Then Till Now - Autobiography Of A Nobody

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"Then Till Now—Autobiography of a Nobody"

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Chapter One

The believers in reincarnation think we keep returning after death until we get life right. I'm not a believer in that philosophy, but if true, I'm on my last trip. We all have our ups and downs, but I always try to learn from both. I owe everything I am, or ever will be, to God, country, family, and friends. No matter how many chances I get, I couldn't have a better life than the one I'm now living.

Many events took place in 1937, but to me, my birth on December 13th was the most important. I hope that was a special day for my parents as well, but I don't know if my older brother would agree. Until I was born, he thought he was the most handsome boy in the family.

I was born in a house my parents shared with one of dad's younger sisters and her family in Kankakee, Illinois. My brother Glen was born five years before me. He had already established sibling rights before I came along

Since my parents waited five years for me, I can either believe I was something special or maybe an afterthought. At the time, I was only the second redhead to grace the Smith family, but I was told the milkman also had red hair.

Of course, everyone was just kidding, I think.

Chapter Two

This was my first home after leaving Kankakee. I was about two years old. My dad was a farmer and did some other things, but he became ill at a very young age. I never got to know him as a young father, because he was about 28 years old when he had severe sunstroke. I'm told he was never the same and was unable to do the things fathers commonly do with their sons. We were poor dirt farmers, or as dad would say, "We didn't have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of."

When I was just a toddler, I fell into a tub of boiling hot water that mom had prepared to soak dirty laundry. We didn't own any of the modern things like a washer or dryer, so mom did the laundry on a washboard. Today it is more commonly used as a musical instrument.

The tub was on the kitchen floor, about ten feet from the cooking stove. Mom was at the stove baking and I was behind her, begging for one of her freshly baked cookies.

"I'll give you a cookie," she said, "if you take it outside and stop pestering me." She also warned me about the hot water, but I was so overjoyed about the cookie I started dancing backward and fell into the tub.

Mom quickly fished me out and administered some sort of first aid. I'm sure she used an old country remedy of some sort, since that was the only medicine we had on the farm and most of it worked. Doctors were so far away that I don't know if one was involved in this incident. As dad used to say, "There are only horse doctors out here."

I recall mom carrying me into the living room and laying me on the couch, or "davenport" as we called them back then. I also remember looking up at the ceiling and seeing hundreds of people staring down at me. I guess I was pretty near death when mom said, "The ceiling people are God's angels protecting you."

I have no reason to doubt her. I am a firm believer in the Divine Power from Heaven.

Dad owned a gray mare named Happy. He openly bragged she was the fastest horse in the county. Hearing this, one of his friends challenged him to a horse race.

There was a long stretch of pasture just east of our barn and they agreed it would be a good location for the race. The race was set for a half-mile or so, which Happy won quite easily. Being a little bit of a sore loser and not willing to admit dad had a faster horse, Clarence accused dad of cheating. Dad wasn't above such a thing but he said, "Happy didn't have to cheat to beat that nag."

We'll never know, but no farmer would willingly concede that another farmer had a better or faster horse.

When dad decided to breed Happy, he promised me her foal and what a beauty he was. I was having trouble naming him, so mom came up with "Ponto." She knew the Lone Ranger was one of my cowboy heroes. Mom said "Ponto" was named for "Tonto," the Lone Ranger's Indian sidekick.

I was the happiest little boy in the world. I now owned my very own horse and started dreaming about the things we would do together. Ponto followed me around the barnyard and it was very easy to see we had developed a very strong bond.

Ponto was two years old when dad told mom he was going to break him himself. I remember when dad explained his nonsensical quest to mom.

"Allen, are you sure you want to try that?" she asked. "You never broke a horse before."

One thing about dad, he was game for anything and believed there was nothing he couldn't do. He never allowed his bad health to interfere with trying. I don't know how old I was at this time, but my brother tells me I wasn't school age yet.

Dad saddled Ponto outside the barn and, as I recall, he didn't have any problems with him at first. But when dad mounted him, the rodeo started. Instead of bucking, Ponto took off at a dead run. He headed straight for the fence that separated the barn lot from the backyard of the house. All the time, dad was hanging on for dear life and vigorously yelling, "Whoa! Whoa!"

When Ponto reached the fence, he made a beautiful leap into the backyard and ran under mom's clotheslines. One of the lines caught dad just under the chin and shot him backward like Robin Hood's arrow. Of course, Ponto continued on his merry way after dumping dad.

Shamefully, I was not as worried about dad's condition as I was proud of the beautiful leap over the fence. Luckily, except for some bruises, anger, embarrassment, and damaged pride, dad was uninjured. When he got up from the ground, he was shaken and wanted to get his hands on Ponto. It took a while to catch the horse, but by the time he did, dad had apparently forgotten his anger or didn't want to show it with me standing nearby.

After many more attempts, Ponto was broken to saddle but not by dad. It took my cousin's husband, James Auten, to saddle break him.

Our family car was a red convertible. Dad always backed it up the hill in our backyard. I believe it was a Model A Ford and not very old, but it rarely started by using the conventional method. We had to push it down the hill and pop start it. Dad pushed from the driver's side, and when the car started going fast enough he leapt behind the wheel, placed the car in first gear, and popped the clutch.

Since I was about two years old I wasn't much help, but you couldn't have told me that then. Glen was about nine, so he and dad did all the work.

The hill was steep, so it didn't take much to get it rolling. Sometimes it would start, other times it wouldn't. When it did start, it ran well until the next time we needed it. Seemed like that old car had a mind all its own.

When it wasn't available for whatever reason, dad hitched our team of horses to the wagon. Most of the places we wanted to go, like the church and to shop, were within wagon reach. We didn't mind riding in the wagon and it was very common back then. Our shopping consisted of food we couldn't raise and feed for our animals.

Most farm wives used the feed sacks to make clothing for their family, like shirts, dresses, and such. I vividly remember a shirt mom made for me. It was covered with yellow baby ducks. The women even used the material to make some of their own dresses.

Most of the kids today couldn't survive under those conditions. The world was simpler and much different back then, and we were all the better for it. We didn't have much of anything, but enough of everything.

Speaking of the wagon, when it was not in use dad backed it into the barnyard pond to soak the wheels. This was a common practice of all the farmers. The water supposedly tightened the wheels on the hub. It must have worked, or we had some very dumb farmers.

My brother and I used to walk on the tongue and into the wagon while it sat in the pond. We filled buckets with water and threw it at each other or back into the pond. On one occasion, while Glen was bending over to scoop water, I couldn't resist the urge to kick him into the pond. I put my foot on his butt, and with a gentle shove off he went. Once again I was in trouble with mom and dad, which seemed an all too often occurrence.

Glen and I had many cousins from both sides of the family. One set of grandparents had seven children and the other had eight, so you can imagine the size of the cousin population. A heavy favorite of mine was Jean, the daughter of one of dad's younger brothers. We were the only redheads in the family, so we bonded very tightly for self-defense.

In all fairness, I have to admit that I was mean to her at times. She came to visit for a few days and we went to church. She didn't bring clothes for such an occasion, so mom let her borrow some of mine. As she was climbing into the wagon, I saw my clothes on her. I got angry and pushed her out of the wagon. I loved Jean very much, but I drew the line when it came to my clothes.

I just didn't seem to learn and, you guessed it, I was in trouble again. Lucky for me, Jean wasn't injured or I would have seen no end to trouble.

Jean wasn't used to being around guinea hens. For those not familiar with this fowl, I'll try to explain. A guinea has a very small head and gray or black feathers, with dense white spots covering their somewhat round bodies. They have very sharp beaks and claws, and very nasty dispositions, especially around their young (or keets). Although they don't do a lot of flying, they can get off the ground very quickly. This is my description, not a professional one.

I don't know what caused the bird to attack Jean, but it came off the ground and landed on top of her head. All the while, it was pecking and scratching. Mom was able to disconnect it from Jean's head and shoo it away. Good ol'mom—just like the hen, she was protecting her younguns. I don't recall any real injury to Jean, but she was scared to death. She talks about that experience even today.

While I'm explaining animal attacks, I suffered several of them as well. We raised turkeys on the farm and one of them, a giant gobbler, didn't take very well to me. I suppose the fact I threw rocks at it all the time might have had something to do with his attitude. While strolling through the backyard minding my own business, I heard a dragging noise quite close to my rear end. When I turned around to identify what was making the sound, I realized the gobbler was following me and rapidly gaining ground. He was dragging his wings and fanning his tail, which usually meant he was in either mating mood or attack mode. In this case, it was attack mode, thank goodness.

When I attempted to walk away from him, he circled me, strutting. Finally, he broke into a run and caught the seat of my pants in his beak. He held onto me for a while then let go. Luckily, my butt wasn't in the part of the pants he caught. Dad witnessed the event and just about laughed himself to death. I have to believe that, had it become necessary, he would have intervened on my behalf. I just have to believe that, don't I?

All he said was, "That'll teach you."

I didn't know what the gobbler was trying to teach me, but I learned the lesson.

When I was about three years old, an old lady came to live with us. Her name was Caroline Waller. I don't know why, but she just seemed to appear one day. I believe she was the mother of one of mom's friends. She was a very kind lady, especially to me. I can remember her sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch humming church songs. I enjoyed sitting on the porch floor next to her chair as she rubbed my head and hummed. She almost put me to sleep with her humming and rubbing.

I know this will be hard to believe, but I remember the dress she liked the best and wore the most. It was a very long, dark blue dress covered with small white flowers, with white fringes around the neck and sleeves. I was somewhere between three and four years old at the time.

I don't know why she left, and I believe she lived only a short time afterward. I've included her in this book to pay her some kind of tribute. She wasn't in my life for long, but she did have an impact.

I don't know if Caroline is responsible for this, but I have a very strong regard for the older generation. Perhaps this is because I am now a card-carrying member. Caroline was my first experience with a very old person. I believe she was in her 80's. I missed her rocking, rubbing, and humming after she left.

I just found another name for a rock and roll song: "Rocking, Rubbing, and Humming." Catchy, isn't it

Chapter Three

One of the major events during my early years was World War Two. On Dec. 7th, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. On December 8th, President Franklin D. Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war against the Empire of Japan.

We were visiting my grandparents at the time, and I was sitting on the floor listening to the radio when the President broke into the program and announced the start of the war.

My Uncle Ezra (Mom's youngest brother) immediately left to join the Navy. My uncle J. J. (Dad's youngest brother) joined the Army, as did other family members. Three days later, America declared war against Hitler's Germany and Mussolini's Italy.

From the beginning to the end of that war, you could tell what families had members serving their country. Most families hung small flags in their windows. The flags had blue borders, with a blue star in the middle of a white background. If the service person was killed in action, the flag had a gold star.

I remember these flags hanging in hundreds of windows during the war. Some of them hung in the windows of my relatives and many remained in windows years after the war had ended, especially the ones with the gold star. I was too young to understand the significance of the war, but I knew it was bad from the reactions of my family. Sugar, rubber, and other necessities of life became extremely scarce.

Dad tried to enlist in the Army but couldn't, due to spots on his lungs. He was very determined to do what he could for the war effort, so he and other members of my family grew, cut, and hauled wagonloads of sugar cane to the mill. Farming was very critical at the time as food was short, and the farmers grew crops to sell and use for their own consumption.

Mom and dad provided for us very well during the war. I don't know about my brother, but I never knew times were rough. I always had plenty to eat, clothes, a bed, and a roof over my head. We grew our own crops and raised our own beef, pork, and chickens. We were always dead broke, but at the same time very rich. I thought everything was great. God was always present in the Smith house, and we couldn't have survived without him.

Rubber was scarce, so dad used to repair his tires with a "boot." I couldn't understand the use of a "boot," since the car didn't have feet. I'm sure you're not familiar with this term, so let me explain.

When one of our tires was worn through the rubber, dad cut a piece from another tire and placed it inside the worn out tire. After checking the inner tube for leaks, he then placed it back inside the tire, and the piece of rubber was held secure by an inflated tube that had so many patches you wouldn't be able to count them.

Holes in the tube were patched by roughing the area around the hole, rubbing tube glue over the area, setting the glue on fire, blowing out the fire, and placing the patch over the hole. Surprisingly, these patches lasted for a long time.

The boot worked, but the car went down the road like a three-legged dog. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! Dad's car wasn't the only one thumping down the road. Other drivers made the same repairs to their vehicle's tires when needed. It sure shook up the passenger's vittles.

Dad also performed all the mechanical work on our cars. Parts were hard to find. "I can fix anything with a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and some bailing wire," he said, and proved it many times.

Oil and gasoline were also scarce commodities because they were in high demand during the war. When dad needed oil for the car, he dipped it out of a station's used oil drum. Don't get excited—the drum had a lid on it, so the oil must have been clean, right?

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from "Then Till Now—Autobiography of a Nobody" by Willie P. Smith Copyright © 2011 by Willie P. Smith. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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