Transcribed By
Pamela Vick
November 17, 1949
- Reprinted October 28, 1976
We
closed our last article with some statements relative to the remembrances most
of us have of the brighter and happier things of life, speaking particularly of
our early school days. On the tragic
side of the picture are numerous events that can be recalled by an effort. One of these deals with the poverty of many
of the school children of other days. We recall a very poor boy and girl, the children of the same
mother. They were extremely poor and we
can still recall the very, very poor clothing they wore. Perhaps the thing that lingers more clearly
in the picture was their food. They
brought but little to school for the midday meal except sorghum molasses and
corn bread. In spite of the shadow that
hanged over their lives, and for which they were in no way at all responsible,
both seemed to enjoy life, even though they were deprived of the love and care
of a father. The boy particularly was
of a sunny jovial disposition. We
recall one of his “stunts” at school after nearly 50 years have come and gone. This boy had a rather large mouth and he
would put on a show for the other children by placing two large, and often
dirty, handkerchiefs in his mouth at one time and then close his mouth.
We
can go now to a spot within two feet of where he once put on his “show.” He grew up to be honest and a hard-working
young man. Later he married and his
wife soon faded from the picture of life and went down to an early grave. She left one son, who is today a highly
respected and successful citizen. This
“show boy” was drafted into the other World War and gave all he had for his
country, and his burial place was never disclosed by the Army. Just He will find him in the resurrection at
the last day, for our school mate and playmate of 50 years ago, was a devoted
young saint of God.
The
girl above mentioned once did some small act of disobedience toward the
teacher. The teacher made a mistake and
punished the girl with the worst whipping we ever saw administered to a girl at
school. She cried until her eyes bled,
and our sympathy and that of the entire school went out to this poor
unfortunate child, who perhaps might have been stubborn in her refusal to heed
all the rules of the teacher. The
teacher was a good man, but he made a mistake in this. Late in the day he gave the poor whipped
child a piece of money to somehow make up for the whipping she had
received. She and the teacher have both
gone to stand in the presence of God who knows our errors, failures, and
mistakes, and who is a merciful Heavenly Father.
The
first of our early school mates to “go the way of all the earth,” was Charlie
Nunley, who was two or three years older than the writer. He was very strong in body, active on the
school ground, a leader in almost all sports of 50 years ago in the country
schools and free and independent and apparently without fear. How the writer did envy him his splendid
physique, his poise, his lack of fear and other qualities that we did not
possess. But alas, Charlie was not
destined to live long. He was the first
of our school mates of the closing years of the last century to die. His death was quite tragic, taking place on
a dark night in the fall of 1908 when he was shot to death by a Negro named
Woodfork, who went to the pen for life for his crime. We were at that time in school in Bowling Green and heard of his
death with sadness that has lingered for more than 40 years.
We
recall many small and now trivial incidents that filled our childish heart with
grief and at times with agony. We were
terribly bashful, a thing we finally conquered after many, many years. We went one day into the school house when a
lad of about twelve, at the noon hour, to find a group of girls writing the
names of boys on the blackboard. One of
the girls said: “Here is -----’s sweetheart,” and wrote our own name. It almost killed the writer and we rushed
from the school house as if it were on fire, our face red and burning and with
confusion making every feature. We
realize now that this was a mistake, for if we had not taken things so
seriously, we would have gotten by in a far better way. We did know then that to take a thing “as
hard we did,” was a sure way of having it thrust upon us continually. So from that day for weeks afterward, we
were the continual “butt” of every other person in school. We are sorry to say that we developed a
hatred in our heart for the innocent girl, who was in no way whatever
responsible for our “sad plight.” We
recall that larger boys would grab hold of our hand or arm and try to hold the
“bashfulest boy” in school until the girl came along. We were leaving the old log school at Mace’s Hill one day during
the trying period, it being the noon hour.
The steps at the front of the school building were rather high. Just as we were about to start down them,
Donoho towns, one of our school mates who got a great kick out of teasing us
about the girl mentioned, grabbed our hand.
We had a dinner basket in the other hand. We were fairly strong and the thought of being held at the top of
the steps until the girl arrived, was so terrifying that we determined to break
loose, no matter what the penalty. We
squirmed and twisted and finally broke the boy’s hold on our hand. But we were in such a frenzy to getaway when
we pulled loose from Town’s hand, we plunged head-long down about a dozen
steps, to land on our hands and knees.
One knee was badly bruised and cut and bled quite a lot. Both hands had gravel imbedded in them. Our dinner basket ha hit the ground very
hard and our cup of honey, which made up our part of lunch, was broken and the
contents spilled over the remainder of the contents of the dinner basket, thus
ruining our dinner and adding to our already wrought-up feelings. A little later we decided to tell the
teacher to give us some help in stopping the “torments of the lost,” and went
out the road from which the teacher arrived each morning. We had gotten out of sight of the playing
school children and were waiting for the teacher to come along to tell him “our
tale of woe,” when suddenly the very girl about whom we were being teased
unmercifully, and her chum another girl, appeared in sight. In stead of merely speaking to them and
waiting on the road, we turned, unable to face the two, one of whom had written
our name on the blackboard and had unwittingly started all this trouble for the
writer, and walked slowly back toward the school building just ahead of the two
girls. Whereupon the aggravating boys
began to call out: “Cal went to meet his girl.” We had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire and there was
but little we could do for the time being except suffer in silence. And suffer we did, as perhaps few poor,
bashful boys ever suffered. Finally we
met the teacher, Mr. Geo. W. Goad, and informed him of our trouble and asked
him to give us relief. He did this in a
way, speaking publicly to the entire school and asking those who had been
teasing “the timid boy who could not take it,” to desist. And we are thankful to say that they took
the teacher’s advice and dropped this aggravating attitude toward the
writer. Just why children delight in
tormenting some child that is too bashful or timid or cowardly to defend
himself is not known. We have gotten over
our childish timidity and bashfulness, but it cost us many heartache, a lot of
tears and silent anguish that will remain with us as long as we live. We do not believe in teaching children to
fight, but we are sorry for the child who will not defend his own rights and
one whom all others “may run over.”
We
used to grieve a lot because we were not proficient in many games and in the
“choosing up” would be left till the last and sometimes left entirely out of
the game. Then we were easily
“cattled,” and this caused us to do worse then we would have done
otherwise. But in the school room it
was a different story, even if we do say so.
At age 12, we were able to lead all the other children in spelling and
most of the studies. And we do not say
this to boast at all. We were able to
solve every problem in Weidenhammer’s Mental Arithmetic also. We were spell every word in the red-backed
Hunt’s Progressive Speller, a feat we could not do today. In games of running, marbles, and horseshoe
pitching, we finally became fairly proficient, but the “butt” of other years
still lingers in memory.
Our
early dress at school is also remembered, much of it within some measure of
shame. We wore at the start “bodies”
with buttons at the bottom, blue cotton home-made pants with buttonholes to
fasten the “bodies.” In cold weather we
wore jean pants, of a reddish color, and sometimes a coat of same
material. Our first overcoat was bought
when we were 16. The red jeans pants
were pretty rough and never had a crease in them. Moreover, we were so hard on clothes that it was not long after
we had received a new pair of pants until the seat and the knees would be out
of them. We recall that we used to wear
the worst patched pants in school. A
hole would come in the pants, this being patched. Later a hole would be worn in the patch, and this would in turn
be patched. We used to count the number
with others and we were always “champeen” in this respect. We once asked our father why we had to wear
such patched clothes and his answer has come down through half a century of
times: “ We are too poor to do any better.”
And I saw a tear in his eye and never again raised the subject with him.
We
were not allowed to have a cap for a long time, our father claiming that mean
folks wore caps. Finally our mother
persuaded him that there was no just ground for such an idea on November 20,
1903, my brother and I had our first caps.
They were black in color, with a couple of small balls over the “bill,”
and with pans or flaps at the rear to turn down over our ears. That night it snowed and our caps came in
very handy indeed. We recall that our
father had “hat trouble” when he was a boy of perhaps 12. He had 132 first cousins on his mother’s
side of the house (yes, this is correct.) and part of them were his uncle Bob’s
sons. They came to play with our father
and his brothers. In their playing,
part of the boys were pretty rough and one of them grabbed our father’s old
wool hat, which had long since lost the band and had “run up to a peak.” Our father tried to hold his hat and in the
round, it was torn completely in twain.
Our dad did some tall crying for a time. Finally his mother came to the rescue, taking a needle and black
thread and sewing the hat back together.
This he had to wear for months afterwards.
We
recall another “accident” we suffered after we had attained to the ripe age of
15 years. Our dad bought us a pair of
gray jean pants, the first we ever had, and we were as proud of them as we
would be today if somebody gave us a $100 suit. We would not wear them while doing the chores about home, but put
them on when we were ready to start to school.
We had some steel trap sets and usually made the round of these traps
before school each morning. To get our
traps it was necessary to cross over a black locust tree that had fallen on a
steep hillside. It had been down many
months and the bark had rotted away, leaving the hard wood bare. In crossing this tree one morning, we hanged
our new pants on a sharp knot on that fallen locust tree and tore a
tree-cornered place in the seat of the pants half as large as the human
hand. This ruined our trousers, but we
had to continue wearing them even with a large patch for everybody to see. We could have cried if we had not kindly
felt that we were getting “too big to cry.”
The
boys of the day and time were not like the boys of today, in matters pertaining
to their shirts at least. Every boy did
just about his utmost to keep his"shirt tail in," and we can recall
the taunts one suffered if this part of his shirt got out of position. Whispers of, “There is a tail out on you,”
would be heard and everybody hurriedly examined his shirt to see if he were the
“culprit.” We still recall a “tragic
happening” to a young man who lived in an era when shirt tails had to be kept
in their proper position. This young
man had gone to the home of his sweetheart.
He was too bashful to decline an invitation to remain for dinner. So he sat down at the table which had a
snowy, white cloth, that reached half way from the top of the table to the
floor. He sat down with this white
table cloth on his legs and became so self-conscious that he was almost beside
himself as he glanced down and saw the white table cloth on his legs and
decided that it was his shirt tail that had gotten out of place. As he struggled to keep his composure and to
avoid attracting the attention of his “sweetie” and her parents, he began to
tuck into the top of his pants what he thought was the tail off his white shirt
in a furtive and secret matter, not one time taking a good look to see what he
was doing. Later when he had “stumbled”
though the meal and thought that the recalcitrant shirt was in proper position,
he rose quickly from the chair he was occupying. His consternation can be imagined as he saw the table cloth
rising with him, dishes being overthrown, their contents spilled on the floor
and table and glass and chinaware crashing to the floor. Our information is that this was his final
and farewell trip to this particular home.
Poor fellow, what a pity he had not lived in this modern day and time
when flying shirt tails are “all the go.”