The "Lost" Chapter

     Uncle Roy shared this story about life in the Navy, but later decided to keep it out of the book. To honor his wishes, it is not in the book; but I couldn't resist sharing it here as a special treat for his fans!

The Brig   

   Boston has always been good to servicemen, ever since the Boston Tea Party. I spent about 2 months in port there, waiting for the ship to get ready to go. During this time, we were housed in a building on base.

     When I filled out my forms for the military, I checked that I had experience with small arms. Then, later, after shooting on the firing range, they labeled me as a “sharpshooter.” So, in Boston, one of my work details was to “exercise” the men in the brig. The brig was the jail for sailors who were being disciplined for rule-breaking. They stayed for different amounts of time and were always coming and going. My job was to walk them around the base while they picked up trash and did other little projects, mainly to keep them out of the buildings and out of the officers’ hair. This particular work detail came with a small arm.

     The Navy had some funny rules about small arms. You could have all the ammunition you wanted, but you had to pay thirty-nine cents for each bullet you used. If there was any trouble, we were to fire one warning shot, then after that, you were on your own. Plus, if one of the jailbirds slipped off and escaped, the one who was on watch had to serve out the time for the “run-away” until they were returned. I made a decision that I would never serve out someone else’s time in the brig.

     Every time my rotation came around, I started off with a little pep talk. I said, “Now listen. I will not serve your time, and I’m not going to pay for any extra bullets. If you try to slip off, you won’t go far.”

     I guess I got my bluff in, because I never had a bit of trouble with any of them trying to get away. They never gave me a bit of trouble.

The End of an Era

     It is with a tremendous sense of loss that we must report Roy’s passing from this life on August 12, 2019 at the age of 89. He left behind his hoe, his ranch, and a void in his family’s hearts too big to fill. Even after penning his story, I still wonder what it would take to produce a person of his character today. As the old saying goes, “He broke the mold.” His passing truly marks the end of an era.

      Please watch for the forthcoming sequel: “Sharecropper’s Legacy.” In this upcoming project, we hope to pay tribute to the impact Roy had on those whose lives he touched.

Sharecropper's Dream has been republished!

     We are happy to announce Sharecropper's Dream has been republished! Everything about publishing is difficult and time-consuming for an old person who didn't grow up with computers (I'm speaking of myself, not Uncle Roy!).

     The original version of Sharecropper's Dream, published in 2014 (I can't believe it has been that long!), is available at the following link to Westbow Press:

                                                   
                                                         Original Sharecropper's Dream

The revised version is available on Amazon:

Sharecropper's Dream Revised Edition

     I opted to republish the book with Amazon so I could purchase any number of copies at a better rate than I could from Westbow Press. While reformatting, I discovered some typos (!), and grammar and spelling issues (!) in the original which I gladly corrected. I also added a conclusion regarding Uncle Roy's passing. 

     I contemplated adding back in the chapter which Uncle Roy nixed, but decided to honor his wishes, and just include it here on the blog instead. That's not technically in the book, right? 

     If you enjoy reading Sharecropper's Dream, please leave a review on Amazon. Reviews sell books, and we want Uncle Roy's story to reach as many people as possible! I enjoy sharing his memoirs with those who never had the opportunity to meet such an incredible man. It is somehow comforting to know the book allows him and his story to "live on," even though, for Uncle Roy, the harvest has been gathered, and he is reaping the rewards of his labors.

Generosity

    In the early forties, all of our farm work was done by horses, but we normally didn’t raise our own horses. We bought them from the neighbors or at the sale. When I was 11 years old, there was a horse born on a farm up the road from us. We could see it as we walked to school and back, and I thought it sure was a pretty foal. He had a spot on his side that looked like a flying bat, so they named him “Bat.” He also had a white blaze down the front of his face and some white on his legs. Every time I saw him, I thought about how much I would love to have that horse.

    I would go over to the neighbor’s place whenever I could and check on the foal. I would pet it and talk to it for a few minutes before I had to run back home and get busy with chores. From our house, I would sometimes see it tied to another older horse in their pasture. That’s how they broke it to ride. Bat was never broke to work in the field, since he was foaled from a riding horse. For 3 years, I watched him grow up. I knew I would never be able to buy it, or even ride on it. None of my older siblings had owned a riding horse, and it was foolish to think about owning one myself, although I always wished I could.

    My brother, Junior, came home on leave from the Navy in 1944, when I was 14. We were all excited to see him and wanted to tell him everything that had happened while he was gone. I couldn't wait to show him the horse up the road that I thought was so beautiful. I told him that Bat would no doubt be a fine riding horse, since the mare was such a good, fast horse.

    A few days later, Junior said, “I think I’ll buy that horse over there, if you will take care of him for me.” Words can’t describe what I felt at that moment. I couldn’t believe that this extraordinary animal was really mine! Junior may have thought it was really his, but to me, it was really mine!

    Junior bought the horse for 65.00 and basically gave it to me. In 30 horses, Bat stood out among the herd. He was faster than any of my friends' horses. He was very obedient and would go wherever I pointed him. I taught him to jump the gate to the pasture, so I wouldn’t have to get off and open it. First, I would walk him up to the gate, back him off, and then . . . away we’d go, over the gate!

    He was not afraid of anything, and he loved to swim.  On Sunday afternoons, we would sometimes ride our horses to the Arkansas River and try to cross it on horseback. It was no fun to cross unless it was up at about flood level, with logs floating past and the water swirling. When I crossed it on Bat, I would usually drift about ¼ mile downstream, so I started walking Bat ¼ mile upstream first, then we would cross. I was the only one who would try to cross it when it was flooded; or should I say, Bat was the only one that would try it.

    I have so many happy memories of that horse. He was the greatest horse in this part of the country. Bat stayed with our family for 23 years. It was one of the major highlights of my life to own and have a relationship with this kind of animal, and it would never have been possible if it hadn’t been for my brother’s generosity.

Life Lesson: Help people reach their dreams any time you can. You just might change their life.

Generosity: the habit of giving freely without expecting anything in return.

Thoroughness

      We had a neighbor to the North of us named Luther Crawford. One day, when I was 9 years old, he walked over to where I was working with Daddy and asked me if I would clean out his chicken house. He didn’t say anything about what he was going to pay me to do it, but I thought maybe he would give me a dime. I said, “Sure, I’ll clean it out.”

     I was excited to get the chance to possibly earn some pocket money. As soon as Daddy let me go, I headed over to Luther’s hen house and got busy with a shovel and rake. I shoveled the chicken litter into buckets, carried them to Luther’s garden, and dumped them. I could only carry one bucketful at a time. I can’t tell you how many buckets and trips it took me to get it all cleaned out, but every now and then, it would cross my mind, “I hope he gives me a dime.”

     The hen house was about 10’ by 15’, and I guess it took me half a day. I kept going until every crumb was shoveled out of that hen house. When I finally got the last bucket dumped, I found Luther and told him I was done. I was still hoping he would give me a dime. I stood and waited while he looked the chicken house over. I watched him reach in his pocket and pull out a 50 cent piece and give it to me! To my knowledge, that was the first work that I had ever gotten paid for. I was not only surprised, but very thankful that he thought that much of my work. I took it home and showed it to my folks. I kept thinking he must have really been pleased with my work to have given me a 50 cent piece. That encouraged me even more to work hard and be thorough with every job I had. That’s true whether you work on the farm or “work out” somewhere else. The discipline is the same.

Life Lesson: When you are assigned to do something, you’d better give it all you’ve got.

Thoroughness: Carrying out each task in preparation for inspection and approval. 

Self-Control

     I remember walking to school every day with my sisters, Margaret and Sally. I was in the third grade at the time, so I was probably 9 years old. Sally would have been 5 or 6, and Margaret was around 13. It was a mile and a half to school, so if we left home by 8:00, we usually made it by 8:30 with good time. This particular morning, we found out from some of the kids that the government had made arrangements with the school board to have some apples and oranges brought in a wagon for the children to eat throughout the day. My dad found out about this, and when we got home from school, he gave us strict orders not to touch the fruit on that wagon when it came. Case closed. We knew why. It was a government program. We had heard him discuss the “New Deal” at the house on several occasions, and we knew he wanted nothing to do with handouts.

     When we arrived at the school yard the next day, there was the wagon loaded with fruit. Up on the very top of the pile was one of the largest apples I had ever seen in my life. We had to walk right past the wagon to get in the school house. My sisters and I never even considered the idea of taking a piece of fruit. With Daddy, there was no grey area or “middle ground.” It was all “Daddy’s ground.” He didn’t allow any begging or appeals.  I don’t remember a time when he hadn’t already made up his mind. The answer was either yes or no.

     There were other kids besides us who did not eat the apples, but not many.  They didn't eat them for the same reason we didn’t eat them - their parents had forbidden it. The kids who did get to eat the fruit tried to entice us to eat it, too. They even teased us a little. But it didn’t work. When Daddy said, “No,” he meant it. If we disobeyed, we knew we’d regret it later.

     All day, from my desk, I could see the apple wagon with that huge apple right on top of the load. I could see it through the window while I did my math, my spelling, my grammar, and my history. I walked past it to go to recess and lunch. I wanted that apple on the top more than I have wanted any apple before or since, mainly because it was so big.

     However, there was no debate in my mind that maybe Daddy wouldn’t find out, because it was settled. I really tried not to think about the apple too much. We walked home that afternoon, and I still wanted that apple. But I didn’t get it.

     Interestingly, when we got home, neither of my parents even asked us if we had eaten any of the fruit. They trained us to obey, but there was a deeper principle here. They also trained us to work for what we had. Maybe there was a certain amount of pride involved, in a good sense. Daddy was glad to be able to work for his family, and as long as he was able, he really didn’t want any help. He would have been insulted for anyone  to imply with a handout that he wasn't providing enough.

Life Lesson:  Don’t take things that you haven’t worked for.

Self-Control: The power that results from passing the tests of obedience. The virtue of one who masters his desires and passions.

Honesty

     "In 1939, when I was 9 years old, we moved to the "Pugh Place," less than a mile north from where I live today. We called it the Pugh Place because a man named Mr. Pugh owned it. He lived in Muskogee and worked at the Federal Court House. 

     My dad didn't own any land of his own at that time, but he loved to farm, and the Pugh Place had 130 acres. This was 50 acres more than what we farmed before, back at the Rains' place where I was born. I guess Dad figured that his kids were getting bigger, and could handle 50 more acres. 

     Mr. Pugh came down twice per year - when the strawberries were ripe, because we had a beautiful strawberry patch, and when we started picking cotton, because ¼ of the cotton would be his, and 1/3 of the grain would be his. As a sharecropper, my dad would sell the cotton, and give the landlord ¼ of what the cotton brought. When we gathered the grain, we would take 10 rows and leave 5 for the landlord, all the way across the field. This was how we paid the rent for the house and land.

     My dad would always call his landlord, and tell him to come and look at the field to make sure Dad had left him his third. I remember once when the landlord came down, I walked out to the field with him and Dad to count the rows. After Mr. Pugh finished counting, he said, “That’s exactly the way it's supposed to be.” 

     And if you knew my dad, you would know that’s the only way it was going to be. I don’t remember the landlord ever coming back to count the corn again. He knew my dad was an honest man and would give him what he had coming."

Life Lesson: Treat others the way you would want to be treated.

Honesty - Earning future trust by accurately reporting past facts.