Yesteryear's Tales

My brother and I have been working on our family memoirs for close to five years, much of it has to do with writing styles. He loves to merely tell the facts and I'm more into telling a story. Here's a story,

Chapter 2
THE FARMING LIFE

Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed, but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? James 2:15-16

The great difficulty of recording the lives of your loved ones is that whatever is written has to be relatively accurate and worthwhile and not embarrassing to them. No easy task. For instance, I could say about Dad: he was self-educated. He only had a 2nd grade education and could barely write his name. He wouldn’t go for me revealing this if he were alive but the amazing thing was that he was as skilled in math as any college math professor.

Mom was a pusher and a great believer in education. To her it was the door which would open so her children would have a better life. Plain and simple, she had one given: education rules. Translated to practical terms: her children didn’t stay out of school to harvest crops. We had plenty of drama around this issue. She was one tough 98 pound woman. She didn’t take a back seat to Dad or anyone for that matter. In a sense, we never doubted who was running the show–she never knew fear of any kind as far as I know.

This may sounds a little like grandiose worship but not so. Her children were the most important aspect of her life. One incident especially sticks out in my mind on how feisty she could be relating to her brood. As was the rule with most tenant farmers, the landlord called the shots concerning how and when the crops were harvested. The tenant was to do the harvesting which in our case, meant the children. Consequently, we couldn’t start school at the regular time if there were still crops to be harvested. Mom simply wouldn’t go along with it. We started school when the other kids did. In fact, I was witness to one particular encounter that went something like this.

“Bertie, I know you’re mad."

Nothing.

The silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Mom was staring out the window. The leaves were just beginning to turn. North Carolina was coming alive, school was starting for kids and the cycle was ending and it was beginning.

Yes, she was mad. She was lightning flashing mad to be honest and she was still seething over a previous conversation that she’d had with their landlord. She never liked him anyway. So pretentious and yet Bertie wondered if it was not her. She was determined that she was going to have more for their children than she got herself. The hardscrabble life of Gone with the Wind and Grapes of Wrath sort of existence even if she wouldn't use these concepts was not going to be part of her children’s lives.

“OK, what is it?”

Here's the conversation that probably went on in her head. Well, her kids were going to school this year and not starting late as they did each year. There was cotton to pick and her kids were part of the labor force but the Landlord’s kids were not part of the mix. No way, this is not right. Well didn’t you have kids to work? Some might have but she never went along with such a stupid concept. Kids were not commodities to be a labor force.

Raz was a little tired, but what the hay, being a farmer was not a piece of cake. “I think we got a bale today and maybe have about five more in the field,” he said as he sat down at the end of the table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Bertie, let’s have it, what’s wrong?” Raz knew his wife. A gentle woman except when she wasn’t. Now there’s a statement but he could tell when she was irritated. He thought it probably had to do with the kids. This was a battle every year. The unwritten rule was that with cotton in the field to be picked, the kids simply had to miss the first month of school and she seethed about it every year. She could be one independent woman.

“Well, if you insist, I’ll tell you. I am not having our children start late in school this year like we do every year. A month is a lot for kids to miss.”

Raz sat for a moment pondering his answer which needed to be good. He hated confrontation, especially with Bertie. When she got her mind made up, stubborn was not even close to the word. “Bertie, we got this cotton and I don’t see any way around it.”

“Do Ned’s children stay out of school?"

“Well, no.”

“So what is the difference?”

He hesitated again, this was not easy. These were probably his thoughts: She was right but when you are sucking hind tit in life, what can you do? They barely scarped by every year. Being a tenant farmer was tough. Each year by in large you went in debt for the crop that was to come that you hoped might even be enough to pay your bills. Most of the time it wasn’t and then the landlord who was suppose to be your partner really was not and the farmer who couldn’t make it, had to go deeper in debt. You were the servant, let’s face it. Might as well be a slave—the only difference in the tenant farmer and a slave was the color of their skin.

“OK, Bertie, I’ll talk to him.”

“I’ve already talked to him and he says there’s no way around it.”

“You talked to him?”

“I saw him stopped out by the road as I was walking from the garden.”

“Oh.”

She probably said lots of things to him that she wanted to say. He’d mentioned before that Dad should get Bertie under control, like he could.

Raz actually liked Ned. As a landlord, he was pretty good and reasonable. They talked with some regularity and Raz always laughed to himself about Ned’s persona of himself. He talked of being a lady’s man. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked back with a little mustache that he thought made him look like a movie star.

Ned's charm didn't work on my Mom. We started school at the regular time with all the other kids. Soon afterwards we moved. WE MOVED OFTEN.