but that may be
only slander. He showed favoritism to Uncle Gaston over Eloise. He bought Uncle
Gaston a bicycle and then told her, "Id better not find you riding it." She felt angry about
that even decades later.
His wife, called Aunt Molly, was a favorite of Eloise. She was the original owner
of the two brown vases in our den in Russellville. Aunt Molly apparently died following
gall bladder surgery, but all surgery was more dangerous in that day. Razz and Molly are
buried in Fayetteville adjacent to T.J. Morris and Josie Gaston Morris.
Josephine (Josie) Irene Gaston Morris is Marias great grandmother. She was
quite a beauty when young as her wedding portrait shows. Her first child, Josephine
Eloise. was born nine months after her wedding. They made the mistake of making
reference to her as a "Vaseline baby" too long so that she remembers having heard it.
Apparently they used Vaseline as a contraceptive, which it surely isnt. Eloise was a
healthy baby, but Gaston, who appeared four years later, was sickly from birth. Doctors
stated that he wouldnt live to maturity, but he actually survived to be an old man.
We have Josies wide wedding band with engraving inside. Josie took great pride in her
appearance even into old age. She always wore make-up and jewelry and kept her hair
fixed. She never worked outside the home. Such employment for a wife was almost
unimaginable in her day. She drove a car as a young woman, but after a bad experience,
discontinued it permanently. She was deeply winkled for hereditary reasons, especially
on her face. She was always a favorite of mine, but she and my mother didnt get along
well until she was old. At that point, they reconciled.
Josie had a wonderful southern accent that I loved to hear, especially the
replacement with terminal "r" with the "h" sound. That is not heard in north Alabama. For
example, "car" became "cah."
Many of the Gastons are buried in the cemetery at Fayetteville in sight of the
Morris home place.
Chapter 29: Some Other Relatives Who Stand out
The following section deals with relatives whom I knew who lived, in part, or in
whole, within the hundred-year period under consideration. This is how those people
seemed to me. I have tried to be candid in presenting them, "warts and all" as Oliver
Cromwell instructed his portrait painter. Others might say they werent like that. Critics
can write their own versions which will be just as valid as mine. They can present them
as they appeared to them.
Thomas Jefferson Morris
My grandfather was the first to introduce the Truth into that part of Alabama.
Although active in the Baptist Church, he took note of a newspaper column written by

Pastor Charles Russell. The first one he encountered had the title, "The Truth About
Hell." Ive commented elsewhere about some of his activities in connection with the
Kingdom and so wont repeat them here. For most of his life, he worked as a rural letter
carrier and didnt retire until just before the mandatory retirement age of seventy.
"I dont want anybody to be able to say they made me quit," he often stated.
I went around most of the route with him only one time when I was stayed with them
during the summer of 1950. All the stops and starts made me terribly motion sick so he
took me to stay with Aunt Kate until he finished the route. She lived three doors up the
road toward Sylacauga. "You might feel better if you eat something," she urged. I agreed
to try. She fed me Vienna sausages which I had never known existed. I thought they were
extremely good. Now I recognize them for the junk food that they are. Over his work life,
he went from riding a horse to driving a buggy to driving a car. Before I was born, he
reportedly often drove Willys cars, but from when I first recall such things, he owned
Studebakers. Studebaker had been a major manufacturer of wagons before cars became
popular. I remember only three of the Studebakers: a Champion that looked almost the
same from the front and back, a large Land Cruiser which was a near-luxury model, and a
1955 Commander which he later traded on a huge 1957 Buick Super sedan. His last car
was a white Dodge Dart which was the counterpart of the Plymouth Valiant. Aunt Edee
said that he always wanted a purple car. That doesnt sound like him, so I wonder if he
was joking. He liked to kid around. He drove until around age 90. After he backed off
into a ditch one night when he left the book study at Uncle Amos house, he decided it
was time to quit. The actual cause of the incident was dirt roads that had caused
accumulation of dust beneath the back-up light covers. He couldnt see where he was
going in that dark location. I feel he could have driven safely longer than that, but he was
frightened by the incident and decided to quit before he had a serious accident.
As far as I know he wrecked only one time. It was a one-car accident where he
tore off the front fender of the 1957 Buick. It was caused because he was having a dispute
with my grandmother as they were on the way to visit my Mother in Birmingham after
her 1958 hysterectomy. He became distracted and missed a curve. "That was your fault,
Josie," he said in annoyance after he struck the tree. There wasnt much in the way of
local news that day, so the minor wreck was reported on Birmingham television. It was
an embarrassment for them both.
Since he had a government job with regular income, his family hardly knew that
the Great Depression took place. His job assured that, during the Second World War, he
was able to obtain as much gas and as many cars as he wanted. He was exempt from
limitations due to the need to ration.
He and my grandmother went to district conventions all over the country. Back in
those days, there might be only two or three in the entire United States. Once. they went
to New York and another time to California.
In New York they stayed at the exclusive hotel New Yorker. When they had a
meal there, he tipped the waiter, but the man declined it with the snide comment, "I dont
accept tips of less than a dollar." That was at a time when the usual tip was ten to fifteen
cents. A dollar tip was extraordinary. Not intimidated in the least, he pocketed the gratuity

and replied, "If you dont want it, I can use it." Nobody made much off him. He was too
feisty.
The last few years of his life were unpleasant for him and for his family. I have
often thought it would have been so much better if he had died about three years before
he did. Part of his problems arose from a prescription drug for arthritis that had serious
side effects. It did damage that couldnt be reversed.
To add to his problems, he had an unsuccessful cataract operation that left his
vision impaired. His hearing deteriorated to such an extent that he became hard for him to
enter into family conversation. At the same time, he became increasingly unwilling to do
anything for himselfthe exact opposite of how he had lived his life. He wouldnt pick up
a fork and eat or lift a glass to his lips to drink, nor would he even try to care for his
personal hygiene.
At times he would call out and rant as people often do in nursing homes. My
mother was quite agitated that he wouldnt even try to do for himself. It was ironical that
she went in the same direction during the last few months of her life. If I live that long I
desperately hope I wont do like that.
Despite all that, he spent only a very short time in a nursing home after he had
exhausted his various home care givers. He died when Maria was about three months old,
but he got an opportunity to see her. He was in intensive care, but I approached the doctor
privately. "Im worried that he wont live long. This may be his only chance to see his
only great grandchild. Can we please take her in for a few minutes?" The doctor, to the
horror of the ICU nurses, allowed us to take her into his room and place her in his arms.
He said, "Thats a fine baby," but wouldnt open his eyes to look at her no matter how
much we urged him.
Fortunately, his mind was clear most of the time. The occasional episodes when it
was not seemed to be accounted for by medications. The only time I personally was
present when he was not lucid was when he was in the hospital in Sylacauga. We stood in
his room around the bed.
He stared into empty space and said, "Whats Mother (meaning his wife) doing
standing there?" She had been dead for years at that point. "Why can I see through her?"
he added. He was on a medication that had the known effect of causing hallucinations,
but that shows how easily an incident could cause ignorant people to believe in "ghosts."

Josephine Irene Gaston Morris

I have commented at various places about my grandmother, therefore will add
only a few details at this point, mainly about her death. Her health had steadily declined

for years. The last few months, they got a hospital bed to make things easier for her. Her
mind stayed good at all times right up to her death. The last time I saw her, she was
propped up in the hospital bed reading. I had told her bye, but after I left the room peeked
back at her through a crack alongside the door. My thought was that I might not see her
again. That proved to be the case.
Ive always been so glad that I didnt look at her dead as I can carry in my mind
the image of her alive and alert like I saw her last. Unlike her husband, she managed to
maintain her dignity to the end for which I am so thankful.
Aunt Bertha and Uncle Embry White
Each week for years, we bought raw (unpasteurized) milk and butter from Aunt
Bertha. My father had a theory that it was more healthy than milk from the stores. He
liked the taste of Aunt Berthas butter better than what was commercially available.
Actually, such milk was quite risky from a health standpoint, both from a lack of
cleanliness and due to high saturated fat. Its a wonder it didnt make us sick. I now
wonder if he didnt prefer it at least partly because it was cheaper. That thought never
entered my mind at the time. It may not have been the case at all.
They had, for the most part, made a living from farming. During the Depression,
many banks failed, as did the one they used. The result was that they lost all their money.
I can remember Aunt Bertha hiding money under her mattress, the first place a thief
would have looked. "I dont trust banks," she stated. "They took our money once, but
they wont again." That bank experience may have been the catalyst that threw them into
a perpetual state of parsimony, especially Bertha. When someone took her to the grocery
store, she often looked at things she wanted, but wouldnt buy them because she judged
them too costly. "Thats just too much," she usually said as she returned the item to the
shelf. They went for years without electricity and never had indoor water. Of course,
they had only an "outhouse." How they possibly managed to take effective baths I cant
imagine. They never seemed to be especially dirty.
Their house was an old one with just four rooms plus front and side porches. At
some point, they remodeled the house with a regular roof, replaced rusted tin with
shingles, and placed wood siding instead of weathered unpainted board-and-batten of the
original construction. This was a huge step upward for them. Embry was a "jack-leg"
carpenter, thus able to do the work himself. I recall the work being done, but am unclear
as to the date.
They continued to heat with a coal stove in the living room and a wood cook
stove in the kitchen. For decades, they had a battery-powered radio with an outside wire
for an antenna. Only local stations interested them as they had virtually no awareness of
nor interest in the world outside their immediate community.
I particularly recall a mirror in the back bedroom. It was the most completely
distorted mirror I have ever seen outside a fun house. It was the only one in the house as

far as I knew. I went to look at my distorted image almost every time we visited. The
reflection was like that because it was a mirror or low quality and thus low price. I think
she actually got it free some way.
Except for a trip to Cave Springs, Georgia, I believe they lived and died within ten
miles of the place of their births. For a few years they lived at McLarty which was several
miles from their normal locale. One time I drove them there to visit a couple who had
been their best friends. It had been years since they had seen then despite living so close.
If they ever saw them again, I didnt know about it.
The two were not ignorant in the sense of lack of intelligence. Both could read,
write and figure but neither had awareness of history or literature or other aspects of
cultural literacy. I dont recall ever having seen books or magazines in their house.
Perhaps they saw no need or value in such knowledge. Their manner of life wasnt
greatly different from persons living a hundred years before them.
I was horrified that they were on easy terms with mice in their house Vermin were
allowed to play openly on the counter in the kitchen. "Theyre my pets," Uncle Embry
said when I asked why he didnt kill them.
Bertha had always used a manual churn to make butter, but after they got
electricity, we gave them an electric churn that we no longer used. To our surprise, Bertha
took right on to it and used it all the time. It was one of the few luxuries she allowed
herself, perhaps because the butter she produced more than paid the cost of electricity.
But it might have been that she was simply tired of the drudgery of a manual churn. I
churned a few times and know how monotonous it can be. Theres a plunger that must be
pushed up and down, up and down. It takes a long time to produce butter.
Uncle Embry cultivated a small patch of watermelons along with cotton and corn.
Often, when we went to see them during watermelon season, he brought up a melon from
the patch. The group ate it on his front porch. At that time I didnt like watermelon. It was
a struggle to avoid having it forced upon me. "Every boy likes watermelon," my father
insisted. His sweeping generalization was wrong. I didnt like it a bit, although I learned
to eat it as an adult. Its still far from my favorite food.
During cotton harvest, Embry, followed the usual country practice. He nailed
sheets of tin around his front porch to contain cotton piled there. When enough
accumulated, it was taken by a neighbor to the gin for seed removal and formation into
bales to be sold to the cotton buyer. I loved to crawl around in the cotton and dig out
caves. It had an aroma unlike anything I have smelled anywhere else. Lumpy due to hard
seed, it didnt constitute it a particularly restful place to lie. My father told about having
slept in a pile of cotton when he was a child. Most likely it was true since they slept three
to a bed. Almost any refuge would be preferable to that.
A favorite country story about a pile of cotton went like this: A man who liked to
drink whiskey, but had to hide it from his wife, concealed it in the cotton. His son found

it and drank a bit several days in a row. After a while, the son noted that the level of
whiskey bottle had declined alarmingly. He took a newspaper, and in his illiterate fathers
presence, pretended to read. "It says here that if you store whiskey in cotton, itll
evaporate," he claimed. "Huh. I didnt know that. Guess I better go check mine," his
father said with concern. When the man returned, he lamented, "It did just like the paper
said. A big part of my bottle is gone. I wont make that mistake again."
One summer I worked a week for Embry picking cotton. At that time the cotton
stalks grew much taller than current cotton that is engineered to be gathered by
mechanical pickers. That created a fair amount of shade in the cotton patch. On my best
day I picked almost 100 poundsvery low compared to the adults who might pick 300
pounds in good cotton. Perhaps I could have done better, but it was hot and I was lazy.
We put the cotton into heavy cloth pick sacks with straps around our necks. When a sack
was filled, we hoisted it to our shoulders and brought it to the front porch to be weighed.
Weight was determined by balance-type cotton scales suspended from the ceiling.
I think I was around twelve years old when I picked cotton that summer, but am unclear
on that point. If I could, Id like to do it again for about five minutes.
Uncle Embry had agreed to pay a certain price per pound, but cheated me at the
first payday. Outraged, I mentioned it immediately, but he replied that was enough for me
to get. After that I didnt work for him anymore. Surely he must have known why I quit,
but he didnt mention it again and neither did I.
Still, I am glad to have had that minimal experience with manual cotton harvest. It
was a way of life in the South for a long time, but those days are gone with the advent of
the modern picking machine. Even Embry had his cotton picked mechanically during the
last few years he farmed. "It dont pick clean," Aunt Bertha objected. "People ought not t
use those things." Embry didnt let her complaints stop him. Likely, he would have
adapted fully to the modern world had he not been married to her. He even drove a
neighbors tractor at times. The couple never owned a car or truck. They were far too
expensive.
For decades, the schools in Marshall County, and most of Alabama, dismissed for
some weeks for "Cotton Picking." That had been economically necessary in the past, but
was one of those things that, while no longer worthwhile, couldnt easily be stopped.
Anytime the possibility of discontinuance of the practice was raised, a few loudmouth
farmers always raised a ruckus. Since the Superintendent of Education was elected, he
would cave in to their demands. Before I got into high school, that nonsense was finally
brought quietly to an end. By that time, very few children actually picked cotton. The
break seriously interfered with academic progress for no good reason.
I also picked a little cotton for Havana Gibson who rented our land at Mountain
View. Gibson also tried to cheat me, but in his case by total nonpayment. I continued to
dun him until he finally paid to get rid of me. My parents didnt want me to say anything
to him about it, but I was determined to get it if I could. Bold persistence finally brought

the desired result. Ive always disliked being cheated, even if I could afford to lose the
money.
Embry and Berthas farm was the only one I ever visited extensively. In addition
to the house previously described, they had a barn where they milked a single cow. Bales
of hay were stored in the loft. I loved to play in the loft where I would climb and sit on
the hay, and explore the various rooms. In that day, hay was in rectangular bales rather
than the huge rolls presently seen. It was stacked in the barn loft to keep it dry so it
wouldnt ruin. That furnished a great place to play since there were passages between
bales and good places to climb high. The hay had a dusty smell that made me sneeze, so
that detracted from the fun and how long I could stay.
To the left side of the barn was the hog pen where they raised two hogs each year,
mainly to kill and to sell the meat for money rather than personal consumption. It was a
muddy, stinky quagmire. At the end of each day, theyd "slop" the hogs in a wooden
trough. It was sort of fun to watch and hear them eat so enthusiastically. "Scratch the
hogs side with a corncob," Uncle Embry suggested. To my surprise, the animal
commenced to grunt with contentment. It laid down to enjoy being scratched as long as I
would do it.
Embry knew how to cure hams in the smokehouse behind his dwelling so as to
make a high grade of "country ham." He easily sold the tasty hams. On the very rare
occasions when we ate with them, Aunt Bertha cooked extremely thinly-sliced pieces of
that ham for so long that it broke into hard fragments at any attempt to cut it. That was a
way to have a small taste of meat at minimal cost.
I saw slaughter of the hogs only one time and was revolted. Embrys helper used a
rifle to shoot them in their heads. After many squeals plus futile attempts to get up, they
died. Embry made "pets" of the animals, but it didnt seem to bother him to slaughter
them in such a cruel manner. The executed hogs were hung up by their hind feet from a
wooden form to be processed. This consisted of removal of the internal organs and
butcher of the animals. Hog killing could take place only in the early winter when the
temperature could be depended upon to stay cool enough for the meat not to ruin. It was
cured in the smokehouse without refrigeration. A prolonged warm spell would mean
spoilage of the meat. Winters are now far too mild for this practice to continue even if
someone were inclined. You may still occasionally hear older people call a cold spell
"hog killing weather." A more detailed description of hog-killing appear in The Granny
Room: A Story of a Southern Family.
Embry owned a mule named "Old Pet." Over the years, he had become attached
to it and so kept the animal well beyond its useful life. The mule had a large bulge on one
side. "Thats the head of a boy Old Pet swallowed," he often said with a serious
expression. Indeed, it was the size and shape that could tend to add credibility to the tall
tale. Even as a small child, I knew better, but it was a fun story that we both enjoyed.

Embry used to entertain me with stories of Tandy Bogus, a creature that lived in
the storm pit at his previous house. Of course I knew it was a fantasy, but it was fun
trying to imagine its appearance. I sometimes went up to the opening of the storm pit and
glanced inside, but never entered. "Hey, you never know. Why take a chance?" I thought.
Besides, I didnt want to totally disprove the existence of Tandy Bogus. To remove any
possibility of doubt would ruin the stories. That house, later called the Austin house, was
a couple of miles past the last place they lived. We used to visit there when I was quite
young. This was the first place I ever saw a slingshot. It was one Embry had made from a
forked tree branch, rubber strips cut from an inner tube, and a leather pocket to hold the
rock. "Here, try it," he invited. "Shoot at the trunk of that tree." My shots fell immediately
to the ground or went off at a wild angle. Even when I grew older and had a slingshot of
my own, I didnt learn to use it well, mainly because I didnt practice. My father had told
me of his destruction, by accident, a beautiful bird when he was a child. I didnt want to
chance anything like that.
Across from the house, in a field, was a large erosion ditch Embry called "Old
Pets Trail." We often walked down the more than head-high wash when I visited, but the
most fun was the time when he mounted me on the back of Old Pet and let me ride down
it. There was no saddle so the bony back of the mule didnt make a comfortable seat, but
it was a big adventure to me.
One day when we discussed rural mail delivery Embry told me, "You put up the
red flag on the mailbox if you are expecting mail." Although I couldnt see how one
could know when to expect mail, I credulously believed the story for some time. One
visit, I raised the flag on the theory that they might well be expecting mail. Id wanted to
do that for some time. When the carrier stopped for nothing, both Embry and my father
scolded me severely when I explained why I had raised the flag. Embry wouldnt admit,
or didnt remember, that he had told me that lie about the flag. I thought less of him for a
while, but soon got over it. Its a part of growing up to learn that adults sometimes dont
tell the truth.
It was at that location where they had a pea patch some distance from the house.
One day I went with Aunt Bertha while she harvested peas. It was terribly hot so I began
to complain about heat and thirst. "Why did yall build the house so far from the pea
patch?" I asked in misery. Aunt Bertha was a humorless person, but somehow this caught
her fancy so much that she laughed and laughed about it and continued to tell that story
for years afterward. It amused her that I seemingly thought the pea patch had always been
at that location so that the dwelling should have been located in relation to it.
Here are additional details about their final home place next door to Aunt Mamie.
In addition to the hogs and mule, they kept on cow which was the source of the milk and
butter that Bertha sold. She regularly traded butter and eggs with the peddler. The
peddler operated what was called a "rolling store." That was important to country people
at that time and especially to Bertha and Embry since they never owned a car and neither
could drive. For more information on rolling stores, see The Granny Room.

At one time they had a dangerous rooster with large spurs. The aggressive fowl
was a threat to anyone in the yard. I remember being apprehensive, but it never attacked
me. About the same time they had a vicious cat. I made a mistake and picked it up. To
my astonishment, it turned in my hand and dug its claws on both front feet into my skin. I
still have a scar on the back of my left hand where it clawed me. That was the catalyst for
my distaste for cats which has grown stronger over the years.
Since there was no indoor bathroom, they had a crude wooden outhouse. The
original structure was to the right of the barn. It was improperly constructed even by
country standards. There was no pit under it so that the waste was clearly visible and
open to the pasture to pollute it when rain fell. It looked like a picture out of a
parasitology book to show how worms are transmitted to humans, but they never seemed
to have any problem. In the first outdoor toilet, they initially had a Sears catalog plus a
box of cobs that served for toilet paper. Thats just how conservative they were. The
second toilet, built year later, was behind the house but only slightly better constructed.
Surprisingly, they had advanced to a roll of regular toilet tissue. That was an incredible
luxury considering Aunt Berthas stinginess.
Among country people, many took great pride in having no grass in the yard
around their house. Theirs was like that. Bertha kept it totally free of grass with a hoe and
swept it clean with a homemade broom. They considered people with grass in their yards
to be lazy and trashy. Ironically, they never thought of themselves as trashy, but Id
venture that the vast majority of people in the United States would have classified them
that way. It is only in looking back on it that I realize how poorly they lived. At the time I
didnt think much about it.
At one point in their lives, Bertha and Embry developed pellagra which was due
to inadequate diet. That disease normally is seen only in developing countries or among
people living in dire poverty. In their case it was due to sheer stinginess, mainly on the
part of Bertha.
When Embry ate with relatives, he bolted the food like he was starved, which was
close to the truth. Bertha said many times that Embry didnt know how to handle money.
She did, even if it resulted in them living like paupers. They were by no means poor. By
the lesser standards of the time, they had a good bit of money in banks and the farm
didnt have a mortgage. Relative prosperity didnt do them much good.
Two large elm trees stood in the yard in front of their house. The roots had come
to be several inches above ground level, due to erosion caused by lack of grass to hold the
soil. I liked to walk and play on those roots. In later years I was disappointed when both
trees died and had to be cut. Most likely they had lived out their lives as they were huge.
Bertha and Embry had one child, a sickly infant, that died after a month or so.
Bertha recalled, "I went to get it to nurse it, but it was dead. Black stuff wuz oozin from
hits head an got hit all over my hand." They buried it without a grave marker. Later, they
became unsure as to which was its grave. Bertha never talked about the baby until near

the end of her life. It seemed clear to me that she regretted having failed to mark its
grave. "I wish I had a picture o my baby, even ef hit wu jest a dim one," she lamented.
It was quite sad. She had never seemed to care much for anybody. That was one of the
few times I felt truly sorry for her.
Bertha had nearly died giving birth to her child. Home deliveries were fraught
with many hazards if anything unexpected developed. "Ill see that she never goes
through something like that again," Embry declared with determination.
I suspect that they never had normal sexual relations after that. Embry got advice
of some type on contraception from a doctor friend of his. The doctor had an unsavory
reputation. Near the end of her life, Bertha expressed the wish that she could have had
another baby, and added, "Embry wouldnt do his part."
The only real hunting trip in which I participated started from Embry and Berthas
house. My father wanted me to go rabbit hunting, so to please him I agreed. As it turned
out, I shot the most rabbits of any of the group although the rest of them were older men.
Uncle Embry cautioned me about being too quick to shoot with the words, "Its better to
miss the rabbit than to get the dog." When we got back my father described my "success"
with some excitement to the rest hunters, but then added, in his characteristic way
demeaning way, "Of course I could have shot any of them myself." He seemed compelled
to put me down. I never went hunting again, nor do I desire to do so now.
Embry died as the result of a stroke some years before Bertha. She continued to
live alone in their house, but gradually became less capable of seeing to things. A serious
bout of shingles extended over half of her face. She wasnt normal after that and became
gradually less capable. For a time she was passed around among a few of her relatives,
but she was an ungracious, demanding, critical guest. On a couple of occasions, she
attempted to strike my mother. Soon, everyone had a fill of that. There was no choice but
for her to enter a nursing home. She made no objection to the move.
While a resident of that institution, she became obsessed with sex. If we can
believe what she said, a man at the nursing home convinced her that they were married
and induced her to have sex with him. "Id never have done it except that he told me we
were married," she declared. This when she was an old, unattractive woman. Grotesque
things do happen in those institutions. We should have pressed the matter, but nobody
bothered. The nursing home is the one now abandoned and fallen into ruin on highway
205 next to a stone house with a very steep roof. It was operated by E.L. Clark, a local
buffoon. Clark ran unsuccessfully for political office so often that the local joke became,
"Why is E.L. running again?" The answer was, "To keep the flies from blowing [laying
eggs on] him."
Leon took over Berthas financial affairs. Nursing home costs gradually used up
her assets. Despite her self-imposed life as a miser, it didnt seem to bother her at all that
large chunks of her assets vanished each month. "Bertha, all your money will be gone
within a few months," Leon warned her after a few years. "I dont care. I dont want any

of my relatives to get anything," she responded. "Does that include me, Bertha?" Leon
asked. "It sure does," she immediately returned. Leon had been her unpaid helper for
years. When virtually everything was used up, she went on Medicaid and continued to get
exactly the same care she had received. None of the attendants were aware of the change.
The business office personnel were the only ones who knew the source of payments.
A few hundred dollars were left from what Leon had reserved for her funeral. He
struggled over what to do with it. "Id give it to Mamie because she needs it the most,"
he said, "but she has been so hateful to me and critical of how I used Berthas money. I
just cant do it." "Keep it yourself, Leon," my parents advised. I dont know or care what
finally became of the inconsequential amount. Perhaps Leon kept it. He was well entitled.
We have a small bowl, clear but with white at the edges, that came from her house
at the settlement of her estate. We kept it as a souvenir. It has virtually no value. Almost
everything Bertha owned was cheap and unattractive. It was money itself that she craved
most of her life. On their fiftieth wedding anniversary, Embrys relatives gave a party
where they got a lot of gifts. Bertha wouldnt use them. "Im goin t put them away an
save them," she insisted. The items were still in that "saved" state at the time of her
death. No occasion grand enough to justify their use arose. Perhaps others got some good
from them. I know nothing of their disposal.
At one point she had a kerosene lamp decorated with a bright hand painted flower.
It was, by far, the most attractive item in her house. Alva, Leamons wife, talked her out
of it. On one of their rare visits to her house, Alva asked, "Bertha, if I outlive you, will
you will me that beautiful lamp?" Bertha replied, "Take it with you now."
When I saw it in her house in Bessemer years later, she had converted it to electric. I was
surprised at how cheap it looked and how small it was. That wasnt the way I
remembered it. The lamp looked good in Berthas house, but only because it was the
nicest thing she owned. None of us ever understood why she gave it Alva. Bertha didnt
like her and spoke against her. None of us wanted the lamp. It was just a surprising, outof-character act of generosity on Berthas part.
When I graduated from high school, Bertha and Embry gave me a couple of
pieces of underwear as a graduation present. I forced myself to pretend to be happy to get
it. They regarded it as a significant gift, but I knew that they selected it because it was
cheap. Id rather have had nothing.
They were among the last in Marshall County to have their house wired for
electricity. Even then, they used it as little as possible. A kerosene lamp functioned
adequately when they needed light. Much of the time, they sat in the dark and went to
bed early in order to conserve. Toward the end of their lives we gave them a television
set, but they rarely watched anything. "It might run up our electric bill," Bertha
explained.
When Bertha was in the hospital with shingles and expected to return home to
live, Delorise and I went to her house to clean it prior to her return. As soon as we entered
the side door, we smelled an odor like develops in a closed-up house that has not been

lived in for some time. Yet, things looked superficially orderly. "I dont believe this is
gonna be too hard," I remarked. "It shouldnt take more than a couple of hours."
I was wrong. The place was teemed with insects, mouse pellets, cobwebs, and an
enormous numbers of long-legged spiders. The arachnids walked on the floor and walls,
inside drawers, crawled behind cabinets, and stalked openly on counters and tables.
I went into the back bedroom and took the distorted mirror from the wall to take a final
look at my reflection in it. Several spiders adhered to the back. I quickly returned it to its
nail. "Disgusting," Delorise remarked. "Are they poisonous?" I looked more closely.
Brown with a violin mark on the upper surface, they clearly were brown recluse. One of
only two types of dangerous spiders in Alabama, their bite causes a place to rot out. The
victim suffers for months and may even require skin grafts. "Theyre very dangerous," I
replied. "Were getting out of here right now. It isnt worth the risk." How Aunt Bertha
managed to live there without serious bites I couldnt imagine. Failure to clean the house
didnt matter. She was never able to live there again.
Most of her life, Bertha had a terror or storms and raced to the storm pit anytime
even mild conditions developed. I dont know what led to this since, far as I know, a
tornado never came near her. The closest was the 1908 tornado that destroyed nearby
Albertville, but it had no affect where she lived. That excessive fear was common among
the immediate neighbors. Four families combined their money and labor to build a sturdy
storm pit at the side of the road. Heavy clouds or even distant lightning caused a crowd to
rush for shelter. It still stands across the road from Aunt Mamies house. When on a visit,
I went in with them a time or two because I thought it a great adventure to sit in the
dampness and darkness of the storm pit. Most likely, Bertha, like most Baptists, believed
that if it wasnt "your time" you wouldnt be killed, but if so, she made no application of
that belief in her own case. It seemed inconsistent to me for a person holding such a tenet
to attempt to thwart Divine will. If her god wanted her dead, it made no sense to resist.
Aunt Berthas egg custard was the one dessert she made. It was a particular
favorite of mine. For years she had me go into the kitchen and get a piece when I came to
visit. It was done on a wood stove and had a better taste than any I have ever seen. I can
"taste" it in my mind right now. Although made of eggs, it was kept in a kitchen cabinet
called a safe. There was no refrigeration. Its surprising that the dangerous practice didnt
result in food poisoning.
I was out of State at the time of the deaths of both Embry and Bertha. Therefore I
didnt attend either the visitation or funeral. Ive never regretted it. I dislike seeing dead
people and dont plan to see one again if its in my control to avoid. I venture that few
mourned the passing of Uncle Embry and Aunt Bertha, but I did. Despite their faults, I
liked them both. Their graves are at Mt. Olive Church. They are never decorated with
flowers. I dont do it because I know she would view it as a scandalous waste of money.
About Aunt Mamie Camp Gibson
Aunt Mamie was one of my favorite relatives. She regularly kept me when we
lived at the "Smutty House" along with Vada. This was described earlier. Over the years,

as a child, I often stayed with her for short times at her various houses. The first such visit
I can recall was after we had moved to Mountain View. She rented a house on highway
205 almost across from Marshall Memory Garden where she and my parents are buried. I
spent the night with her, especially recall the sound of a rooster crow during the early
hours of the morning. I think it was around four o-clock. I never had known that a rooster
crowed at night. She had a room in that house filled with disorganized clutter. Since she
lived alone, she had no real need for it. "Thats my junk room," she said. That instantly
became my name for any room used primarily for storage. Ive continued to use the term
down through the years.
We had a big family dinner at that house once. In Alabama, "dinner" is what is
called "lunch" in most places. "Supper" is the name for the evening meal. In addition to
Aunt Mamies children, most of the Camp brothers and sisters who lived in Marshall
County participated. I dont remember much about it, but always think of that day when
we pass that house. I was a young child.
Leston, one of Mamies sons, lived diagonally across from her in what was called
the "Potato House." The foundation of it is still there at the edge of the Memorial
Gardens.
Another place I recall her living was in a frame house which faced the side of
N.M. Camps house on Thaxton Avenue in Albertville. Milas owned the house. It must
have had a bad foundation as the floor was very noticeably unlevel. I recall being able to
roll down slants on it while on a tricycle. Aunt Mamie sometimes kept me at that place
when my parents went to dances. I knew their plans and wanted them to go, but it was
hard not to cry when they left. What made it especially difficult was that, when I cried,
my mother came back instead of just going on to the dance. Each time she did that, it
renewed my agitation. I told her to just go on, but somehow it never worked until she put
me through the "separation anxiety" more than once. There were no bad intentions on her
part I am sure but it made it doubly hard on me. I always tended to be a crybaby.
There was a very fine rose vine which grew at one end of the front porch. I still
can "smell" the wonderful fragrance of the blooms. I pulled off rose petals to smash
between my fingers to enhance the aroma. I liked the way it turned my fingers red.
While we sat on that porch, Aunt Mamie told me, "Today, Ive lived half my life. Im
fifty years old." That very nearly came true as she lived for over 99 years.
I recall Beamon in a chair on the front porch of that house with Flora seated on
his lap. I think they werent yet married. He played the guitar and sang "Souix City Sue."
I thought he was saying "Sue" as in a girls name since I had yet to encounter the other
word. This must have been shortly after the end of World War II. I knew Beamon and
Leston had been "overseas" as it was then called. They had been drafted, along with
millions of others, but both managed to survive to come home. "I had several chances to
get killed, but managed to stay alive," Beamon told me decades later. It was at that house
where Beamon told my father about a joke that had been pulled on a friend of his.

"They put a potato into the exhaust pipe of his car. No matter how much they tried, it
wouldnt crank," he related. That sounded fun so slipped out and put a potato into his
exhaust pipe. Sure enough, when he got ready to leave, his car wouldnt start despite his
best efforts. Nobody seemed to notice me snigger in the background. "I guess Ill have to
call a mechanic," he said in exasperation. I realized that would cost money and so
quickly confessed. "Dont do that. I put a potato in the tail pipe." They quickly checked
and there it was. "Why did you do that?" my father demanded angrily. "Youre going to
get a whipping." "I heard yall talking about it and wanted to see if it would work," I
admitted. It looked like I was in serious trouble, but Beamon, as a good sport, intervened
in my defense. "It was my fault for telling something like that in front of him," he
declared. "It was too big a temptation to try it. Leave him alone." When they removed
the potato, the car cranked immediately. The incident became a favorite family story.
For a good many years, Mamie lived in a small frame house in sight of Bertha and
Embrys house. It was built on land that they, incredibly, allowed her to use free. I
thought at the time, based on a discussion between Bertha and Embry, that they expected
her to help them without pay in order to compensate for the use of the tiny spot of land.
"Mamies supposed to help us to make up the land, but shes not doing it," Bertha angrily
told Embry. They didnt know I overheard them. What he responded I dont know. The
conversation became inaudible as they went inside. That was the only time I heard about
any such arrangement.
Years later, I helped them get a surveyor to legally transfer the lot, so it must have
been when I was around sixteen years old since I could drive. Bertha told Embry with
irritation, "Mamies going to have to pay the charge." Bertha obviously gave the spot of
land grudgingly. They had it surveyed with just as little space as possible for the house,
an outdoor toilet, and a small garden spot.
The house initially had just two rooms, a living room and kitchen. I think her bed
was in one corner of the kitchen. There was a porch across the front which was almost a
universal feature in country houses of that time. Over the years, Mamies children
gradually enlarged and improved the house, so that it had a separate bedroom, and
ultimately an indoor bathroom. It was a comfortable little house which I visited each
week when I came to pick up the milk and butter from Aunt Bertha.
Mamies husband, Ude, had abandoned her early in their marriage. She was left
her with three small children, Beamon, Leston, and Vada. From what I have been told,
Ude was cruel to his family. Reportedly, he once slapped Vada completely across a bed
and injured her. He married some other woman, apparently without a divorce. He
became the father of another son. Fairly soon, he was killed in an accidental cave-in of a
ditch. His second "wife" sent Mamie pictures of him in his casket. Aunt Mamie used to
get out those pictures and show them to me when I visited.
His son was a half-brother to Mamies children, but they didnt know him or
where he lived. It was many years before they found one another. Beamon had made
repeated efforts to locate him, but without success. He did finally found his fathers

grave. He used the name "Anderson" which was his middle name. The long-lost brother
unexpectedly phoned Beamon. He had found information in his deceased mothers papers
that pointed to North Alabama. Prior to that, he had thought his lost siblings lived in
Georgia. Beamon visited him, but Vada didnt get to see him before he died not long after
making contact with them. In fact, the brother died while Beamon was on the way home
from his visit.
It was always fun to visit with Aunt Mamie, despite the fact that she always talked
at length about people I didnt know. "I dont know who that is, Aunt Mamie," I protested
after I listened to a detailed description of the people or some events in their lives. "You
surely must know them," she insisted.
She spent the last few years of her life in a nursing home in Albertville, but she
was never the same. Her mind seemed to have slipped. I wondered if it might be due to
medications. I hated to see her in that condition, but she had top quality care. After
several years, Vada called to tell us that we had better come if we wanted to see Aunt
Mamie again. Of course we went that same day. She was awake and looked at us, but
wouldnt say anything. She died later that night just short of 100 years old. Her burial
was at Marshall Memorial Garden.
About Uncle Leamon Camp and Aunt Alva
Leamon and Alva were the relatives I saw the most even though they didnt live in
Marshall County. Their daughter Nancy was a couple of years younger than I and their
son John several years younger. They, with some regularity, appeared at our house on
Sundays, always without notification of their intentions. This was particularly
inconvenient, since they almost always appeared at lunch time, and expected to be fed.
I know that Mother didnt like it. She worked hard and needed Sunday to rest for the
upcoming week. "I sure hope Leamon and Alva dont come today," she sometimes said.
Only one time do I remember that she declined to fix a meal. She insisted that we go to
the foot of the mountain toward Guntersville to eat at Jacks Hamburgers. At that time,
the place sold hamburgers for about 12 cents, well below the going rate. Nancy was the
only one who was not gracious about it. She had a sullen look on her face and frowned
even more when we pulled up in front of the place. "Is that the only choice" she
complained. Nobody seemed to notice or care what she said. We ate there that time.
They were actually pretty good burgers which tells a lot about the increase in prices over
the years.
On one occasion they showed up when my parents were gone. I cooked for them,
although I was just a teenager at the time. I prepared large hamburgers and prepared a
couple of side dishes. We had a good meal and it was fun to me to fix. I had never cooked
a meal for company. Even Leamon seemed impressed at how well it turned out.
Leamon had his masters degree from Peabody College where I later finished
graduate school. Nancy got her bachelors degree at the same institution. He served as
principal in several places including Sylacauga, Plainview, and Bessemer. The last

several years of his career, he was principal of Bessemer Junior High. On a visit, he
showed us his quite fine school but then took us by the corresponding Negro school. This
was in the days of "separate but equal" under the Plessy v. Ferguson case. The facility for
blacks was horrible. The building was extremely run-down. Window panes broken out in
quite a few places. The grounds were not landscaped. Litter was everywhere. Leamon
was embarrassed by it as were many moderate Southerners of the time, but that was the
way things were during those days of segregation. The truth was that separate was
virtually never equal.
To be candid, Leamon was a sullen and really quite rude person. The few times
that, as a child, I tried to talk directly to him, he went out of his way to be obnoxious.
That continued throughout his life. After Alvas death, Delorise and I decided to make
one more effort to be cordial with him. When we were in Bessemer for an assembly we
phoned to ask him to let us take him out to eat. We had already decided that if he was
discourteous again, that would be the last attempt. True to form, he was extremely rude
and acted almost outraged that we would ask. "No I wont do that!" he said emphatically.
"Ive already had supper." I had somewhat expected such a response, but it still flustered
me. "Then go along have a drink or dessert and visit with us," I offered. He declined
even that, so I hung up the phone just as quickly as possible. From that point onward, I
washed my hands of him. We continued to come to Bessemer regularly and were less
than a mile from his house, but we didnt contact him again.
A few years before my fathers death, I learned that Leamon had been rude to him
as a child to the extent of deep offense that lasted for years. My father admired Leamon
as an older brother and wanted to go places with him. Leamon ended that with the
words, "I wish you would leave me alone and quit following me around all the time.
Youre a pest."
Alva was a Kennamer, from a huge family of rabid false religionists. Her father
was severely mentally ill. He spent many years in an insane asylum where he died. The
mental illness apparently passed down to Alva. She spent time in the mental unit of
Birmingham hospitals even though she didnt become permanently institutionalized.
Better drugs had become available over the years. Nancy also has had spells of mental
problems, although she seems to be okay now. At one point, she had to take a leave of
absence from her job and remain at home for months. If it has affected John or his
children, I havent learned about it.
Both Alva and Nancy have the demeanor of snobs. Alva bragged for years about
her maid and even showed us a small bell on the coffee table she used to summons the
servant. We thought it odd that the maid wasnt present anytime we visited. Later, we
discovered that the "maid" was nothing but one-day-a-week cleaning lady.
They lived on Dartmouth Avenue (now called Martin Luther King Boulevard) in a
small, quite ordinary brick house. It looked better inside than outside. Alva had good taste
with interior decoration. The place had a detached garage with a rental apartment above.

It had been a middle class neighborhood when they bought there, but went downhill
severely as the result of racial turnover during the last several years of Leamons life.
Leamon outlived her for a good many years before he died unexpectedly from a
minor surgical procedure performed at Caraway Hospital. We attended Leamons funeral
in Bessemer. It was arranged so as to be unavoidable to walk close alongside his open
casket. It was a horrible sight. He reminded me of an old dried up vampire from a horror
movie. Nancy seemed to be oblivious to his actual appearance and even made an attempt
to get us to agree that he looked "good." I made no response.
Nancy and John have both been married twice. Nancy never had children. John
has one child with each of his wives. Alva was embarrassed by their divorces to the
extent that she didnt tell us about them. I learned it from John and Nancy when they
came by the hospital at Guntersville when Uncle Embry was a patient. Only after Alva
discovered that we knew did she discuss it with my parents. It was clear that she was
distraught about it. According to her foolish belief, both of them were lined up for hellfire
when they remarried since they didnt have Scriptural grounds for divorce.
John lives in Hoover and Nancy in Tallahassee, Florida. Nancy and her husband
also have a beach house. I wrote Nancy about a month before my fathers death to
suggest that she visit since he was her fathers only surviving full sibling, but she didnt
come. I wasnt surprised.
A visit to Leamon and Alva that stands out in my mind is one when Aunt Alva
served a terribly skimpy meal. Leon and Cleo were with us. We had been specifically
invited for a meal on that particular day. There wasnt enough food even for Alvas
family. She made the situation worse when she repeatedly insisted that everyone take
seconds. "Have some more. Theres plenty," she said several times, even though there
was only a tiny amount in each of the few serving dishes. She seemed oblivious to the
actual situation. The meal was an acute embarrassment to everyone but her. We had to
pretend that we "couldnt eat any more." All of us were hungry when we left, so we
stopped at a caf to have a decent meal. That was the last time we ever ate with them. It
became a family joke. Most likely mental illness was even then at work on Alva.
In much later years, Leamon and Alva made a few trips with my parents. The
vacation was uncomfortable from the start. They had agreed that each couple would
alternate to pay the cost of gas. My father stopped and filled up after only a short drive
when it was his turn. He then wanted to delay the next stop until the tank was nearly
empty. Alva caught on to his trickery. "Why is it always so much more when we pay?"
she protested. Joint travel by the two couples came to an abrupt end as a result of his
attempt to molest Alva. They were a long way from home near the beginning of a trip
when it happened. Alva, understandably, told Leamon about it and that she wanted to go
home. "I left my prescription medicine at home," he pretended. "We have to head back
right away." Alva was only one in a long series of victims of my fathers insatiable sexual
advances. It wasnt the first or last time he did something like that with my Mother near
at hand. He continued the practice, in one form or another, to within days of his death.

Leamon and Alva were placed in a pull-out drawer in a mausoleum somewhere in the
vicinity of Bessemer. Ive not seen it.
About Uncle Leon Camp and Aunt Cleo
Leon was a young child when Belle came into the family so she treated him better
than the older children. This let Leon serve as sort of a bridge between the two sets of
children. Even though Leon and Cleo lived at Albertville the whole time I dont recall
having seen them much until well after their son, Richard, was grown. Somehow, my
father showed little interest in association with his brothers and sisters.
Leon literally married the "girl next door." Cleo was a Gunnels who lived in the
house beside Milas and Belle on Thaxton Avenue. That house no longer stands. Belle
didnt like her and seemed to think that she wasnt up to the social level of the Camps. At
least, thats what Ive been told.
The two houses, by mutual agreement, shared a common driveway from the
street, but Belle became disgruntled about its use. She eventually drove nails into a board
and placed it on her side of the driveway to puncture their tires if they dared come that far
toward her property.
She became highly offended when she saw Cleos brother wash his car while
dressed only in his swim trunks. "He was washing his car with nothing on but
underwear," she declared angrily. Like anyone, Belle had her faults along with many
good qualities. She could be reasonable and fun. One of her favorite sayings was "I never
saw a board that didnt have two sides." Perhaps there was some reason for her
antagonism towards the Gunnels family that she never chose to reveal.
Cleo was not in good command of English grammar at the time of their marriage.
She overcame the most egregious errors with Leons help. Cleo felt quite a bit inferior
since she hadnt gone to college whereas Leon was a college graduate. In so far as I
know, she never worked outside the home.
I remember when Richard was born in the hospital at Albertville. It had been a
hard delivery which left Cleo looking exceptionally bad. We visited in her room for a
while, but she was unresponsive and didnt need company. After we left, my father told
me something that I blindly believed for a long time. "Childbirth is as close to death as a
woman can come." The horrifying idea might have been true in that case, but its surely
not true in general. I was too young to realize that he was mistaken. I thought of what he
had said frequently before I learned better.
I had no association with Ricky although we were close enough in age that it
could have been possible, especially since we were first cousins. Neither family made
any effort to have us become acquainted. After I was grown, we occasionally visited
Leon and Cleo at their little house on Hwy 431 in Albertville. Cleo was an excellent
housekeeper and custodian of the grounds. If Leon did anything around the house I never

heard of it. My speculation is that he viewed such things as "her job." He got to retire, but
she didnt. Of course, I may be wrong.
For a period of time Leon and Cleo made trips with my parents, but that came to
an end when my father attempted to molest her while they were on a trip. To make it
worse, he did it in the presence of her husband. Cleos description of the incident, as
related by Vada, was "He started chasing me to try to kiss me. I ran away, but he kept
after me. I had to call out for Leon to help before he would stop." She was outraged at the
harassment.
After my parents moved to Russellville, Leon and Cleo occasionally came for day
visits. Celo and Mother were close friends. "Cleo is like a sister to me," Mother often
said. They spoke regularly on the telephone. Cleos sudden death took us all by surprise,
especially since she was far younger than Leon. She had been at work in the yard, went
inside, and collapsed. When Leon returned and discovered her, she was still alive. At the
hospital, the personnel put her on a respirator. She remained unresponsive for several
hours. "We need to remove the respirator," the doctor insisted. "Shell never be anything
but in a vegetative state." She died shortly after the respirator was taken away. The
doctor who gave them that advice had recently ended the life of his own wife in the same
manner. We felt Cleo should have been given a longer time to see if she might rally, but
that was a decision to be made by her family. We have no right to criticize.
Leon continue to visit Russellville with some regularity. Although he slept in the
guest bedroom at the far end of the house, he complained, "That train kept me awake. I
dont see how you can sleep." We thought it ironic that, he who lived by a perpetually
noisy highway, was bothered by the distant sound of the train. It generally passed only
once a night and was barely audible at our distance from the track. Leon stopped his
visits for two main reasons. First, Mother got where she was unable to cook and clean.
Second, he took up with Nellie, a woman in Guntersville. He ultimately moved into her
house. Both denied a sexual relationship. It was probably true. "He has his room and I
have mine. Leon is a perfect gentleman," Nellie said almost every time we were in her
presence. We visited at Nellys house on Lake Guntersville only once. They appeared to
get along cordially. Her house was a modest structure, but had a wonderful frontage on
the lake. It would be easy to enjoy the place.
Mother didnt like Nelly. When they lived in Guntersville and were active in the
American Iris Society, Nelly also attended. She visited their iris gardens one spring.
"Somebody stole one of my best irises, and there it is!" she asserted as she pointed to a
plant in their garden. Mother didnt like her before that, but after being accused of theft,
she fumed each time she saw the woman.
Richard and his children greatly disapproved of Leon and Nellies cohabitation.
Especially irksome to Megan and Amy was the fact that Nellie sent them cards on special
occasions and signed them "Grandpa and Grandma." "She isnt our grandmother," they
said correctly and with obvious annoyance. Of course, my Father thought it was just
fine. "Its nobodys business," he spit out angrily. It was just the type of thing he might

have done had he outlived my Mother and been able to find a woman who would accept
him.
Maria disliked Leon and referred to him as "Uncle Llama," outside his hearing,
because of his dirty habit to spit constantly. She had become friends with one of Leons
granddaughters and so adopted their view as to his relationship with Nellie.
Leon was much older than Cleo, so when he retired he took a greatly reduced
retirement in anticipation of her being able to draw after his death. If he had taken the full
benefit, it would have meant she could get nothing. It seemed sensible, but had
unpleasant consequences. They had to live together on a much smaller check, and she
didnt outlive him. "I did it because she was fifteen years younger and because women
generally live longer than men," he lamented after her death. "It never cost the retirement
system a dime, but Ill continue to draw the smaller check the rest of my life."
Cleo was so excited when she began, at age 62, to draw a wifes pension from
Social Security. `"Ive never had any money that was just mine before," she said happily.
Unfortunately, she drew it only a short time before death claimed her.
Leon died after surgery for an aneurysm of the aorta. His death didnt seem to be
due to the operation. For some reason, he went into a rapid decline and didnt get to leave
the hospital. Its thought possible that he had a heart attack. The minister frankly stated
that religion played little part in Leons life. I knew that, but was surprised to hear it said.
Usually, death imparts virtue, if not sainthood on the deceased. As part of his fathers
funeral, Richard came to the front and delivered an eulogy in which he praised his father
profusely. It was not emotional, but well delivered. Afterward, I told Richard, "You did a
great job with the eulogy. If my father dies, I surely couldnt say something like that."
I meant that I couldnt say it because it wouldnt be true, but let Richard make whatever
interpretation of the remark that he chose.
About Uncle Gaston Morris and Aunt Edee Satterfield
Aunt Edee came to Guntersville to help with my mother and me immediately after
my birth. In that day, a woman who gave birth typically stayed in the hospital for a week.
Then she was sent home in an ambulance with instructions not to do anything for ten
days. The stay wasnt entirely work for Aunt Edee. She hadnt been to Guntersville
before. The huge lake had only recently been created by the TVA. She told me, "While I
stayed there, Howard gave me the keys to the car and told me to drive around over town.
I went down by the lake and parked."
Mother laughed each time she described her trip home in the ambulance. It was a
story she liked to relate. "The driver brought a blanket to cover me. It was blue on one
side and red on the other. He solemnly explained that they turned blue up if the person
was expected to live, but red if the patient was expected to die." The idea that the blanket
had laid on dead people made her feel creepy. Then he laughed and put the blue side up.
She realized it was a macabre joke.

After I got old enough to remember Aunt Edee and Uncle Gaston, they only
occasionally visited at our house, but we saw them frequently at Fayetteville. For many
years, they lived there on the weekends although they also had a place in Birmingham
where both worked. We occasionally visited them in Birmingham. The first place of
theirs that I recall was strange because the commode was located in the kitchen totally
open to view. "It has a spring in the kitchen," Uncle Gaston joked. Across from there
was an area of limestone mining that had been dug very deep. My father, Uncle Gaston
and I walked over there to look at it. It seemed impressively immense to me, but I was
quite small.
The place I liked best was off of Highland Avenue in Birmingham. They had a
garage apartment behind a large house in a neighborhood of impressive old houses. There
was a living room downstairs adjacent to the garage. The upper level had the remainder
of the living quarters. It looked very nice to me, but probably wasnt by todays
standards. Even though I was sixteen years old, this was the first place I saw squirrels run
around in residential areas. Since I was allowed to walk anywhere in the neighborhood, I
went from their place to a road that ran alongside a sunken park. There were some luxury
cars parked on the street that I wanted to see up close. That was when I was so intensely
interested in cars. I especially recall a 1955 Imperial sedan that I regarded as a splendid
auto. It was parked on the street beside the road that encircled the park. There were few
changes to see an automobile of that caliber except from a distance.
In recent years, I was able to identify the location when I circled enough in the
area. To my regret, the garage apartment has been torn down with only a cement
foundation showing its former location. We spent the night there while they went to stay
with Emma Pill in her enormous old house. I slept on the couch in the downstairs living
room. Uncle Gaston warned me, "Youll have to leave the outside door open a crack or
youll burn up in this heat. Just leave the chain attached." After my parents settled in for
the night upstairs, I began to feel creepy with the door ajar, so decided to shut it entirely.
It was all right for about thirty minutes. After that, the temperature steadily climbed until
it became unbearable. I decided having the door open a crack wasnt so bad after all.
The next day, we all drove out to Lake Purdy where Birmingham got its water.
The place was clean and attractive. Strangely, the thing I recall best was a demonstration
of Uncle Gastons wry sense of humor. We walked on the sidewalk toward some type of
building. Right in front of us were a couple. He was normal size, but his wife had an
enormous bottom. It was both huge and wide. Uncle Gaston held out his hands to
simulate measuring the width. He said, in a voice a bit too loud, "Two axe handles wide."
If the couple heard him, they must have decided to let it pass. Edee punched him and
gestured sternly for him to be quiet. She later said she was worried that the womans
husband would take offense and give trouble.
Later they lived in a fully furnished house as "house sitters" in an upper class
residential neighborhood. It belonged to people named Broadfoot. It had elegant
furnishings, plus a basement garage and other lower level rooms where a sewing school

had once operated. Across the street lived a man who had the first electric garage door
opener I had seen. He drove up in his 1957 Ninety-Eight Oldsmobile, leaned over to
press the operating switch, and up the door went. At that time, the switch was
permanently mounted to the dashboard rather than on a remote control clipped to the sun
visor. While such an arrangement is common today, that was when such devices first
came onto the market. I was just carried away with such a luxury. "Its incredible how
some people live," I exclaimed.
Uncle Gaston had problems with employment. When I first remember, he had a
good job as an exterminator for Orkin, but the chemicals he used began to affect his
health severely. He was forced to give up the position. It was some years before he got
another well-paid job. In the meantime he worked at Yonders Blossom, a curb market in
Sylacauga. It was owned by Cullman Thomas who I think is a distant relative. A time or
two, I got the chance to hang out there and watch the customers come and go. The place
sold live crickets from a large wooden box as fish bait. It was open at the top, yet none of
them escaped. "What makes them stay in there?" I asked. Uncle Gaston explained, "That
white line painted inside all the way around the top stops them. They wont cross it."
Our cousin Kermit occasionally came by to make some purchase. He had always been
strange in appearance and odd acting. He was extraordinarily thin and often said weird
things. Shortly after that, he was arrested for showing stag movies to minor boys. After
that he avoided us.
Eventually, Uncle Gaston established his own curb market at Alexander City and
named it "What" curb market. When we asked where he came up with a name like that,
he explained. "People kept asking me what I was going to call it. So I told them that was
the name, What." I didnt think it a very good name, but it probably got attention which
may have been his intention. He left there when an opportunity arose to work in the big
post office in downtown Birmingham. That was a very much better job with regular
hours, assured pay, and the possibility of advancement. While he worked there, in order
to economize, he lived on the 7th floor of what is now the Tutwiller Hotel. That floor was
for men only and didnt have private baths in each room. There were uppity women who
lived on some of the other floors. All residents shared the same set of elevators. He
entered the lift one day just after one of those women. She punched the button for her
floor and then asked him, "What floor?" "Oh," she cried in alarm when asked for the
seventh floor. Before the door could close, she abruptly got off. "I wonder if she thought
I intended to drag her off on the seventh floor," he said with a laugh. Uncle Gaston was
lots of fun.
The possibility of advancement became a reality. He left there to become
postmaster at a tiny post office near the marble quarry in Sylacauga. An industry located
next door, ground up marble to go into flour. His red car was white with dust at the end of
each day. To breathe such polluted air couldnt have been good for his health.
Later he got to take the job as postmaster at Sycamore a few miles out from Sylacauga.
This was a bigger and nicer post office in a better area. This is where he was employed
until his retirement.

Over time, Uncle Gaston went from virtually no resemblance to his father to
closely resembling him in his older years. Unfortunately, he suffered from bad health his
entire life. As a baby, he was sickly and not expected to live. He was more durable than
the doctors thought and survived to a fairly old age. He died at Brookwood Hospital in
Birmingham despite his doctor insisting that there was nothing wrong with him.
In old age, Aunt Edee asked me to assume a power of attorney and to help her
draw up a new will which mainly benefits the Society. I was designated as Executor. Her
sister, Jean Watson, got an absolute grant of $5,000. She has left her personal goods to me
with the private agreement, not part of the will, that I can take what I want and then give
away the rest to any of the Witnesses. Mainly, I wanted only a few items of sentimental
value. She asked me if she needed to give me anything, but I told her that I was in good
shape financially and she should do what we wanted with her estate. Nobody can rightly
say that I influenced her in how she wrote the new will. The lawyer sent me out and
questioned her privately to make sure of that, even though I was to receive little of actual
value. This also gave him the opportunity to ascertain that she was "of sound mind."
I helped her with management of her finances too. She barely had enough
monthly income to meet expenses. I learned that she had nearly $90,000 in a bank
account at almost no interest. I got her to move it to a Certificate of Deposit. That
interest, paid monthly, gave her a bit over $300 more income. That was a substantial help
to supplement her annuity and Social Security check. She got a tiny retirement check
from the hospital where she worked for decades, under $20 a month. She had over
$100,000 in cash plus a house and thirteen acres. Her assets must be used first to care for
her needs during her lifetime, then her expenses must be paid, but a substantial amount
will remained to the Society to use as it sees fit. "Some people just cant wait for you to
die so they can get what you have," she had told me angrily several times before she
asked me to help her with the new will and finances. She didnt say who it was, but Jean
Watson and her children got a nasty surprise when the new will was revealed. Nobody
knew its contents but Aunt Edee, Delorise (alternate executor), and me. I advised Aunt
Edee not to reveal its contents or to tell anyone how much money she has. The will was
drawn up by a lawyer in Sylacauga. Under Alabama law, it is virtually impossible to
break a will. As I had hoped, there was no useless litigation.
I had hoped she could live a long time in reasonable health. She was the last of the
immediate Morris family with which I grew up. She had a stroke in her kitchen while
putting good into her microwave. Aunt Edee was airlifted to the University Hospital in
Birmingham where she died several days later. I may write more about her separately at
some later time.
About Vada Gibson King
The first time I can remember Vada (often called "Vader") was when we lived at
the "Smutty House" in Albertville while my father was in Washington State. Aunt Mamie
kept me during the day while my mother worked. Vada shared an apartment with her. I
mainly remember her yodel which was a new sound to me. I always thought Vada to be

quite beautiful, but really it was mainly that she dressed well, kept an proper weight, and
knew how to use cosmetics. For the same reasons, she remained attractive in her eighties.
She married Garvin King whom Aunt Mamie never liked because he belonged to the
Church of Christ and because he was a divorced man. According to reports, Garvin came
home unexpectedly to find his wife engaged in sex with another man. If thats true, Aunt
Mamie had no right to fault him. He had every legal and scriptural right to divorce and
remarry.
My mother introduced Garvin to Vada at his request. Garvin was considered to be
strikingly handsome when young, but in later years he developed narcolepsy so that he
fell asleep at inappropriate times. Vada became quite annoyed with him during the latter
years since he didnt always work regularly. Not long before he died, she reportedly even
mentioned the possibility of divorce, but I dont know if she was serious. I didnt hear her
say that, so it may not even be true. Family gossip is often far from reliable.
I remember when Vada was pregnant with Tony mainly because she left me feel
her abdomen as he moved. That was a new experience for me. When Tony was a tiny
baby, they lived in Guntersville near the boat docks. While I held him, I reached up and
turned on a lamp. He said very plainly what sounded exactly like "light." It couldnt have
been, since he was far too young to talk. It was just a random sound that I made fit the
circumstances. Anecdotes like that dont make good science and often lead to mistaken
conclusions. Yet, it impressed me enough that I still remember it decades later.
I recall nothing about her pregnancy with Marla or about Marlas birth. We went
through spells of no contact with relatives for extended periods. I dont know what
accounted for that.
Vada and Garvin had an attractive brick house near the top of the mountain a few
miles from my parents home place. Vada was an excellent housekeeper. The house
looked nearly new inside despite being decades old. After Garvins death she sold that
place to move to where she died in Albertville. The home place, with its extensive
grounds, was too hard for her to maintain. I never heard her say, but I suspect the utility
bill was high.
At one point, Vada dated Dean Taylors brother. We thought it possible that she
might be moving to Phil Campbell, but it didnt work out that way. The man wanted
someone to "become" his dead wife. Vada understandably didnt want to assume such a
role. "I have to be who I am, not somebody else," she sensibly said.
After that, her regular suitor was Sherman Heaton. They got along well and he
was generous with her, but she didnt want to marry him. Sherman died in the Albertville
Nursing Home, leaving part of his assets to Vada.
About Beamon Gibson

I saw Beamon mainly at Aunt Mamies house since he visited her often. He
worked as a fireman at Redstone Arsenal. Beamon drove a series of DeSotos which
impressed me, as a teenager, since they were nicer cars than most. One time at Aunt
Mamies house Beamon and I played extensively with my BB gun even though he was an
"old" man and I was just a child. I thought it nice that he took up time with me like that.
Its doubtful that he remembers that day, but it meant something to me. I seldom saw
Flora, but when I did, she seemed extremely nice. My impression was that there was ill
will between Aunt Mamie and her. I dont know why I thought that, or even if it was true.
At any rate, she didnt go with Beamon when he visited his mother.
Beamon had been in World War II, but never discussed his experiences until a few
years ago. He sometimes spoke of them which added interesting details to what I have
learned from studying history. He was trained by the army as a paratrooper. For a time he
taught that skill at Ft. Benning near Columbus, Georgia. Once he parachuted into hostile
territory. He had been scheduled to go into Japan for hand-to-hand combat with the
worshipers of the Emperor when the atomic bomb was dropped to end the War.
He said, "How you feel about the bomb depends on where you were." Without it, he
would have stood a high chance of being killed in Japan since they had resolved to fight
to the death rather than surrender. The Emperor was considered to be a god by the
Japanese. Beamon entered Japan as part of a conquering force. He participated in
explosion of tunnels and other reinforcements they had build in preparation for a
prolonged, futile ground war. Had that developed, there would have been countless death,
both American and Japanese.
Beamon and Flora traveled extensively within the United States, partly in
connection with bowling. Toward the end of 2008, Beamon took a bad fall when on a
visit to Sherman Heaton at the Albertville Nursing Home. It resulted in a hip fracture
which required surgery. "I remember falling, but the next thing I knew, I woke up in the
hospital and the surgery was over," he reported. "I never had any pain from the surgery."
For a time, he stayed in the nursing home, where he shared a room with Sherman, while
he received rehabilitation. He returned home at age 88 and much improved. "I can do
anything now that I could before. Im just slower," he reported when we visited at his
home. Inevitably, his health continued to decline and he had to return to the nursing
home where he died.
About Jean Camp and Carl Willmore
The first time I recall seeing Jean was in the living room at Milas Camps house.
Jean was pregnant, but already obese, even at that young age. Ive been told that. as a
child, Jean begged for "sugar in a rag" to suck. Her obesity became increasingly gross to
the extent that it caused numerous health problems. It was very difficult, in later years,
for her to walk or do anything. I wasnt around her much at all, so grew up unacquainted
with her.
Carl, her husband, was of normal size and quite friendly. When I was grown, and
lived away from home, Carl even worked my fathers garden while he had a spell of back

problems. Contrary to what would normally be expected, Jean outlived Carl by many
years. The visit with Jean and Carl that I remember best was when they operated a store
way out in the country. They had living quarters in the back that directly joined the store.
I liked that arrangement. When I got on one of their daughters bicycles, the rear tire
instantly blew out. It was about to blow anyway since I wasnt overly heavy, but it was an
embarrassment. Jean fixed lunch for us that day and we all had a good time. We never
went back. I have no idea how long they continued to operate that store. Carl worked at a
variety of jobs over his lifetime.
Jean came one time to Russellville, along with Vada, to visit my parents. By that
point, Mother was no longer able to fix lunch for a crowd, so we held the meal at our
house. To get Jean inside, we pulled her car through the yard and right up to the front
door. It was easier than I had anticipated.
When we visited Albertville, I sometimes took my parents by to see Jean. After
she moved to her final house, that became terribly difficult. Mother had to go in a
wheelchair. The ramp to Jeans back door was narrow and extraordinarily steep. Even to
get started up it, was difficult since it didnt reach the ground smoothly. That was the
nearest I ever came to loss of control of the wheelchair. I could easily have been injured
and Mother as well. I didnt try that again. I think Jean didnt realize what a problem it
was to get into her house.
Delorise and I visited Jean a couple of times when we were in town. She was
always cordial and seemed glad to see us. We liked her, but found it hard to get past her
weight. She had let herself go to the point that it not only harmed herself, but her family,
and even paid care givers. Vada told us that Jean had a hard time keeping anybody and
we could easily understand that. Perhaps there was some physiological problem and she
couldnt entirely help her bulk. However, we had been told many time of her voracious
appetite, especially for sweets and baked goods. Still, its wrong to think of another
person primarily in terms of her worst feature. I must admit thats what I did.
The last time we saw Jean was when we were in Marshall County for my fiftieth
high school reunion. Since she was in serious condition, we went to her house along with
Vada. Jean appeared to be in a coma and didnt respond to anyone. The next day she died.
We went by Vadas house to contribute toward flowers, but were unable to return for the
funeral. Both of us were sick. Apparently, we picked up some type of virus at the reunion.
Both of us were unwell for two weeks.

About Iduma Camp Hall

I have spoken some about her elsewhere so will try not to repeat any of that. I
think we visited her one time only, when she operated a caf called the Friendly Drive-In.
It featured curb service. Customers pulled into the parking lot and honked for service.
There were also tables to sit inside. Its not surprising that they did a swift business as the

food was excellent, especially the Barbecue which Iduma cooked in a pressure cooker.
Marva worked as a car hop.
Leamon Hall, her husband, sold a few used cars on the same lot with the caf and
farmed a bit. While there, we bought a rotisserie from him that we used for many years to
cook hot dogs. It cost only five dollars. He took my father and me to see his corn crop
which consisted of the tallest corn plants I have ever seen. They towered well above the
heads of the adults. We also drove down to the house where they lived. A road led off
from the caf parking lot through the woods. It twisted, turned, sometimes bumped over
sizeable rocks, but finally emerged at a white frame house surrounded by dense woods. It
was the worst road I had ever seen. We didnt go inside, but the house appeared to be a
poor place to live. The front yard reeked of urine, which suggested that they had no
indoor plumbing.
To the best of my knowledge, Leamon Hall had some degree of mental problems.
Yet, he usually was regarded as a man who wouldnt work and so forced his wife to
support the family. At least at that time, he worked at various things to bring in some
income. As far as I recall, that was the only time I met him.
There were only two visits at our house from Idumaone at Guntersville and one
at Russellville. She, along with some other relatives, showed up unexpectedly at
Guntersville. Mother had just baked some chess pies which made her feel that she had to
offer them as dessert. They gobbled down a slice apiece. "That was so good. Can I have
another slice?" Iduma asked. Not only she, but the two others with her took an additional
piece. Each cut only a small bite off one end. As a result, the entire piece had to be put
into the garbage. Mother was rightly indignant, but didnt say anything. She didnt mind
the first piece, but resented the waste.
Iduma resided in a nursing home in Scottsboro for years before her death. Vada
reported that she often was confused and doesnt recognize her own daughters. I didnt
visit her there. Its about 125 miles from here, so hard to take up an entire day and waste
a tank of gas since she wouldnt even have known us or remember that we came.
About Uncle Amos Morris and Aunt Irene
Amos Morris is the brother of T.J. Morris, my grandfather. When I first recall
them, Amos and Irene resided at the Morris home place. Years before, they had taken
responsibility for Judd, a retarded brother. It was agreed that they would have the home
place in compensation. The Morris home place was an old, unpainted house that stood
high off the ground on foundation pillars. It appeared to have serious structural problems.
It was in harmony with the time when it was built. Little, if any, updating and repairs
were made over the years. I remember visits there when I was ten years old, for the book
study. Since I understood little of what was transpired, I went to sleep on the floor. There
was a round piece of marble which I used for a "pillow." It was actually quite
comfortable, impossible as that sounds.

Judd lived only a short time, but the agreement was honored. This paid off for
them in much later years when marble was discovered on the land. The marble company
paid them the then enormous sum of $40,000 for the future right to mine marble. They
could continue to use the land as before until it was needed. This enabled them to build a
new house to replace the dilapidated home place.
Amos was tall and skinny. Perhaps "rangy" would be the word to describe him.
We think he basically died of neglect. His daughter, Ann Pitts, refused to continue to take
him to the doctor when he was sick. He had a series of medical problems which
inconvenienced Ann. "Im not going to take him to the doctor anymore," she vowed.
He had other children, including two sons. I dont see how they could have permitted it.
What I have heard, however, is second-hand, so may not be the whole story. If Ann
wanted him out of the way, she soon got her wish.
Aunt Irene outlived him for many years. At some point after she moved into her
house, Ann decided not to feed her anymore. Her health declined to the point that she
couldnt communicate. Unlike the case of their father, Irenes other children took over
and began to feed her. Within a short time, she improved tremendously and lived a few
years more with a good mind. Mother and I visited Aunt Irene at her home and she
mentioned the time when Ann refused to feed her. "I was so hungry," she said.
Mother and I were horrified. Walter was present and heard his mothers comment. He
shifted uncomfortably when Mother said with an accusatory stare, "Walter, did you hear
that?"
All of us liked Aunt Irene. Maria was especially fond of her even though she
didnt know her well. Once when we visited Aunt Irene, I took Maria out to the field to
ride Jenny Belle, a she-ass that belonged to Austin, who lived next door. The beast
wouldnt take a single step unless I continuously pulled her. Maria, being a child, though
it fun, but it exhausted me.
Ann is, by far, my least favorite relative. She has a checked history that even
involves a period of apostasy when she joined the 7th Day Adventist Church. She went so
far as to attempt to influence others of the family in that direction. She met Tom Pitts in
Africa where he already belonged to that sect. She joined him in it for a time. Her
unscriptural arguments fell on deaf ears. "Shed sit there and tell us that it was a sin to eat
pork," Uncle Amos reported in disgust at her advocacy of observance of parts of the Law
of Moses. I dont understand why she was never formally disfellowshiped. Eventually,
she realized her error and returned to the truth. The Biblical admonition, "Who are you to
judge the household servant of another? To his own master he stands or falls" seems the
appropriate guidance in that case.
Ann moved into my grandfathers house for a time to take care of him. At first,
she seemed to be doing well. Eventually, she began to medicate him heavily so that he
would not be so much trouble. Ann seemed to be on a mission to use up all his savings.
Aunt Edee has observed correctly that "Ann spent his money like water."

Tom Pitts, while in residence, did a good bit of renovation to the house. Some of
it was successful and some of it unwise. He put the water pipes into the attic without any
protection against freezing but got by with that. His inept rewiring resulted in a fire after
the house was sold. The blaze was brought under control by the Fayetteville Volunteer
Fire Department. Later, after we no longer owned it, another disastrous fire completely
destroyed the house, but Ive been told it was due to smoking, not wiring.
It finally got to the point that Ann frequently lied about my grandfathers
condition. She began to phone Mother frequently. "You better come right away. Hes
taken a turn for the worse," she would say. Not a single time was it true. The worst
incident of that occurred late in the day. She painted his condition as dire. My parents
rushed to Fayetteville, had a flat on the way, and arrived around midnight only to find
them all in bed asleep with nothing wrong. To make it worse, Ann acted puzzled at their
arrival. "I dont understand why you came," she lied.
Mother finally got disgusted and made other arrangements for her father. She
forced Tom and Ann move. It appears that Ann stole a number of items from the house,
but I cant prove that. They were there when she moved in and gone when she moved out.
There could be other explanations for their disappearance.
Ann reputedly has an unsavory history of apparent swindle of a number of elderly
people. She has even exploited her own stepson, but its hearsay only. Perhaps Ann will
have to account for her sins some day even if she manages to stay free from censure by
the congregation. Who can know the full truth of matters or whats in a persons heart.
The situation may not be as it appears to me.
Other brothers & sisters of T.J. Morris
Uncle Harvey Morris is one I recall quite clearly from early childhood, although
he has been dead for decades. Since he lived close, he came to Fayetteville to visit
frequently. For some reason I thought his name was "Puddin." Doubtless some adult
induced me to say that. At each visit, somebody asked me who he was in order to get a
laugh when I innocently responded "Puddin." I didnt understand why they laughed or
why he grinned so big. I truly thought that was his name. It turned out that it was the
name of a not-too-bright black man they all knew. Such shameful racist blather was
common in that part of the state, and throughout the South, in the early 1940s.
Uncle Harvey died in Birmingham due to negligence by his doctor. He is buried in the
Fayetteville Cemetery.
Henry Morris was another brother of T.J. Morris. He lived near Birmingham. An
interesting story is that at a time when he experienced financial difficulty, he dug into the
ground near the water meter, and proceeded to route the pipe around it to avoid payment
for water usage. Toward the end of his life he lived in a very nice residential area south
of Birmingham off Highway 280. He always dressed in a suit and so looked quite
distinguished with his gray hair. He rode the bus to make regular visits to the hospital in
1958 to see my Mother when she had a hysterectomy. We went to see him occasionally I

recall two main things about the place. One was the stark white carpeting in every room.
It was a beautiful feature, but appeared impractical to me. Second, the front yard was
dangerously slanted, but he continued to mow it into old age. One of his daughters lived
with him, or else he with her. I was never clear on that, nor as to actually owned the
house. Anyway, it was no business of mine.
Aunt Cammie Morris was a strange-acting sister of my grandfather. She lived on
Avenue E in Ensley. Her married name eludes me. I only recall one visit to her house and
then her visit to Fayetteville on one occasion. Her neighborhood was lower middle class.
The houses were little more than cottages. That area has now become dangerously rundown. While we were there, a violent thunderstorm came up. We, at her invitation, sat on
the front porch at our arrival, but she didnt ask us inside even when rain, whipped by
wind, began to pour in on us. Nobody was said anything, so after a bit I stood up and
complained, "Im getting wet." That emboldened T.J. Morris, my grandfather, to speak
up. "Cammie, weve got to go inside," he insisted. Somewhat reluctantly, she invited us
into her house. I had suspected that our unannounced visit had caught her with an unclean
house. That wasnt the case at all. It was modest but spotless and uncluttered. I recall only
one odd feature. The bathroom was a step up from the general level of the house.
My feeling was that we werent really welcome. It seemed to me that Aunt Cammie
tolerated us because she felt that she must. Part of it may have been her antagonism
toward the Truth. She came by the house after my grandmothers funeral. The one thing
she said that I recall was almost certainly a misrepresentation. "Josie said when you were
born, that you would one day become President of the United States." I supposed Aunt
Cammie thought I would be pleased by the idea, but I knew my grandmother never would
have wanted me to become involved in politics and war. After my grandfathers death,
Aunt Cammie criticized and attempted to shame my mother when she learned that she
planned to sell the home place. "You ought to keep it so Tommy can come back there and
live," she asserted with finality. The statement was utterly inconsistent with her false
religion belief. She should have thought that he was either in heaven or in hellfire. By her
churchs doctrine, he could have no further use for that house in either case. The harlot
daughters of Babylon the Great keep their members in a perpetual state of confusion.
Aunt Georgia Morris Storey resided in Gadsden most of her adult life. When I
knew her, she lived with some of her children in an upstairs apartment at Storeys
Country Store in Alabama City, a section of Gadsden. The apartment was beautifully
furnished and well constructed, in contrast to the rather primitive country store. She
seemed to receive excellent care. The outside entrance was from the back. Norma Jean,
Aunt Georgias granddaughter, parked her car, a 1956 Mercury Montclair, just outside a
door which opened into a long interior staircase without a landing. To climb it to the level
of the apartment could be hazardous. One slip could result in quite a tumble. I was a
teenager and so enjoyed zipping up and down the stairs repeatedly. I wondered how Aunt
Georgia could possibly make it. She was old and feeble. Most likely, she seldom left the
apartment. Of even more interest to me was another staircase behind what looked like a
closet door in the apartment. It was crude, steep, and unpainted, but it led directly into the
dimly-lit storage area of the business. I liked the feel of a secret way to get around and
used that as often as I dared.

Aunt Georgias children werent particularly cordial. She believed in the Morris
family religion and they couldnt stand that. She was at their mercy and so had to do as
they directed. There was a doorway out onto the flat top of the store from the apartment.
Near the front of the store, an actual old buggy was mounted. Its purpose was to carry out
the theme of a country store. It was a big adventure to me to walk around on the roof.
Storeys Country Store served a rather unsavory part of town. They had
considerable trouble with break-ins. To combat the problem, they installed a burglar
alarm and an electrified fence in front. Signs warned of a shock hazard to anyone who
touched it after the store closed. The area had been better when they opened the store, but
it had declined around them over the years.
The only names I can recall are Vera, Norma Jean and Catherine, known as "Cat."
There were a couple of men, but their names elude me. As haters of the Truth, especially
Vera, they didnt really want anything to do with us over the years and barely tolerated us
during Aunt Georgias lifetime. We visited only once after Aunt Georgias death. Vera
made a point to repeatedly stress how shed taken blood and how it had saved her life. It
was clear that she wanted to be as obnoxious as possible. We didnt go back.
Over the years, we gradually lost contact with that branch of the family. We made
attempts to contact them, but found that their phone number was unlisted. I dont know if
any of them are alive or not. The youngest was Norma Jean, but years ago she was
tremendously obese. Most likely, even she would not still survive. She may have had a
child. If so, the child could be around somewhere, but I dont know Norma Jeans
married name. It wouldnt be Storey.
The children arranged a false religion funeral for Aunt Georgia although they
knew full well she didnt want that. My grandfather did something that I viewed as
probably inappropriate. He stood in front of the casket, looked at her, and pretended to
break down. He then gave a short funeral discourse in harmony with the Bible. Im sure
they were livid and I cant entirely blame them. I thought he shouldnt have done that. He
later said he didnt intend to let them get away entirely with forcing a false service on his
sister.

Brothers and sisters of Josie Gaston Morris

Aunt Kate Gaston Ray is the one I knew best. She married Fred Ray who was
far below her status in life. I think she married him primarily to keep from being a
spinster. At that time the worth of a woman was determined by her marital status.
Aunt Kate was very fat. She lived in the Gaston home place at Fayetteville. It was three
doors toward Sylacauga from my grandparents house, but the structure is now gone. She

was the last child who lived there, so took it over after the death of "Uncle" Razz and
"Aunt" Mollie. It didnt belong to her any more than to the rest of her siblings, which
included my grandmother, Josie.
After Kates death, Fred Ray took the place over and sold it. He had no right
whatsoever to the property. My grandmother knew about it in time to prevent the action,
but decided not to demand what was rightfully hers. Just as my grandfather had given up
his family inheritance, she did the same. That kind of thing prevents wealth from building
in a family where it otherwise might have.
The last time I saw Aunt Kate when she was normal, she lived near Anniston in a
house situated alongside a good sized creek. By that time she had a live-in housekeeper.
On one occasion, a flood required that they be taken out by boat. The rescue was
dramatic to the point that it was reported in the press.
About 1960, Aunt Kate had a stroke which resulted in her being placed in a
nursing home in Alexander City. She was still in her right mind, but had damage to
Brocas area of her brain. She could only say "Yesam" no matter what she actually
wanted to express. It was a frustration to her. Aunt Kate turned red in the face and shook
her head emphatically when her response didnt fit what she intended to communicate.
She could still read which made me wonder if she could write to communicate. Nobody
showed enough interest to explore that possibility. I mentioned it to my relatives, but
didnt push the issue since I was a young person who saw her only rarely. The attendants
at the nursing home addressed her in baby talk as if she didnt have good sense. I
thoroughly detested that. It must have been horrible for her.
Aunt Nina Gaston Collier, Joy, Gene, Kermit and Donalds mother, lived a short
way toward Sylacauga on the road that passes in front of T.J. Morris house, but on the
opposite side. The story-and-a-half house is easily identifiable by its white walls and blue
roof. When I knew it, the residence, upstairs, had a partly unfinished interior. It remained
that way for decades.
Aunt Nina also married far below her status. The mistake resulted in an unhappy
life for the most part. She was an expert pianist, but wouldnt play during the last many
years of her life. Almost immediately after Aunt Nina died, Alva Collier took off and
abandoned his underage children to fend for themselves. Joy did the best she could, but
we learned years later that they went hungry. "We finally ran out of food and didnt have
any money to buy more," she reported. "I searched around in the base of a kitchen cabinet
and found a very old can of beans. I decided that, if I cooked them enough, they would be
safe to eat." Assistance would have been available, but I suppose they didnt know how
to proceed. Joy, the oldest, was an inexperienced teenager. I believe that Alva never came
back to check on his children.
According to what I have been told, Kermit and Gene both became active
homosexuals. Gene left home for California, and wasnt heard of for many years. He
returned during Joys final illness to help with her and with her children, and is still lives

there. We, along with Aunt Edee, visited with him from the car during 2008. He was
reasonably cordial. The whole time he attempted to conceal a cigarette he had been
smoking when we unexpectedly approached, so he must have some regard as to our
views. As a child he attended the Kingdom Hall, but is now violently against the Truth to
the extent that he wont talk to Harold, his brother, because of his being a Witness. Joy
studied with Aunt Edee at the time of her death from smoking-induced lung cancer.
Aunt Nina died strangely, apparently from psychological reasons. She needed an
operation and finally consented to it. She declared with certain assurance, "Ill die during
the operation." The surgeon made a superficial mark on her skin at which point she died.
The power of the mind over the body is enormous.
Uncle Charlie Gaston was in the pharmacy business. His establishment was
Peoples Drug Store in Sylacauga. I barely recall it from when I was a small child.
He died suddenly and unexpectedly in the early 1950s. When he came home from work
on a hot day, his wife, Aunt Mary, turned a fan on him and he died as soon as the fan
started to blow. Some said with assurance that the air from the fan killed him. Thats
almost certainly an example of the post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy. The fan had nothing
to do with it. Nobody could have convinced his sisters of any other possibility. They had
never liked his wife and were eager to believe the worst of her. To think that made no
sense. The most immediate affect on her was a huge loss of income. She never dated or
remarried although she lived for many years. When we were notified, at Guntersville, of
his death the garbled message was that Gaston had died. That was in the days when we
had no phone so that the message was relayed from the local gas station. Mothers frantic
calls to Sylacauga soon revealed the facts. My grandparents were in California when the
death occurred. They couldnt get back in time for the funeral.
Although my grandmother didnt like Aunt Mary, they reconciled during the last
few years after she visited my grandmother in the Sylacauga Hospital. Sometimes all it
takes to heal a family rift is a small gesture. It that case it worked well.
Uncle Charlies son is Ware Gaston who also went into pharmacy. We met Ware at
the Gaston reunion and visited at his home once. It was clear that we werent welcome,
possibly because of his religious bigotry. He had a fiddle on his wall that belonged to
Razz Gastons father. Ware died of cancer.
There was at least one more brother, Uncle Dave Gaston, who was enormously
fat. He died at a relatively young age. His extreme obesity and gluttony made him a
frequent object of ridicule within the family. I never saw him. He is buried at Fayetteville
adjacent to my grandparents and great grandparents.
Delorise Lynch Camp
I asked Delorise to let me help her write a short autobiographical sketch, but she
adamantly refused. Given no other option, I have produced one myself, but it lacks the
first person element and accuracy that would make it more interesting. Since she wont
cooperate, she has no right to complain if she doesnt like what I write. For better or

worse, here it is. Delorise is descended from the Lynch and Alldredge families. The
Lynches are fairly recent immigrants from Ireland. They are not from the 1840 time of
the Potato Famine, but later. The Alldredges are from England and represent a higher
class of people than the Lynches. We have, however, located a Lynch Castle still standing
in Ireland, so its possible they were more prosperous and educated there. The castle
looks more like a store than a castle to me. Its well known locally.
Theres an extensive family tree on the side of Delorises mother that is printed,
rolled up and stored in the filing cabinet in the office of our house. It includes the limited
information that I have about the Lynch ancestry. The Alldredge ancestry goes back
centuries. I put months of work into it, but have never had anybody show more than the
most minimal interest in it. A computer analysis didnt detect a single inconsistency in the
family tree. I did what I could, but if I had expected such indifference, I wouldnt have
bothered. The vast majority of people are ingrates, so I shouldnt have been surprised.
Delorise was one of 13 children. Lela, her Mother, has been married twice. The
first husband was a Tanner who came to be father of Sis (Margaret Tanner Overton),
Charles (truck driver and KKK member), and Hershell, a truck driver who was killed in a
traffic accident at a fairly young age. Even after they were divorced, Mr. Tanner
occasionally sent her fruit from Florida, even if he did send it in such a way that she had
to pay the shipping charge.
The second husband, Troy Lynch, fathered the other children. They were Calvin,
Vernon, Joel, Mike, Lorene, Margie, and Judy. Two children, Ruth and Robert died
young, she only a few months old and he stillborn. Mrs. Lynch attributed the stillbirth to
the explosion of a gas stove during her pregnancy, but it would be hard to see how that
could be the case. Most likely this is yet another example of the post hoc ergo propter
hoc fallacy. If that explosion had not occurred, she might well have offered some other
event during her pregnancy as being the cause. Far more likely is lack of prenatal care
combined with inadequate diet. There could have been some genetic or developmental
problem. At this point nobody can say.
Troy and Lela separated twice. Judy Lynch Viola tends not to blame him. "Mother
left him. He didnt leave us," she explained with a degree of irritation. "I dont like
people talking against him for that." Prior to Judys statement, I had been under the
impression that they had separated several times and that it was at his instigation. Sis told
us sarcastically, "They got back together just long enough for her to get pregnant again."
Yet, Sis has told good things about him. "He used to get the family together at night and
read to us from one of the Societys books. He wasnt all bad."
One of the worst reports I have heard about Troy is that he sometimes punished
his boys with a bull whip. Calvin reportedly advised Vernon, "Stand real close to him
when he does that and he cant hurt you as much."
Troy was killed when his vehicle ran off the road when he was on the way to see
Mike. There were no witnesses, but Vernon has said that he believes his father was drunk.

I dont know what basis he has for that belief. It does seem logical. "When he left the last
time, he assured me hed send us money so we would at least have food," Vernon recalled
with obvious resentment. "He didnt send a dime. I cant respect a man who doesnt keep
his word."
Vernon explained that they were forced to buy groceries on credit from a
sympathetic neighborhood store owner. "We paid for everything when we could. As far as
I know, he didnt lose a dime," he said with satisfaction.
Delorise was born at Holly Pond, at home. Home births were still common in
1945. We dont know the location of the house or if it still stands, but we think it
probably burned.
Also born in that small town was the late Guy Hunt who became Governor of
Alabama. He served until removed from office for criminal activity.
Delorises grandmother Susie Alldredge and her Aunt Lucille Roberts are buried
in a graveyard a few miles outside Holly Pond.
Unfortunately, Delorise has lost all memory of her early life. "I cant remember a
thing before first grade," she has said many times. I dont know if she subconsciously has
opted to suppress bad memories or if it was just that the sameness of her life during that
period didnt create any permanent impressions. The big issue, inescapably, was basic
survival for her family. Doubtless nobody reviewed past events with her to help implant
memories.
Even as a youngster, she worked hard, both in the house and for others in jobs
such as baby sitter and housekeeper. Little importance was put on a proper education, or
in some cases even regular school attendance. When they lived at Cooper Courts for two
years, until Mrs. Lynchs death, she stayed out of school one day to can fourteen quarts of
okra. That was her first use of the canner. She put the okra on brown paper in the back
yard and waited for it to shrivel so it could be canned. Mrs. Lynch was so glad when she
came in to find the job done, although upset at the danger involved from a child using the
potentially dangerous pressure canner. Such a canner can explode if overheated.
Another danger is failing to process vegetables long enough at a high enough temperature
and pressure to destroy deadly botulism bacteria. It was risky, but she got by with it.
There have been cases where entire families were killed by botulism from home-canned
vegetables.
Delorise also washed dishes and cleaned the house to help her mother. On one
occasion, she moved the living room furniture onto the front porch and into the yard. This
allowed her to wash and then polish the floor. When Mrs. Lynch neared home and spied
her furniture outside, she thought the authorities had evicted her because she was behind
on the rent.

The family picked blackberries in back of the brick apartments. The briars were
so dense that they had to use a hoe to make a trail to let them reach the fruit. Delorise has
always had an irrational fear of snakes so she was glad to have to hoe handy as an
execution tool. Mrs. Lynch make then made blackberry cobbler, a particular favorite of
her children.
Once she got punished for wearing her mothers high-heeled shoes in play with
neighborhood girls who were doing the same thing. "Those are the only nice shoes I
have," Mrs. Lynch said angrily.
The apartment had a gas stove with a pilot light which burned all the time. When
Delorise woke up at night hungry, she took bread and commodity cheese, placed them
under the pilot light, and soon enjoyed a toasted cheese.
Delorise learned to cook mainly by watching her mother. "I had already learned to
make corn bread in a medium sized iron skillet before we moved the project," she
remembered. The place was large for subsidized housing. It featured four bedrooms,
something found in few private homes of that time. Her bedroom was across from the
only bathroom. Calvin and Vernon shared a room as did Judy and Margie. Mrs. Lynch,
Joel and Mike shared the remaining bedroom. "I was the only one who had a bedroom to
myself, but it was smaller than the others," she reported.
The kitchen had nice counters. A remarkable vine grew unusually long and ran
along entire sides of the room. They had a washer in the kitchen, but no dryer. Everyone
used clothes lines at that time. The washer worked well at that location. "That was the
same washer that vibrated and moved around at the house in Brown Street," Delorise
recalled. "Somebody had to sit on top of it when it was on the spin cycle."
Mrs. Lynchs death was tragically unexpected. She made a habit to soak in a tub
of hot water after work each day. What she didnt realize was the danger of such a
practice. It can dangerously elevate blood pressure. While in the tub, she had a stroke.
She called out "Lillie!" That was the last word she spoke. When Delorise rushed in to
check on her Mother, she found her unconscious with her eyes rolled back in her head.
The doctor came, but refused even to check her until they got her out of the tub and onto
a bed. She was still alive, but paralyzed. She died at the Boaz-Albertville Hospital the
next day, but left behind three under-age children.
Sadly, Vernon had hard words with his mother just the day before her death. They
were at Fairview Cemetery and he got upset at being delayed in getting to work. They
had no chance to smooth things over. That still bothers Vernon, even into his seventies.
Calvin, the family drunkard, put on a big display of emotion at the hospital when she
died. "I wish it had been me instead of her," he exclaimed. He had good reason to be
upset as he had made her life miserable with his heavy drinking. Calvin continued to
drink for years after that. Ultimately, he broke free from alcoholism.

After Mrs. Lynchs death, something had to be done with the minor children.
Mike and Joel went with Ross and Lorene in Kentucky, but Mike was unable to adjust.
He became sick to the extent that Lorene carried him to doctors who identified no real
medical problem. They described it as "stomach cramps." Mike begged, "I want to go to
Sis." In desperation, thats what they did.
Joel wasnt happy living with Ross and Lorene. His brother, Calvin, went there
and took him away, but then dropped him on Vernon and Judy. They were newly-married,
lived in a small trailer by the Coosa River, and certainly not in need of a permanent house
guest, nor able to afford one. I dont know how Vernon viewed the development, but in
my opinion he had every right to be outraged. To provide care for a younger brother
wasnt his responsibility.
Somehow, Joel came to reside at the YMCA in Gadsden. He tells of the lack of
enough money for food and of the need to steal a banana from a local market to have
anything to eat. Joel has never managed money well, so it may not be exactly as he
described. I have no way to know the facts. Its a sad story.
He likes to tell that story and has related it regularly over the years. I am
suspicious that he tells it mainly to make it more likely that we will "lend" him money.
Thats something Delorise and I never intend to do. He has, so far, asked only once. We
sent him $100 as a gift, not to be paid back, but told him we wouldnt lend him the $1200
he had requested. I explained the reasons and so far he had not tried again. Later, he made
another attempt. Vernon said the Internal Revenue was after Joel for nonpayment of
taxes.
Mike and Delorise lived with Sis and Jess at various locations, one of them a large
old house on Dunlap Avenue next to the Catholic Church. This was when she was in the
middle of the tenth grade. It required her to transfer to Marshall County High School in
Guntersville. Delorise kept a garden in the back. Sis had only a washer, so in bad
weather, Delorise had to roll wet clothes on a bicycle several blocks to dryers at a coin
laundry.
She was the only one at the high school who stayed out of school to pick cotton. It
was so excessive that Mrs. Grimes, one of the teachers threatened, "Im going to report
this to the authorities." Delorise cited the need to help with expenses and managed to talk
her out of it. She didnt get to keep any of the money she earned, but turned it over to Sis.
The house on Dunlap was where Delorise accidentally dug up and pierced a water
line. She attempted to locate the TV cable to move it to the other side of the house for the
benefit of Sis and Jess. To her surprise, when she hit the pipe with a pick water gushed
out. Brother Price came to her rescue and made the necessary repair. "Dont worry about
it," he said. "The only people who never break things are those who dont do anything."
In late Fall, she placed plastic over the windows to help conserve during winter. She
didnt know how to safely position the ladder. It slid down the wall with her on it. That
was a dangerous job that she shouldnt have been permitted to attempt.

From there, they moved to Forest Avenue in an upscale residential neighborhood.

Sis and Jess were buying that house rather than continuing to rent. This is where they
lived when she graduated from high school. She had a graduation party, attended by
various relatives and friends, at which she received gifts of clothes, money, and cards.
One of the nicest items of clothing she gave to Sis.
In addition to school attendance and work outside the home, she was expected to
do whatever Sis commanded in the house and yard. "Go dig some woods dirt for the
flower bed," Sis ordered one day. In an attempt to comply, she dug into a bed of baby
snakes. "I just covered them up and ran," she recalled.
At times, Sis gave her outside jobs that were entirely too hard for her. On one
occasion, she required her to move a pasture fence. When she had trouble with the
difficult task, Sis began to hit her with her crutch and shout. "Pull on it," she yelled
angrily. "Youre not trying hard enough."
Forest Avenue was the place where Mike ran away from home in disgust at their
situation. He left a note which stated that Delorise should leave too. He rode his bicycle,
accompanied by his dog, Waggles. When he crossed the lake on the fill near the foot of
Sand Mountain, he ran his bicycle into the water before he hid in the woods. When Sis
and Jess discovered that he had run away, they called the police to help locate him.
As it turned out, a teacher, Mrs. Wilson, spotted him, picked him up. and drove him
home. Delorise and Mike never discussed the incident. There was little or no
communication among any of them at that time. The emphasis was on work and money.
Delorise had an opportunity to obtain a good job as a dental hygienist with a local
dentist, Dr. Dodd. He was a well-respected man in Guntersville. "Ill pay you a salary and
train you at the same time," he generously offered. Sis pitched a fit about it. "Dodd is a
divorced man," she said "If you go to work for him, you cant live here." That wasnt a
significant threat. To get away from Sis was exactly what Delorise wanted to do anyway.
She was tired of her unreasonable domination.
Divorce shouldnt have been viewed by Sis as such a scandal since Mrs. Lynch
had been divorced and all her daughters except Sis and Delorise have had multiple
divorces. Her sons Calvin, Vernon, Mike and Joel have also been divorced, but "only"
one time each so far. Charles Tanner scandalously divorced his wife and abandoned his
young son to marry the wife of his dead brother.
Delorise has said that she should have, at that point, moved out to get on with her
life. Unfortunately, she usually buckled under to Sis demands no matter how much she
was personally harmed. "I was brought up to do what older people said," she explained.
After high school graduation, she worked for a short time as a lunchroom lady at
the elementary school. The job she liked best was to make the delicious yeast rolls.
Unlimited food caused her to begin to gain weight. She already had experience as a lunch

room worker since she had to work while in high school in order to pay for her lunch and
to make a little extra money. Its incredible to me that Sis and Jess would permit her to
have to accept a "free lunch." There was no economic necessity for it. It was, however,
consistent with their customary pattern of exploitation of her.
Later she got a job at Jarmon Furniture in South Town. On the way home from
work, she was, as usual, forced to walk. A hard downpour of rain started. So people
wouldnt talk against Sis and Jess, she cut into the woods. She encountered a series of
barbed-wire fences to climb. The dense woods caused her to become disoriented. After a
time, she emerged from the woods near some shabby houses. "Its colored hill," she
gasped. Once she recognized the area where she often sold Avon products, she was able
to make her way home. By then they had missed her and were about to call the police.
Her worst experience occurred one evening on the walk home from work. Where
the road passed a steep, high bank, a carload of men stopped and attempted to pick her
up. A couple in a car saw the incident. They stopped until the men, realized they were
being observed and fled the scene. "I sure wish I knew who they were so I could thank
them," she says every time we pass the spot and she thinks of the terrible experience.
"They really saved me."
Sometimes Vernon and Judy came from Gadsden with their children and went out
to eat with Sis and Jess. They always left Delorise home to babysit. She was treated as a
child rather than an adult. None of them seemed to think that she would also enjoy a meal
at a caf. She was relegated to the usual role of family servant.
She left Jarmon Furniture after the store owner got into trouble about the books.
She told the truth when the authorities questioned her under oath on the witness stand.
Jarmon apparently had expect her to lie for him.
Sis led Delorise to believe that they had almost no money, but one day she
discovered that they actually had $4000, a substantial sum at that time. This hurt her very
much in view of how Sis had unreasonably pressured her to help with expenses. It wasnt
enough that she was an unpaid maid, personal assistant, and gardener. She was supposed
to work at a job and give that money to Sis.
While they lived at Forest Avenue, she rode Mikes bicycle to town to buy needed
items. This bike caused her to be seriously injured when she lost control of it in the
driveway. "I tried to get away from the house before Jess and the men he rode with drove
up," she explained. "The bicycle was a boys model so I had to swing my leg high over
the bar even though I had on a skirt." On the way down the steep drive, she hit a rut and
was tossed over a rock wall where she struck her head on a rock. This caused her to be
"out of her head" for a while to the extent that she didnt know who she was. The doctor
advised, "Take her home, let her sleep, and when she wakes up, shell be all right." That
proved to be accurate. On the surface that has the appearance of having been unsound
medical advice. There could have been a concussion, but nobody can say at this point.
Anyway, it worked.

Her next job was at Larkwood chicken plant at East Lake. It was hard work, but
paid better than any previous job. She started out on the line, "slitting gizzards." The
chickens passed hung by their feet with the gizzards outside. With scissors, she whacked
open the gizzards and placed them in a trough which led to the gizzard peeler. At times
she operated the gizzard peeler, a difficult and dangerous job because she had to force the
organ between rollers which removed the yellow skin.
A position opened in the supply room. It became her job to issue medical supplies
plus to substitute on the line when people were absent. This is when she learned to prune
roses on the grounds of the business. "That was a far better job and one that I liked," she
said. Later the company wanted to give the supply room job to a woman who would be
more cooperative to advances from managers. Unwilling to accept such a demotion, she
called Jess to discuss the matter. He correctly advised her to quit that job which she did.
Aunt Lucille, one of her Mothers sisters, happened to be there at the time and told Sis
that something was going on between Delorise and Jesse. "You better watch her," she
slandered.
Aunt Lucille was a holiness preacher who lived in Bessemer where she preached
over the radio, if constant solicitation of money could be called preaching. She
announced on air the names of supporters who hadnt sent in their money that week. The
"Reverend Lucille Roberts" thrived on the Social Security checks of gullible old people.
Lucille didnt have a clear grasp of reality and fantasy. On at least one occasion, she
prayed over the radio that a character in a soap opera might recover. It was so bad that
many people in the area listened to her merely to laugh.
After that, Delorise got her final job at Arrow Shirt Factory in Albertville. Her
task was to sew button holes onto shirt cuffs. It was difficult work and hard to "make
production." Many other jobs at the factory were much easier and more reasonable as to
what constituted "production."
She carried her own food for lunch until she bought an older, black Ford sedan at
Bill Bright Motors. After that she usually went to Jacks to get a Big Jack Cheese and
fries. It was a greasy, unhealthy meal, but ready quickly and sold at a reasonable price.
At the same time she worked there, she peddled Avon in order to make ends meet. The
biggest problem was that she got "short time" during the winter when long-sleeve shirts
were not being made. Her Avon territory was in Guntersville where she had to walk to
sell and later walk back to collect prior to having the car. At times she had to use money
due to Avon to pay other bills, but always managed to make more to replace it. It was a
hard way to get by.
Car accidents complicated matters. One time her black Ford rolled away and hit
the porch of a neighbors house. One of the local brothers fixed the porch for her. Another
time, during rain, a car pulled abruptly in front of her and caused a collision. It didnt hurt
the offenders car, but damaged hers. The accident created an expense she could ill
afford. Since she had struck his car in the rear, it was deemed her fault even though his

careless driving had been the principal cause. Thats an unfair traffic rule that need to be
changed.
She continued to stay at Sis and Jesses house mainly because of pressure from
Sis. The woman had extracted, under duress, a promise that she would help Mike
financially. "You promised," Sis whined. "If you move out, itll take everything you make
to live. You wont have anything to give Mike." Delorises welfare was no consideration
at all. Sis had regularly been taking her check and giving her back only a few dollars for
personal expenses. I dont know if Mike is aware of this or not. If he knew it, he might be
more courteous to her. After all, he wasnt in any way her responsibility. The Scriptures
are quite clear that it is "parents and grandparents" that are to be cared for. No mention is
made of siblings. Everything in the Bible is there for a reason.
At length, Jesse made a critical comment that she would "never get out on her
own," which angered and disgusted her enough to make the decision to leave. It was
something she had wanted to do for a long time. She had previously been advised by
congregation elders that her "promise" to help Mike wasnt valid since it had been made
under pressure. I strongly doubt that Jess was aware of many of the terrible things Sis
said and did. She then moved to Mrs. Boyles house, but that has been discussed
elsewhere.
After Mrs. Boyles died, she moved to a furnished duplex. Other people near there
scared her at night. They knocked on the door and ran away. At other times they pecked
on her windows. They wanted the place for their own relatives. It worked. She moved to
an unfurnished apartment after a sister, Deera Bradley, sold her some furniture at a
reasonable price.
It developed that a small cottage in the back was ten dollars a month cheaper.
With the aid of Charles Folsom, she moved there. This is where she lived when we
started to go together. The cottage was small and neat, but had a dark, scary stairway
outside which led sharply downward into a crude basement. It was an ideal place for a
mugger to lurk. A rough section of town lay only a few blocks away. That basement was a
place where she stored canned fruit that belonged to Sis. In those days people often
canned fruit and vegetables in such quantity that the food ended up not being used. So it
was in that case. Delorise had to pour out the fruit and return the jars. All that work had
been for nothing.
Because they were estranged, Mr. & Mrs. Lynch are buried far apart. Delorises
Mother is buried at Fairview out from Albertville. There are two churches with that name
in the area, but the correct one can be recognized by the presence of another church
across the street. Her father is buried off Interstate 20 some miles past Tallapoosa,
Georgia at New Canaan Church. We have pictures of both graves which show that they
are nicely marked and well cared for. We try to place flowers at Mrs. Lynchs grave at
least annually, but it is just too far to the other one for us to do anything like that.

We found it difficult to locate the burial place of her father. Sis incorrectly
advised, "Hes buried at Easom Hill, Georgia." We found the graveyard there, but the
markers were all stones from the field without names or dates. "If hes buried here, well
never know which it is," Delorise said in resignation. At that point, we had no idea that
Sis had given the wrong location.
We had recently learned of a surviving brother, J.C. Lynch, who resided at
Bremen, Georgia. We traveled there, checked into a small motel, and found his name
listed in the phone book. His wife, Aunt Cleo, told us where he worked. It would be fine
to go see him there, she assured us. She even called to let him know so he would expect
us. Uncle J.C. seemed glad to see us and invited us to his house only a few block away.
He told the actual location of Troys grave and went there with us. It was just as Delorise
had described from having attended her fathers funeral. Even the side door they had
exited to the adjacent cemetery was still there. The grave was neatly marked with a
granite foot stone. "Lorene brought that here in her car," he said. "It really weighed down
the back. Some of us helped her set it up."
To our surprise, Troys parents were buried next to him. We were stunned when
we noted the death dates. "My grandfather was still alive when I finished high school,"
she exclaimed in dismay. "It would have been possible for me to see him, but I didnt
even know he existed."
Within the past few years, New Canaan Church has been modernized, although it
looks about like before. Perhaps this will ensure its survival and maintenance of the
associated cemetery for a while yet.
Descendants of her Lynch grandparents were still in the area, but Uncle J.C.
described them as unfriendly and strange so we didnt try to locate them. He took us to
see Delorises fathers surviving sister, Aunt Lena. She lived in the general area in a
modest country house. It was a pleasant visit for us and for her. "Would you happen to
have a picture of Troy that you can spare?" I asked. "We dont have a clear picture of
him." "I just think I might," she returned. After she scrambled through a box of loose
photographs, Lena located one that showed his face. It was a dark one, but the best that
we had to that point. Mike looks a lot like him, or did when Mike was the age shown in
the photo. Both hold their heads to the side in the same way.
Both J.C. and Lena are now deceased. Lena is buried next to Troy, but J.C. at Zion
West cemetery outside of Tallapoosa.
Uncle J.C. had a modest, but neat, house in Bremen where we visited on more
than one occasion. His wife was Aunt Cleo, a cordial and gracious person. When we first
met him, he was employed as a butcher in a local supermarket. She had an insignificant
job of some type, but I cant remember what. Vaguely it seems like she worked at a
sewing plant. By our next visit, Uncle J.C. had given up his position to retire on Social
Security. He explained, "The supervisors were trying to tell me how to do my job. I told
them Id quit before Id put up with that." His attitude reminded me so much of Mike

Lynch who had given up more than one job for the very same reason. In Mikes case, he
gave up employment for unemployment. Perhaps it is a Lynch family trait to refuse being
told what to do, no matter what the consequences. I can see some of that in Vernon, but
he never let it interfere with his ability to hold a job. Joel also has similar inclinations.
Recently, he reported that he didnt obey instructions from his supervisors about job
performance. I didnt know Calvin well enough to comment about him, but know that he
worked regularly.
Uncle J.C. had a neat garden that produced well. He kept his yard and cars well
maintained. Parked in the carport was a moped which he rode to town. This surprised me
since he was in his sixties. The house is easy to find because it is directly across the street
from the Kingdom Hall on Clinton Street. It looked about the same the last time we saw it
in 2008.
On the first visit, we learned part of the reason why Troys children knew so little
about his family. There was considerable bitterness about his breakup with Lela. On each
of the two occasions when they separated, it was she who left him. "She even had him
committed to the insane asylum for a while," Uncle J.C. informed us. It was easy to do
that back then. A signature by a doctor was all that was required. It seems that she had
him put away briefly in an attempt to force him to pay child support. The two divorced
and then remarried after a short time, then separated for the second time. After the second
marriage, the family lived a Muscadine. Thats the place where they had to get food on
credit because of Troys nonsupport.
Uncle J.C. was still resentful about Troys funeral and burial. "Curtis and I had to
pay the for it ourselves," he said with a frown. Curtis was another brother. I really think it
was a hint for us to reimburse him even after all those years, but we didnt offer. It
couldnt reasonably be expected that his adult children would pay Troys debts from
decades previously.
I pressed Uncle J.C. for any details he recalled about Troy. With reluctance, he
admitted, "He served time in prison for bootlegging." He had spoken ill of Lela, so
seemed to want to balance that with enumeration of serious shortcomings of Troy.
I wasnt really surprised. That occupation was common years ago in the South and was
considered almost respectable except in the eyes of Revenue Agents since the liquor was
not tax-paid. Troy just happened to get caught.
Except for the first time, when we visited Uncle J.C. and Aunt Cleo, we stayed at
Tanner State Park near Bremen. Its a beautiful place built around a lake with a paved
bicycle path. The first visit, we stayed in Bremen at what looked like a nice little motel.
At that time we hadnt yet learned about "Patel Motels" operated by people from India.
The place was barely clean enough for us to stay. We almost got trapped in the bathroom
when the door became stuck. After that we learned to "beware the red dot." That
experience is what got us to speak derisively of such places "red dot motels."

Shortly after that, an American motel owner told us with barely-concealed anger,
"Those people from India are considered to be refugees. The federal government puts up
the money to let them buy motels. They wouldnt help me like that."
The last time we heard from Aunt Cleo was when she phoned to let us know of
J.C.s death. Over the years we lost contact with her. Phone calls brought the message
that the number had been discontinued. We heard that she had been placed in a nursing
home by some of her relatives. In 2008 we went to Bremen and made a concerted effort
to find out what had become of her. We agreed that she was probably dead. We started by
a visit to where she used to live. Aunt Cleos house looked rather like it had in the past.
Vinyl siding has not improved the situation. Knocks at adjacent houses werent answered.
The neighbor a few doors down the street knew her but said she thought that Aunt Cleo
was dead.
At Marias suggestion, we contacted the local library in Tallapoosa where the
librarian quickly located Uncle J.C.s date of death and the location of his grave.
"Theres nothing here about Cleo Lynch," the woman stated. We asked directions and
drove out to his grave. By happenstance, we stopped the car within sight of the marker.
The granite marker bore, on one side, his name, date of birth, and date of death. The other
side showed her name and birth date, but no death date. "That still may not mean shes
alive," I cautioned. "It could be that nobody bothered to have the death date added to the
marker. That would have been an additional expense." The ground, however, appeared
never to have been disturbed. That gave another reason for hope that she might be living.
We decided to spend that night in Bremen so as to look for her. "Im going to call
nursing homes," I said. The Yellow Pages listed a number of such institutions in the
general area. Some of the employees were sullen and wouldnt provide any help.
"We cant give out information like that," I heard more than once. Others quickly and
courteously indicated that she wasnt with them. I was getting nowhere and night drew
close. Maria suggested, "Try assisted living facilities." I had considered that, but
concluded that, since Medicaid wont pay for them, it was highly unlikely she could
afford to stay in one of the places. But, it was worth a try. On the second call, a friendly
lady told us, "I know her. She used to live here, but is in another place now." She supplied
the name and location. It was in Bremen not more than a mile from her former house.
"We better get ready and go this evening. Itd be bad if she didnt live to morning
and we lost the chance to see her again," I suggested. We rushed to the facility
immediately. We were disappointed at what we found. She lay in a bed and barely
responded when we tried to communicate. Had it not been for her picture and name
above the head of the bed, I wouldnt have known that it was she. Delorise made a
determined effort to help her realize who we were, but she looked at us with a blank
expression and mumbled almost incoherently. "Its no use. She doesnt have any idea
who we are," I whispered. "We might as well go." Not one to give up quickly, Delorise
questioned an attendant. "Whats wrong with her?" "She has advanced Alzheimers
disease,"the pleasant woman replied sadly. "Ive known her for years. Cleo took a major
turn for the worse after she got flu last year. We lost five of the residents in that outbreak
and had to bar visitors for weeks. People came here with flu and gave it to them."

Delorise persisted, "Are there times when shes better than she is now?" "Shes usually
more alert in the mornings," the nurse replied. "You can come back then and see."
Accordingly, we returned the next morning. Cleo was nicely dressed and sat in a chair.
She looked much better and responded more appropriately when we talked with her.
"I cant believe the difference," I whispered. "I couldnt even recognize her last night."
As we talked with her and heard her responses, we felt that she vaguely knew who we
were. I got down close so she could hear and said, "We went to J.C.s grave."
She perked up and immediately responded, "Did you find him?" Without a doubt, she
knew what had been said.
It wasnt all good. Most of the time she only answered "Yes" to most things. That
she occasionally responded with "No," gave us hope that she knew at least a bit of what
went on around her. We asked if she needed anything and she replied in a clear voice, "I
get anything I want here." Even under her dire circumstances, she had a measure of
security and happiness. We were so glad that we went back the next morning. Even if
that proves to be the last time we will see her, we feel better because we made the effort.
I stopped by the main office and asked the administration of the home to let us know if
she died, but their response wasnt very satisfactory. "Are you having a dispute with her
other relatives?" the woman asked suspiciously. "Goodness no, we dont even know
them," I replied. "Dont worry, we arent interested in trying to get anything she has.
Besides, as long as shes been institutionalized, I doubt she has anything left."
"Shes doing all right," the woman replied. Her tone suggested Cleo still had private
funds, but that didnt interest me. "Please call us collect if she dies," I persisted. "We may
not come, but wed like to know." "We only have time to notify one person," she
returned coldly.
Its so far we wouldnt go back for a funeral even if we somehow came to learn of
it. We all wished we had made more of an effort to see her over the years when it would
have meant something to her.
The following comments deal with Delorises brothers and sisters. Its based
on my limited knowledge of them. This is how they seem to me. Others might paint a
different picture. Anyone who reads this and take offense can write a different version. It
will be just as valid as mine since they will depict them as they knew them.
With regard to Charles Tanner, I met him only a few times, so know little about
him. He was a truck driver, a KKK member, and belonged to the Masons. We visited at
his house only once, after Margies funeral. It was a neat, modest frame structure that was
clean and well maintained. His wife, Jean, had been the wife of his brother Hershell.
After Hershells death, Charles had left his own wife and children to marry his brothers
wife. That makes for some strange relationships among them. Charles two sons with the
first wife are also his nephews since he married their aunt. His son and daughter with the
second wife are also his nephew and niece since their mother was his sister-in-law.
After decades as a truck driver, Charles couldnt be located. He was found dead at the
wheel of his truck in the parking lot of his place of employment.

We had a strange experience at his funeral. At the visitation, just before the
ceremony, we noticed a rotund, gray-haired older man who wore white gloves and a
white apron. Maria was relatively young and so mistook him for the funeral director,
"Why would the undertaker come out here with the family like this?" she whispered.
Delorise thought he was a person who had come to serve food. I didnt know what to
think. Vernon explained that Charles was a Mason and that they would carry on a rite at
his grave. I then recalled having heard of that, but had no idea what to expect.
At the cemetery, the Masons cut quite a shine. They chanted, flapped their aprons, and
threw a sheepskin down into the grave. Much of what they said I wasnt able to
understand, but heard again and again the chant, "So mote it be."
Maria and I both wanted to laugh, but knew we didnt dare. We couldnt look at
each other out of fear that we would give in to laughter. I was so glad when the ordeal
was over. The ceremony was, in large part, silly. Charles is buried in Gadsden at the same
cemetery as Margie.
I have written a short story, Of Crosses and Lambskins, which develops my views
of Charles in the format of enhanced nonfiction. It isnt available to any member of the
Lynch family, however. They would find it too intense and might take offense. I dont
want to do anything to create family hostility.
Over the years, Joel Lynch has continue to struggle financially. He hasnt held a
"regular" job, but has worked mainly in insurance sales for uncertain commissions.
We visited him at his rental home in Georgia only once. It was a nice older frame
structure. He and his wife, Laura, as a sideline, were raising Labrador Retrievers to sell.
Years ago, when he ran short on insurance sales prospects, he made a round of his
relatives to pressure them, apparently with some success. The list of prospects included
us. We expected his visit on that day, but were unaware of its true intent. It was a
marathon sales pitch. No matter what I said, he wouldnt stop his attempt to convince me
to purchase insurance from him. It quickly became irksome. "Joel, I have access to life
insurance, at a fraction of your rates, through my union. Its far superior and cheaper than
what you offer," I said. Then I cited specific figures as to premium and coverage. He still
didnt give up even when faced with the facts. "Youre mixed up. Thats accident
insurance," he desperately asserted. The group rates were so low that he didnt believe
them to be possible. The low cost of the insurance was partly due to no need to pay
economic parasites like him to peddle the policies. "Do you actually think I dont know
the difference in life insurance and accident insurance?" I asked incredulously.
He continued the insistent, obnoxious sales pitch without letup. By that time, Delorise
had become irritated at his crass behavior. After hours of the ordeal, he said, "I guess I
better get going. I need something to eat." "I guess I could make you a sandwich,"
Delorise said without enthusiasm and in a way that clearly sent him the message that she
didnt want to do it. She was disgusted with him and resented the unremitting sales pitch
that was unmistakably his only reason for being there.

I stood up and said, "Ill walk you to the door." What I thought was, "Get out and
good riddance." A year or two later, he referred to having visited us. I replied, "No, you
havent visited us. We once had a call from an insurance salesman, but not a visit from
my wifes brother." His sheepish, guilty look showed that he knew exactly what I was
meant.
Until recently, Joel resisted sound employment advice from family. "Get a job
working regular hours for salary," I urged. "That way, you can have dependable income
and health care insurance." Judy Viola had told him the same. "I couldnt do that," he
protested. "I dont like being tied up to a certain schedule."
He liked to eat on a regular schedule and had a regular series of expenses, but he
didnt seem to make the connection. The terms "irresponsible" and "lazy" came to my
mind.
In addition to insurance sales, Joel has a pattern of involvement in various "getrich-quick" schemes of questionable legality. Ultimately, they dont work, but he never
seems to learn a lesson. The latest one, of which I am aware, was supposed to make him
into an "instant travel agent," All they actually wanted was the $500 he paid them for a
weekend of "training." I tried to warn him that it was a scam. "Its really nothing but a
pyramid scheme," I cautioned. "The way you will supposedly make money is to recruit
other so-called travel agents and receive a fee for each one. A Ponzi scheme always fails
because the numbers required to sustain it become impossibly high."
"It isnt a scheme of any kind," he protested angrily. "Ive met the man in charge. He says
his house is my house. Its a legitimate business." Within a couple of days, I sent Joel
printed information that revealed details of the fraud and that related experiences of
people who had been cheated. It made no impression. You cant tell anything to a man
who already "knows everything."
The last job he held was as a trainer for the Kingdom Insurance Group of
Thomasville, Georgia. Apparently, his job was to train agents who promote the Medicare
Advantage program. It has been widely criticized for taking advantage of gullible old
people. Even though he was, at last, on monthly salary, he has signed on as a contract
employee so that they dont make medical insurance available, nor do they pay Social
Security or withhold income taxes.
Maria advised him, "If you work there long enough, youll no longer be currently
insured under Social Security. Not only will that hurt your future benefit, but if you
should become disabled, you wont be able to draw anything at all. You should pay into
Social Security yourself if your employer wont." "I cant afford to do that," he replied.
With his many, serious medical problems (arthritis, lungs, eyes), he has a higher than
normal probability of becoming disabled.
Lack of medical insurance is a disaster waiting to happen as well as interfering
with needed doctor visits. At any moment, he could require hospitalization and run up

charges into the tens of thousands of dollars. He would have no way to pay it. Its even
possible that he would be unable to obtain care at all. If that happens, he will have to deal
with it on his own. Weve tried to warn him, but he wont listen. Ultimately, he was fired
from his job with the Kingdom Group.
Particularly irksome to us is the fact that he manages to afford expensive golfing
expeditions and to live in nicer rental property that is necessary for a single man. He also
drives newer and finer cars than we do. Things like that are well within his control. Joel
desperately needs to learn to economize. Another possibility is for him to take a job on a
part-time basis. He certainly could say "Welcome to Wal-Mart" or even roll up shopping
carts. "Get a single room in somebodys house," Ive urged him. "Thats what I did when
I was living alone. Its much less expensive."
Joel lived immorally with the woman who eventually became his wife for a good
while before they married. With such a bad start, it isnt surprising that the union didnt
last. They produced two children, Brad and Brittany. She finally decided, "I dont love
you anymore. I want a divorce." After the divorce, Joel agreed, not only to pay child
support, but to pay tuition for both children to attend Catholic schools. That expensive
and needless arrangement kept him financially drained for years. "Go back to the judge
and tell him you cant afford to continue it," we urged. "Hell modify the agreement."
His lame reply was always, "I agreed to it so I have to carry it out."
The year Brittany was to graduate from high school, he was unable to come up
with the final tuition payment. The school determined that she couldnt participate in the
graduation ceremony, nor receive her diploma. Apparently as a result of this, Brittany has
become estranged from Joel. No doubt there are other factors involved, but thats what I
have been told. Vernon came to the rescue and paid her tuition even though he could ill
afford it.
As a resident of Georgia, Brad initially qualified for the college scholarship that is
funded through the state lottery. He, however, failed to keep his grades up and lost the
scholarship. Laura pressured Joel to cosign the student loans that were needed for Brad to
continue. After college graduation, Brad continued to work at the same menial job he had
held prior to high school graduation.
"Steel yourself," Laura warned Joel. "Youre going to have to repay his student
loans." How that turned out we have never learned. It seems unlikely that Joel could
possibly pay his sons college debt. It has to be paid over no more than ten years. I think
Brad finally got a better job. Time will tell whether or not he manages to hold onto it.
Another thing to keep in mind about Joel is that he has a lifelong history of
"borrowing" with no means or intention to repay. To "lend" to him is to give away the
money. Even Calvin, sometimes a deadbeat himself, warned, "You cant loan anything to
Joel. You wont get it back." The main victim of his dishonesty is Vernon to whom he
owes about $16,000 not including anything for interest. After Vernon gradually fell into

relatively hard economic times after the closure of the steel plant, Joel finally "pumped
the well dry." Vernon stopped lending him money some years before his death.
In 2008, Vernon told him, "I dont think you even have any idea of how much you
owe me. I need you to start paying it back. I need the money." In so far as I know, he has
returned only a few hundred dollars. Vernon viewed even that with suspicion.
"You never know what hes really up to," he said.
When he saw that his cash cow had given out, Joel turned to attempts to borrow
from his sisters. Judy lent him money. I dont know if he has repaid any of it, but suspect
that he hasnt. She hasnt told us and I wouldnt dream of asking. I dont know if he
approached Lorene. He hit us up for a specific amount, $1,200, which he assured us he
would repay "with interest." Delorise and I were in total agreement to refuse.
I sent him a note and explained truthfully, "We live right up the edge of income like most
people. Theres very little disposable income at the end of each month. Of course, there
is the money from the Camp estate, but that cant be touched. It has to stay intact in case
Delorise outlives me. Shell need it." We are unwilling to support his lack of
responsibility and know if we "lent" him anything, it would be gone permanently.
Besides, hes in such a financial dilemma that we couldnt do enough to really help him
even if we wanted to. His financial problems are mainly a result of his own choices and
refusal of sound advice over the years. Ive worked my whole adult life and dont intend
to give what we have to a guy who wont. Vernon once told us that Joel is being pursued
by the Department of Internal Revenue for failure to pay income tax.
I dont know much about Calvin Lynch, now deceased. My view of him is almost
completely negative. Perhaps if I knew him better, I wouldnt feel that way.
When Delorise labored at the Arrow shirt factory for low wages and was in need of help
herself, Sis pressured her into going to the bank to borrow money to "lend" without
interest to Calvin. Most likely, he made much more in a week than she did in a month. I
dont know how much he knew of her circumstances, but he accepted the money and
made no effort to pay it back until Delorise dropped him a strong hint. When she wrote
him to say that she was soon to be married, she included, "I always wanted to be out of
debt when I got married, but it doesnt look like its going to be that way." Calvin didnt
reply, but brought the money he owned and handed it to her on the day of her wedding.
He acted as it was a nice gift he presented to her. He totally ignored the substantial
interest she had paid on such a risky loan. As detailed elsewhere, he was intoxicated at
our wedding and totally out of line otherwise.
Calvin had a high-paying job with Ford Motor Company in Atlanta which he held
despite being an alcoholic most of his life. Unfortunately, he worked with brakes which
contained asbestos. This resulted in mesothelioma, a fatal lung cancer. It was that, not
smoking or drinking, that ended his life prematurely. We viewed as gross his arrangement
to have his body delivered to a medical school for dissection. Of course, there was
nothing wrong with it and it was none of our business. My father made that same request,
but I refused to honor it.

We have been told that his family has received a huge settlement from Ford, but
dont know that for sure. Calvins son Russell came to the Lynch reunion at our house
one time. I know nothing of his other children or his wives.
Vernon Lynch was, by far, the most honorable of Delorises brothers. He and I
had been enrolled at Snead at the same time, but didnt know each other. I vaguely think I
recall him, but he doesnt remember me at all. When I first came to know Vernon after
Delorise and I married, I misunderstood him. "Hes a push pest," I told Delorise. "He
doesnt know how to take No for an answer. Ive never seen anybody keep on like he
does." Since, Ive realized that I had mistaken genuine concern for other motives. It took
me several years to come to that conclusion, but I came to regard him as a friend and
have a great deal of respect for him. From his teenage years, Vernon has been a hard
worker despite serious problems with arthritis. The first job he held was at the Shadyside
Drive In Theater near Boaz. He rode ride his bicycle to work for a time. He was too
young even for a learners permit. "The police learned about it and arranged for me to
have special permission to drive as long as Sis was in the car with me," he explained.
"They knew we needed the money. I really appreciated them understanding and helping."
After that Vernon worked for a long time at a country filling station out from Boaz on
highway 431. Over the years, his main job was with the steel plant in Gadsden, but
foreign competition ultimately caused it to close. He lost, not only his income, but most
of the pension that had been promised. Vernon is a skilled trader who made money on
cars, travel trailers, and especially land. In addition he had success as a real estate broker.
He operated his own firm in Gadsden for some years. Never lazy, he has, as a normal
practice, worked at more than one job at a time.
In his old age, his main financial problems arose from having inadequate monthly
income and from the need to help Toni, and from the dole to Joel. Were it not for
occasional sales of his land, I dont know how he could manage to remain solvent.
Vernon, in my opinion, has added to his problems by the use of far too much of his real
estate money to buy extravagant luxury cars (Lincolns, Cadillacs) and most likely a
Jaguar for Toni. That, of course, is none of our business. I may not know the whole story.
We, too, have owned some luxury models over the years, but we had sufficient regular
income so as to afford them. We bought older cars rather than the newer models he has
purchased.
A few years ago Vernon had a heart attack to add to his existing medical problems
with arthritis. His kidneys were seriously damaged, apparently due to taking pain
medication, especially Celebrex. The doctor has warned him never to take Celebrex, but
he still used it occasionally. Ultimately, he had to go on kidney dialysis and died while
taking one of the treatments. Due to Tonis greed, what was left of his property was lost,
but I wont go into the details of that.
I met Margie Lynch Jones only one time so my knowledge of her is especially
superficial. She came to visit us at Russellville while Delorise was pregnant. Upon
arrival, she slurred her words and talked as if with a thick tongue. "Shes drunk," I
whispered to Delorise when she was out of range. Delorise nodded in agreement.

By the next morning she had sobered up and acted normal. She was friendly and quite
likeable. While she was there, she made specific arrangements for her and Joe Ed, her
husband, to come to Russellville after Marias birth. On the appointed day of the visit,
they didnt show up. After we waited all day and into the night, we called only to learn
that she seemingly didnt know anything about it. Margie emphatically denied making
any such plans. We never did figure that one out. Before we could see her again, she was
found dead, rolled up in a rug. That was in Louisiana. It appears possible that her husband
murdered her, but we cant know that for sure. Her funeral was at Gadsden. While she
stood beside her sisters casket, Delorise laughed for some reason. She sounded and
looked a whole lot like Margie. Joe Ed had what I could only interpret as an instant guilty
look on his face when he heard it. Of course, there are other possible explanations. The
fact that Margie had her life insurance made out to Judy suggests that all was not well
with her spouse. Judy signed the policy over to Joe Ed which was her right, but I feel that
she shouldnt have. A murderer shouldnt benefit from his crime. Yet, that is none of my
business.
Judy Lynch Viola is Delorises sister whom I like best. She lives with her current
husband, Sam Viola, in Rochester, New York. For many years Judy and Delorise had
little contact. The age difference meant that they lived together at home for a limited
number of years. They have since become close. Judy is her favorite sister. Judy had a
difficult time with her various romances. One husband proved to be a bigamist which she
didnt learn until after their "marriage" when the police came to arrest him. Later, on what
was to be her wedding day, the man failed to show up for the ceremony. Upon
investigation they found him dead in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs in his house.
It is suspected that he was murdered by fellow criminals, but that isnt known with
certainty. We like her current spouse, Sam, fairly well. He can be something of a "stuffed
shirt" at times, but Im often like that too. I understand him all too well. Both of us need
to "loosen up." We commenced the reconnection by visiting Judy and Sam when we
were on a trip to Canada. Judy was amazed that anybody in her family would actually
visit. We had a nice time in what we viewed as their beautiful and luxurious apartment.
Looking back, I can see that it was just ordinary, but it was the first place I had seen with
three levels and a laundry shoot which opened alongside the washer in the basement.
If I recall correctly, they were paying an "astronomical" rent of $1200 a month. Compare
that to our $147 mortgage payment at that time and you can see why we were astonished.
All this was more than 30 years ago when costs were far different from now.
Lorene Lynch Landau is Delorises oldest full sister. I have never liked her and
if the truth were told, Delorise doesnt either. She will deny that, of course. I didnt know
much about her until after we visited them in Ohio. Ross had repeatedly and insistently
urged us to come visit and I was foolish enough to think that he meant it. From the
moment we entered the door, it was obvious that we were unwelcome. He didnt even
make a pretense of being hospitable and went all the way into overt rudeness. I repeatedly
tried to chat with him, but he turned his back and put on the TV quite loud. Ross went out
of his way to be obnoxious. Lorene appeared to be gracious and glad to see us. I soon
learned that it was only a pretense. We had about a two minute conversation in her
kitchen about Delorises change of her first name. There had been utterly inappropriate

opposition to the change from her siblings. Some of them adamantly refused to call her
anything but "Lillie." Mike was particularly like that. I explained the reasons for the
change and said that we felt that anyone who truly cared about her would respect her
wishes. That was all there was to it. Nothing more said. After we got home, we received a
series of nasty, lying letters from Lorene. She accused us of extreme rudeness about the
same change and made a series of vicious attacks against Delorise. One I particularly
recall is that she said Delorise was "acting like a little child who insisted on having her
way." Nothing could have justified such statements. I undertook to answer the letters and
tried to reason with her. It only resulted in more rabid attacks. After multiple attempts, I
realized that nothing would be accomplished. In a final letter, I wrote, "Ive kept all your
letters. If you write us again on this subject, Ill send them to your husband for him to
deal with you as he sees fit." I said that partly because she made a pretense of being in
subjection to him. That stopped the letters, but resulted in a coolness on both our parts
that lasted for years. I have "forgiven" her, but I havent "forgotten" that she can be a
treacherous person, not to be trusted. She seemed to have had a compulsion to meddle
into things that dont concern her. Now that she is old and sick, those tendencies appear
to have vanished. The "statute of limitations" has, as far as I am concerned, run out on her
past rudeness.
Incredibly, the next time we were with Ross, he commenced to ask insistently
when we would visit again. My reply was a snappish "Never." I offered no explanation
and kept as stern a look as I could. I am also capable of rudeness when I feel that I have
been wronged. Its a bad trait. He didnt pursue it so he surely must have known the
reason. I stood by my determination for many years until we went to Florida for their 50th
wedding anniversary, but we surely didnt stay in their house, nor would I do so now.
Once a person is sufficiently rude to me and never tries to make it right, it changes my
feelings toward him or her permanently. A simple apology or explanation would make all
the difference in the world. I think that if a person doesnt do that, he/she isnt really
sorry and would do the same thing again if given the chance. Sadly, much personal
experience has shown that to be all too true. Its nearly always best to keep people "at
arms length." I wish it werent that way.
In the years that I have known Ross, he has, until several years ago, gone out of
his way to be rude to me. I think it wasnt personal, but was his normal way to treat
people. I took verbal abuse and ridicule off of him for a long time, but recall clearly the
last time when I knew I had enough. We visited Jesse Overton in the Guntersville
Hospital when Ross started to attack and to ridicule me in a manner even more vicious
than common. He attempted to draw my young daughter into the conversation so that she
would seem to support his views. He didnt get anywhere with her. In view of the
circumstances, I said nothing, but resolved to let him "have it" the next time anything like
that happened. Fortunately, the "next time" didnt come. In the interval before we saw
him again at a reunion at Vernons house, he changed. I have suspected that he was
rebuked by the elders in his congregation, but it may have been that he personally
decided to try to cultivate the fruit of the spirit more. At any rate, he has been mostly
cordial since. A "near incident" was the reunion of 2007 when he had, in the den, been
distinctly rude to me. I told him nicely that I didnt appreciate that sort of thing and didnt

take it well. I thought it was settled, but fewer than fifteen minutes later, at the table with
the group present, he took it up again. I snapped him up and he shut up. Some people will
walk all over you if they can get away with it. I think he is of that inclination.
The reunion of 2008, he was just fine. Ross is seriously ill, so I have resolved to
say nothing if he attacks me again in the future. I hope I can hold to that determination. It
wont be easy for me, but I am going to try. Maybe it wont happen.
As to Mike Lynch, I have previously made some observations about him, but feel
it necessary to add more here. Mikes childhood situation was difficult, but less so than
many other people who turned out just fine as adults. Mrs. Lynchs unexpected death
came when Mike was young. He was left in the charge of others. That was tragic.
There is no adequate substitute for a caring, loving parent. I didnt know Mrs. Lynch, but
my conception of her is that she was like that. Poverty, hard work, and too many children
made hers a difficult life. In my opinion, Mike turned out to be a rude, ungrateful,
demanding person who takes the view that the world owes him a living. He has a history
of being unwilling to hold a job without regard to the harm it does to others, especially
his two wives. In my opinion, it would have been far better had he remained single.
The first wife, Jan, seemed to do well until forced to go to work when Mike quit for no
legitimate reason. That exposed her to corrupt influences. It wasnt long before she
became involved with a man she met at work and was disfellowshiped. She left Mike and
they eventually divorced. I can see the possibility that she was a "bad egg," from the
start and that Mikes inadequacies had little to do with her conduct. I have been told that
she married Mike mainly to get away from home, but cannot know if thats true.
At assemblies, Jan dressed rather like a prostitute so that most of her breasts to showed.
Still. she seemed nice enough when we were around her. They married at Florence since
that was her hometown. We attended, but neither of us is able to remember the location of
the building. Mikes current wife, Willette, seems to be a person of higher moral
character than Jan. It, however, seems unmistakable that she has resented Mikes failure
to hold a job consistently. For many years, he was a "house husband," but that was by
mutual agreement. During that time he didnt seek full-time work, but may have at times
done yard work to bring in a little extra. I really dont think he did any outside work
during that period, but Delorise disagrees. Her views have to be taken with a measure of
suspicion. She has always defended him, no matter how wrong he has been. He, on the
other hand, has shown her mostly rudeness, contempt, and ingratitude. My view of Mike,
likewise, must be taken "with a grain of salt." I find him an obnoxious, lazy complainer.
In so far as I understand the situation, Willette finally got fed up with the tiny
rental house in a near-slum neighborhood where they lived in Guntersville. She
demanded that Mike begin to earn some money so that they could undertake a mortgage.
Under pressure, he began to work and stayed with it for a considerable time until he
actually did become disabled. He now draws Social Security which amounts, essentially,
to as much as he took home when he was employed. Of course, thats true mainly
because he did menial work at low wages. Lack of education has always limited Mike to
low-paying, unskilled occupations. During the many years when he didnt work, I tried
repeatedly to get him to obtain occupational training at the local community college.

"Mike, the Pell Grant will pay for it. Nothing has to be paid back. You can go to school
and make money while doing it," I tried to tell him. "Then you can get a decent job."
He merely smirked. Clearly, he was content to have his wife support him. There is no
way that I can respect that. I thought then, and still think, that he was shiftless and
irresponsible.
Mikes years of alcoholism are another huge factor in my dim view of him. I think
it incorrect to designate alcoholism as a "disease." Its a moral disease perhaps. During
those years, he spent money needed for himself and Willette on alcohol. Too, he
endangered the lives of others by going out in public drunk. It came to a climax when he
eventually was arrested for "driving under the influence." The conviction showed up in
the newspaper which made it impossible for him to keep it hidden any longer. Off he
went to a "dry out" institution at which succeeded and overcame his addiction.
Interestingly, he came out ready to describe people who had given him money during
those years as "enablers" as if they were the cause of his alcoholism. Not even Sis
escaped that designation. He seems to have a problem with acceptance of personal
responsibility for his actions. Bad things which happen to him are "someone elses fault."
While Mike was married to Jan, he made an attempt to get money from us. While
on the way to Florence to visit Jans parents, they pulled into our driveway and called us
to the car. He wanted to know if we "Could lend us some money." I quickly told him,
"No." I was irritated both at the request and at how he made it without even a pretense at
a visit. As I expected, they abruptly backed up and drove off immediately. At that time we
lived quite poorly in a trailer and had large expenses from Delorises pioneering.
Despite his long history as a genuine "moocher and sponger," I now make an effort to be
friendly with him and am truly glad that he has improved to the extent that he has.
Yet, "sanctimonious" is the word that comes to mind to describe much of his current
attitude. It seems unmistakable that, he wants everyone to know how "righteous" he has
become.

Chapter 30: Meeting or Seeing Celebrities

and Noted Places
Over the years, I have seen a handful of famous people, some of whom I actually
heard of before. Naturally, some of them were governors of Alabama. To my recollection,
I saw four of them over a period of decades. The first was Gordon Persons. He landed
just a few feet from me in a tiny helicopter on the yard of the Courthouse in Guntersville.
The purpose of his visit was to solicit votes for his reelection. There was "Big Jim"
Folsom who served a couple of times as Governor of Alabama. The man spoke from a
stage at the courthouse yard in Guntersville while he ran for another term.
He wore a light green suit with bright red suspenders when I saw him years later on the
town square at Jacksonville. Later, in Russellville, I saw George Wallace, the infamous
segregationist governor and presidential candidate. He spoke outside at the Franklin
Shopping Center. At the University of North Alabama, I saw Don Sigelman, the governor
who was famously sent to prison for political reasons by minions of Carl Rove during the
George Bush II administration.

At a college conference in Birmingham, I saw and listened to a lecture by Dr.

George Wald, the Nobel Prize winning chemist who discovered the physiology of visual
purple. He had by that point in his life become an old hippie, dressed as one, and spoke
on world peace rather than science. Jeanette Jolly was there too. She had the nerve to go
up to him after his presentation and challenge his ideas, but I thought she shouldnt have
been disrespected like that since he was an invited guest of the Alabama College System.
Under the Constitution, he was entitled to his views.
Other that those, the rest are entertainment stars and include Tom Wopat (Luke
Duke), Enos (dont know his real name), Bo Duke (dont know real name), the Incredible
Hulk guy (Lou something) who was almost totally deaf, Michelle Nichols (Uhura from
Star Trek), the midget who played R2D2 in Star Wars, the man who played the Wookie in
Star Wars, and the actor who played Darth Vader in Star Wars.
When I was taking a graduate course with the University of Alabama, a man
whose name I cant recall who had won an Olympic Gold Medal was there. At the
instructors request, he brought the Gold Medal and showed it to us.
Notable Witnesses I have seen are Fred Franz, Raymond Franz (later an apostate),
and Nathan Homer Knorr. I was in the room with Knorr at Columbus and at the dining
room at Bethel when I was there for training. At the evening meal when there is free
seating, rather than assigned, I sat at a table when Fred Franz and a well-dressed couple
sat down with me. They commenced a serious conversation. I was taken aback and
thought that perhaps I shouldnt be at that table. I got up the nerve to ask Bro. Franz, "Am
I sitting at the wrong table?" "No, its free seating," he said in a friendly manner. They
continued their conversation and I ate uncomfortably, still feeling I shouldnt be there.
Famous things Ive seen include Niagra Falls, the Hope diamond, the pistol used
to kill Lincoln, Lincolns top hat, a bone fragment from Lincoln, a rock from the moon,
the original Constitution, the original Declaration of Independence, examples of the
"General Lee" race car, the Batmobile, the Beverly Hillbillies truck, the famous pink
Cadillac Elvis bought for his mother, several examples of cars belonging to Elvis,
examples of terra cotta figures discovered in China as part of the "Emperors Army,"
stones from the Great Wall of China, and the Olympic Torch.
The Olympic Torch was being carried through Birmingham. The hotel were we
were guests was directly on the route. It was carried right in front by a runner. We found
it a bit of a disappointment. Perhaps there had simply been too much hype.
The first time I saw the ocean was when I was seventeen years old. We had gone
to visit Aunt Minnie and her family at Lugoff, South Carolina. Im fairly sure the route
took us through Murphy, North Carolina because I recall the wooden trough up the side
of the mountain that diverts some of the water of the stream. Our relatives operated a
small motel in Lugoff, called the Sylvan Rest Motel. During the stay, we went over to the
coast at Myrtle Beach. When we arrived I was surprised to see the water standing up

high, almost like an enormous wall. "Its nothing like I expected," I exclaimed in
astonishment. Later, I learned that was just a feature of the way the beach there slanted
sharply downward toward the water. Most views of the Atlantic Ocean arent like that.
The town of Myrtle Beach was small then and the beach uncrowded. I learned how to
jump when a wave approached after being bowled over a few times. The waves there are
bigger than is usually seen on the east coast.
We were in two cars and on the way back, the car I was a passenger in, Franks
blue Oldsmobile, got separated from our 1955 Buick. We didnt know if the ladies were
lost of what had happened. All we knew to do was notify the highway patrol to be on the
lookout for them and go back to Lugoff. Both cars arrived within a few minutes of each
other.
On the way over we barely escaped a crash on the highway as a careless driver
pulled directly in front of us. In those days a big portion of Negroes who drove did so
very poorly. They typically drove extremely slow. Long lines which accumulated behind
them sometimes led to dangerous passes of frustrated motorists. I remember Frank
cursing the man with racial epithets, but that was very common at that time. Despite
those two incidents, we had a great visit to the coast.
While on that trip, we also went to a place called Swan Lake. True to its name, it
teemed with beautiful swans, most white but a few black. I am unclear where that was,
but think it was close to Lugoff.
The main road which passed in front of the motel was later rerouted. That isolated
the place from the tourist trade. Like the Bates Motel, it came to have "twelve rooms,
twelve vacancies." I suppose it is no longer there.
Noted buildings or locations I have visited include the White House, Ford
Theater, the National Cathedral, the Washington Monument, the Capitol, various units of
the Smithsonian Institution, the Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the National
Mall, the Archives Building, Arlington Cemetery (Tomb of the Unknowns, Kennedy
grave and Taft grave), the Custis-Lee Mansion, Mount Vernon, Monticello, Quebec City,
the First White House of the Confederacy, the Alabama State Capitol (saw exact spot
where Jefferson Davis stood when taking oath of office as President), the Alabamas
Governors Mansion (went inside the first floor), the Edmund-Pettus Bridge in Selma, the
grave of Rufus King (only vice president from Alabama) in Selma, the assassination site
(Loraine Motel) of Martin Luther King, the first permanent foreign settlement in America
at St. Augustine and the grave of President Knox on the grounds of the State Capitol
Building in Nashville. During trips to New York City, Ive seen the World Trade Center,
Empire State Building, Chrysler Building, Brooklyn Bridge, and Statue of Liberty, all at a
distance except that I walked part way across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was an uneasy
experience. I felt, that at any minute, I might be mugged.
We also visited New Madrid, Missouri which was the epicenter of the strongest
earthquake ever to hit the United States (1811-12). Id read that the place still had daily
earthquakes, but if so, we couldnt detect them.

Epilogue
Im glad that I can still recall many details of my life even from early childhood.
Im reasonably sure that theyre true memories, not just things I have been told. I can run
through an outline of the whole sequence in a matter of minutes. If I think about it, I can
recall many things in minute detail. Ive not forgotten what its like to be a child, young
person, teenager, and young person. Some of the things I have related in this narrative are
unpleasant and a few might be regarded as crass. On balance, most of my life has been
relatively okay. I suspect it is about like many people and much better than some. This
account includes little about events after 2009 in keeping with it being a hundred year
story. I updated it to show that certain persons mentioned are no longer living. What
the future holds, I cannot know.
This edit completed 4/4/2014