Fie, Satan! You liar and deceiver!
Did you really think God would leave you free?
The world's greatest griever and bereaver,
No accounting, or day of judgment, see?
When all men's remains once more stand erect
Before the Lord on the throne you desired;
Endless years of torture your sole prospect;
In the burning sulphur lake you inspired;
Deprived of honors that were yours on high;
Among those you brought to this awful place;
Without God or mercy He might supply;
Will you at least rue your foolish disgrace?
None in heaven will grieve your hopeless lot,
Nor shall hell deplore the justice you got!
So Lucifer at last faced his jusge, the Lord he dared to atempt overthrowing. It will take place at the Final Judgment when all men will learn where they will spend all eternity. The devil, the fallen angels, and all men who rejected Jesus Christ will be cast into the fire of the burning lake of sulphur, from which thee is no escape or relief. Resurrected earlier at the Second Coming to earth of Jesus, those who accepted Him as Lord received bodies that do not tire or grow weak or ever die; the earth will be prepared for them to live forever with Jesus, who is the one God of this world.
"And the devil, who deceived them,was thrown into the lake of burning sulphur, where the beast and the false prophet had been thrown. They will be tormented day and night for ever and ever." (Revelation 20:10)
You may be wondering why God didn't kill Lucifer immediately after his defeat in heaven. Angels were created by God to live forever. However, God could certainly have killed him had He wanted. He was cast to the earth in order to provide an alternative choice for man, who by free will can choose good or evil. Not that man, by choosing good, would behave good, but that, by repenting of sin, confessing them, and accepting the lordship of Jesus, would be forgiven his sins. There is a reason for Satan to live; it is that by his deception, he provides a tough test for man. If a man chooses to enjoy the things Satan provides in this world rather than the things God asks a man to do, then he chooses his destiny---he condemns himself to hell.
This world is for us a brief pause in eternity, during which we are tested for heaven or hell. Satan is a tool of God; he provides us the test.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Allegory Of The Millennial Reign
Dulled spiritual insight led Jews astray,
Not through genetics, but by divine will;
Tired of their penchant to disobey,
God blinded them to Christ then; they are still!
He promised them David's kingship restored
For a thousand years after Christ returned---
That He would rule from Zion and be adored
By the nations who despised them and spurned!
Alas, vengeance for Jews is not to be,
For Christ has ruled since to heaven He rose;
Jews who in Jesus the Messiah see,
The fruits of His rule already to those!
It is a parable, Christ's earthly rule,
Meant to help calloused Jews play the fool!
In the space allotted for this commentary, it is impossible to give a complete theological defense of the conclusion of this poem. I will simply sketch the main points. First, many Jews were saved and admitted into God's Kingdom before the birth of Jesus by the special election of God. Hebrews 11 lists a few of those who earned His gift of grace by their obedience. Some Jews were sincere and obedient to the covenant all along, as indicated by the Lord's statement to Elijah that seven thousand had not bowed the knee to Baal. Even in the New Testatment, Nathaniel was described by Jesus as a Jew in which there was no deceit, so he was righteous before he accepted Jesus as Messiah. There must have been others. To these, Christ's reign over the universe produced the blessings that earth-minded Jews anticipated from an earthly reign of Chist on David's throne,
When Christ ascended to heaven after His resurrection, God crowned Him King of the universe; His rule includes that of David's kingdom. Thus, for two thousand years saved Jews have enjoyed the blessings that would have come from an earthly rule of Israel. They were given their own nation back in 1948, and Christ has helped them keep it in 7 wars with the nations who despoiled them in the days of the Old Testament. There is still time for lost Jews to accept Jesus as Messiah and reap the rewards of the millennial reign.
Not through genetics, but by divine will;
Tired of their penchant to disobey,
God blinded them to Christ then; they are still!
He promised them David's kingship restored
For a thousand years after Christ returned---
That He would rule from Zion and be adored
By the nations who despised them and spurned!
Alas, vengeance for Jews is not to be,
For Christ has ruled since to heaven He rose;
Jews who in Jesus the Messiah see,
The fruits of His rule already to those!
It is a parable, Christ's earthly rule,
Meant to help calloused Jews play the fool!
In the space allotted for this commentary, it is impossible to give a complete theological defense of the conclusion of this poem. I will simply sketch the main points. First, many Jews were saved and admitted into God's Kingdom before the birth of Jesus by the special election of God. Hebrews 11 lists a few of those who earned His gift of grace by their obedience. Some Jews were sincere and obedient to the covenant all along, as indicated by the Lord's statement to Elijah that seven thousand had not bowed the knee to Baal. Even in the New Testatment, Nathaniel was described by Jesus as a Jew in which there was no deceit, so he was righteous before he accepted Jesus as Messiah. There must have been others. To these, Christ's reign over the universe produced the blessings that earth-minded Jews anticipated from an earthly reign of Chist on David's throne,
When Christ ascended to heaven after His resurrection, God crowned Him King of the universe; His rule includes that of David's kingdom. Thus, for two thousand years saved Jews have enjoyed the blessings that would have come from an earthly rule of Israel. They were given their own nation back in 1948, and Christ has helped them keep it in 7 wars with the nations who despoiled them in the days of the Old Testament. There is still time for lost Jews to accept Jesus as Messiah and reap the rewards of the millennial reign.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Bread And Wine Do Not Change
Why need the bread of remembrance be flesh
Or wine blood, when at His table we dine?
Is man made fitter Christ's flesh to ingest,
Instead of human-mase bread, undivine?
Need God's children engage in such mystique
To enlarge the power of the holy rite;
Or must men devise this ritual unique,
To assure the members their sins' requite?
Jesus cares not rogue miracles inure,
Nor what the elements His flock partake,
So long as their minds His passion conjure,
And believers their sins all contemplate!
He made it forever miracle-free,
When He said, "Do this in remembrance of Me."
Jesus used his upcoming sacrifice on the cross to use the analogy of His flesh and blood being eaten by humans in order to be saved. It was a gruesome symbol, and it caused some of His disciples to abandon Him (which He likely intended, since they were following Him for the wrong reasons). On the evening before His crucifiction, at the Last Supper with His apostles, He instituted a memorial sacrament. He served a piece of bread and a cup of wine to each. He said once again, "This bread is my body, broken for you. Eat it in remembrance of me." And again, "This is my blood, shed for you. Drink it in remembrance of me."
Christians began the custom of observing "The Lord's Supper" as most call it periodically. Most Protestant churches instruct their members that it is a symbolic remembrance---that each believer use his mental faculties to envision Jesus's pain on the cross, and to thoroughly review his actions to make sure they are free of sin; if not, they are to confess them and ask forgiveness.
At some point in the history of the Roman Catholic Church, it adopted the theology of transubstantiation---that at the point in the ceremony where the presiding priest blesses the bread and wine, the elements are transformed instantly into the actual flesh and blood of Jesus; that by ingesting the bread, the worshipper becomes clean and pure, free from sin. Called the "Eucharist". or Mass, this is the principal worship service of Catholics, conducted each Sunday. I believe that Jesus clarified the point that the sacrament is symbolic only when He said it was to be done in remembrance of Him. The Catholics are taught, however, that Jesus is present in every church offering Mass every Sunday.
When He said, "Do this in remembrance of Me."
Or wine blood, when at His table we dine?
Is man made fitter Christ's flesh to ingest,
Instead of human-mase bread, undivine?
Need God's children engage in such mystique
To enlarge the power of the holy rite;
Or must men devise this ritual unique,
To assure the members their sins' requite?
Jesus cares not rogue miracles inure,
Nor what the elements His flock partake,
So long as their minds His passion conjure,
And believers their sins all contemplate!
He made it forever miracle-free,
When He said, "Do this in remembrance of Me."
Jesus used his upcoming sacrifice on the cross to use the analogy of His flesh and blood being eaten by humans in order to be saved. It was a gruesome symbol, and it caused some of His disciples to abandon Him (which He likely intended, since they were following Him for the wrong reasons). On the evening before His crucifiction, at the Last Supper with His apostles, He instituted a memorial sacrament. He served a piece of bread and a cup of wine to each. He said once again, "This bread is my body, broken for you. Eat it in remembrance of me." And again, "This is my blood, shed for you. Drink it in remembrance of me."
Christians began the custom of observing "The Lord's Supper" as most call it periodically. Most Protestant churches instruct their members that it is a symbolic remembrance---that each believer use his mental faculties to envision Jesus's pain on the cross, and to thoroughly review his actions to make sure they are free of sin; if not, they are to confess them and ask forgiveness.
At some point in the history of the Roman Catholic Church, it adopted the theology of transubstantiation---that at the point in the ceremony where the presiding priest blesses the bread and wine, the elements are transformed instantly into the actual flesh and blood of Jesus; that by ingesting the bread, the worshipper becomes clean and pure, free from sin. Called the "Eucharist". or Mass, this is the principal worship service of Catholics, conducted each Sunday. I believe that Jesus clarified the point that the sacrament is symbolic only when He said it was to be done in remembrance of Him. The Catholics are taught, however, that Jesus is present in every church offering Mass every Sunday.
When He said, "Do this in remembrance of Me."
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The "Know-It-All"
"Heaven can be attained when one's sincere,"
Spoke a man who talked as if he knew it all;
"Salvation is for anyone down here
Who truly believes in any faith's call!
I thought of John fouteen six in God's word
And considered how to counter his mistake.
One who did not believe, or never heard,
The gospel, would not a quick convert make!
The road to heaven is narrow, and few
Find it, the very words that Jesus said,
Should convince him how incorrect his view;
Some are slow to change, no matter how pled!
The Holy Spirit's work within his heart
Will succeed when men fail even to start!
"Jesus said, 'I am the way and the trith and the life. No one comes to my Father except through me." (John 14:6)
"But strait [difficu;t] is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." (Matthew 7:14) [Brackets added]
These two scriptures should be clear enough to any that there is only one road to heaven, and it is through Jesus Christ. Sincerity in a religion is not enough to provide salvation. Of course, whether this statement is accepted as true or not depends upon a person's belief in whether the Bible is true or not, and that is a matter of faith. No one has yet, in world history, proved the Bible true; likewise, no one has proved it to be false, and many have tried. I challenge anyone to read the Bible and find a falsehood. Many who have read it hoping to find error have finished their study convinced of its truth.
Society today is dominated by a philosophy called postmodernism, and its key belief is there is no absolute truth. The belief that "all religions lead to heaven" is popular in world discourse. It is not fashionable to state any proposition as being absolutely true. Diversity in every field is the rule of modern discourse. This, of course, makes Christianity a "hard sell"; but God has revealed Himself and His plan of salvation in an unequivocal fashion that allows for no alternatives.
Christianity teaches love for everyone and by everyone; it is absurd to equate any other world religion to it.
Spoke a man who talked as if he knew it all;
"Salvation is for anyone down here
Who truly believes in any faith's call!
I thought of John fouteen six in God's word
And considered how to counter his mistake.
One who did not believe, or never heard,
The gospel, would not a quick convert make!
The road to heaven is narrow, and few
Find it, the very words that Jesus said,
Should convince him how incorrect his view;
Some are slow to change, no matter how pled!
The Holy Spirit's work within his heart
Will succeed when men fail even to start!
"Jesus said, 'I am the way and the trith and the life. No one comes to my Father except through me." (John 14:6)
"But strait [difficu;t] is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." (Matthew 7:14) [Brackets added]
These two scriptures should be clear enough to any that there is only one road to heaven, and it is through Jesus Christ. Sincerity in a religion is not enough to provide salvation. Of course, whether this statement is accepted as true or not depends upon a person's belief in whether the Bible is true or not, and that is a matter of faith. No one has yet, in world history, proved the Bible true; likewise, no one has proved it to be false, and many have tried. I challenge anyone to read the Bible and find a falsehood. Many who have read it hoping to find error have finished their study convinced of its truth.
Society today is dominated by a philosophy called postmodernism, and its key belief is there is no absolute truth. The belief that "all religions lead to heaven" is popular in world discourse. It is not fashionable to state any proposition as being absolutely true. Diversity in every field is the rule of modern discourse. This, of course, makes Christianity a "hard sell"; but God has revealed Himself and His plan of salvation in an unequivocal fashion that allows for no alternatives.
Christianity teaches love for everyone and by everyone; it is absurd to equate any other world religion to it.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Prayer For Baptist Renewal
"Dear Lord, turn not from the split Baptist flock
In her time of agony and distress;
Keys to the Kingdom pine in idleness,
While leaders plot their brothers to unfrock!
Prick hearts among the distance-holding pew
To see what havoc legalists have spread;
Expose the lies on which members have fed;
Grow resolve their fellowship to renew!
Help the wayward carpers their folly see,
And the damaged flock penitents accept;
Let none avenge; as before, let all be,
And hearts be pure, of agendas bereft!
Let believers hark to the Spirit's voice,
Instead of lockstep voting legalists' choice!"
Praise God, He's given my eyesight back! Yes, your blog writer is back after six weeks of near-complete blindness due to retina surgery. Thanks to the Lord for Sandra Kay, my talented daughter, for filling in for me with tales I have written about the past. Due to your great reaction, I intend to continue the memories interspersed with sonnets and commentaries. There should be something in the blog for everyone to enjoy!
The Southern Baptist Convention, once America's largest Christian convention, has passed through 40 years of internal strife and is now breaking up. Two or three smaller, new conventions may emerge from the havoc. Texas, in particular, seems almost ready to launch its own organization. Fundamentalists, or legalists, led by Paul Pressler and Paige Patterson, devised a scheme for stacking the 10-member church delegations to the annual conventions with pre-instructed voters; in 1979 they achieved complete autonomy over the Presidency, and immediately began appointting like-minded trustees to all the boards of Baptist institutions. The charges are liberalism. They have re=written the Baptist Faith and Message to oppose women pastors, homosexual ministers, making women subservient to men, and required all foreign missionaries, seminary professors, and churches to endorse it.
Since the Southern Baptist Convention was organized in 1845 on a platform that allowed missionaries to own slaves, it was doomed from the start. God would never let a church of His continue with that creed. However, through its Cooperative Program, the SbC made giant strides in world evangelism. The worldwide church will suffer from the loss of the Cooperative Program.
In her time of agony and distress;
Keys to the Kingdom pine in idleness,
While leaders plot their brothers to unfrock!
Prick hearts among the distance-holding pew
To see what havoc legalists have spread;
Expose the lies on which members have fed;
Grow resolve their fellowship to renew!
Help the wayward carpers their folly see,
And the damaged flock penitents accept;
Let none avenge; as before, let all be,
And hearts be pure, of agendas bereft!
Let believers hark to the Spirit's voice,
Instead of lockstep voting legalists' choice!"
Praise God, He's given my eyesight back! Yes, your blog writer is back after six weeks of near-complete blindness due to retina surgery. Thanks to the Lord for Sandra Kay, my talented daughter, for filling in for me with tales I have written about the past. Due to your great reaction, I intend to continue the memories interspersed with sonnets and commentaries. There should be something in the blog for everyone to enjoy!
The Southern Baptist Convention, once America's largest Christian convention, has passed through 40 years of internal strife and is now breaking up. Two or three smaller, new conventions may emerge from the havoc. Texas, in particular, seems almost ready to launch its own organization. Fundamentalists, or legalists, led by Paul Pressler and Paige Patterson, devised a scheme for stacking the 10-member church delegations to the annual conventions with pre-instructed voters; in 1979 they achieved complete autonomy over the Presidency, and immediately began appointting like-minded trustees to all the boards of Baptist institutions. The charges are liberalism. They have re=written the Baptist Faith and Message to oppose women pastors, homosexual ministers, making women subservient to men, and required all foreign missionaries, seminary professors, and churches to endorse it.
Since the Southern Baptist Convention was organized in 1845 on a platform that allowed missionaries to own slaves, it was doomed from the start. God would never let a church of His continue with that creed. However, through its Cooperative Program, the SbC made giant strides in world evangelism. The worldwide church will suffer from the loss of the Cooperative Program.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
MACK, IF YOU READ THIS, I'LL SWEAR IT'S A LIE!
McComb was a town of 12,000 people in 1939 which means there were about 3,000 houses. Did you ever try to walk to 3,000 houses and put a grocery circular in the screen door handles? I was supposed to.
When I was in the 9th grade, I fell head-over-heels in love with a girl named Marilyn Mitchell, who was also in the 9th grade. She had blond hair and blue eyes and was very attractive. It was another one of those "love her at a distance" romances. She never knew of my feeling for her.
Marilyn's parents owned a grocery store on Third Street between the City Hall and the Five Point Service Station. She had an older brother named Mack who was a senior in high school. One day I heard that Mack was looking for a boy to help deliver circulars on the upcoming Saturday. Thinking this would be a good way for me to meet the dream girl and lead to great things, I volunteered for the job. Mack said, "All right. Be at the store at 5:00 AM Saturday."
I looked forward to Saturday with great anticipation. Maybe Marilyn and I would ride in the back of the truck, and I could show her how I could hold my breath for more than three minutes! Or maybe she would bring my lunch and we could have a picnic in the park!
Saturday morning found me waiting outside the store at 5 AM as promised after walking the mile from my house on Seminary Street. Getting up early in the morning has always been easy for me. All I have to do is set my mind the night before for the time I want to get up and BINGO! My eyes pop open.
Mack opened the door from the inside. The family lived in the building some place, but no matter how hard I looked, there was no sign of Marilyn. Mr. Mitchell had 6 bundles of circulars on the floor by the cash register. Mack and I took the bundles out and put them on the truck. I became aware of a delicious odor in the air and it was coming from the candy counter. There were some small candies in a jar marked "Coffee Candy." The smell was so good that I promised myself to get some at the first opportunity.
We drove across the overhead bridge to East McComb and began our distribution of circulars. Mack parked the truck near the beginning of a street. He told me to take one side and he would take the other. We walked up the sidewalks and across the lawns, walking onto porches and putting rolled-up circulars inside screen door handles. It was not yet day.
Some houses had dogs in the yards, and they all barked. This started a chain reaction with dogs barking long after we had disappeared from sight. In some houses there would be lights on, and every now and then an unseen occupant would call out, "Who is it?" I knew that if I answered "Billy Crittenden," the person wouldn't know any more than he did before, so I decided to answer, "Me!"
That first street was a long one, Locust Street, I believe. The last house was a farmhouse, which sat a long way back in a field. We had taken enough circulars with us so that we could go over to the return street by way of a street running at right angles, and deliver ads all the way back to the truck.
The work went well. We finished East McComb by 10:30 AM and then drove to North McComb. In some areas the streets were arranged in rectangles, and the plastering went easy; in some areas, however, Mack and I got separated as he followed a diagonal or circular drive one way, and I went the other. As soon as he got out of sight, I dumped the handful of circulars I had in a sewer and went back to the truck to wait for him. I looked at all the bundles we had left with a sinking heart. I was so tired already I could hardly pick up my feet and we had covered less than one third of McComb.
That was one of the longest days I had ever spent. The afternoon was filled with endless streets of houses in Central and South McComb.
Time after time, Mack and I would start off together, and I would contrive to fall so far behind, or I would take a cross street as if to deliver circulars in the next block and when out of Mack's sight, I would dump my ads. Then I would go back to the truck, take out more sale papers, and go out and dump them.
After dark, the circulars FINALLY ran out. As we rode back to the store, I began to figure how much I was going to get paid. Gone was all thought of a cute blond Marilyn. It was too much to hope for $5, because that would have been generous even for a man. Surely, $2.00 was about right, and that's all I needed to get my .22 rifle so Charles Emmett and I could go hunting squirrels next week.
At 8:30 PM we went into the store. My head was drooping; Marilyn could have been on the counter dressed in a grass skirt dancing the hula and I would have only seen the three nickels Mr. Mitchell put on the counter for me. I pushed the nickels back and said, "Coffee Candy, please."
Mr. Mitchell counted out 15 pieces of dark paper wrapped candy from the big jar and put them in a paper sack. I didn't say anything and he didn't either. I took the candy and walked out of the store. Before I got to the fire house on the corner, I had unwrapped a piece and had it in my mouth. I didn't drink coffee and didn't know what to expect in taste, but it was bitter and didn't taste like candy at all.
I spit it out, threw the bag into the ditch, and walked back home, a sad but wiser boy.
When I was in the 9th grade, I fell head-over-heels in love with a girl named Marilyn Mitchell, who was also in the 9th grade. She had blond hair and blue eyes and was very attractive. It was another one of those "love her at a distance" romances. She never knew of my feeling for her.
Marilyn's parents owned a grocery store on Third Street between the City Hall and the Five Point Service Station. She had an older brother named Mack who was a senior in high school. One day I heard that Mack was looking for a boy to help deliver circulars on the upcoming Saturday. Thinking this would be a good way for me to meet the dream girl and lead to great things, I volunteered for the job. Mack said, "All right. Be at the store at 5:00 AM Saturday."
I looked forward to Saturday with great anticipation. Maybe Marilyn and I would ride in the back of the truck, and I could show her how I could hold my breath for more than three minutes! Or maybe she would bring my lunch and we could have a picnic in the park!
Saturday morning found me waiting outside the store at 5 AM as promised after walking the mile from my house on Seminary Street. Getting up early in the morning has always been easy for me. All I have to do is set my mind the night before for the time I want to get up and BINGO! My eyes pop open.
Mack opened the door from the inside. The family lived in the building some place, but no matter how hard I looked, there was no sign of Marilyn. Mr. Mitchell had 6 bundles of circulars on the floor by the cash register. Mack and I took the bundles out and put them on the truck. I became aware of a delicious odor in the air and it was coming from the candy counter. There were some small candies in a jar marked "Coffee Candy." The smell was so good that I promised myself to get some at the first opportunity.
We drove across the overhead bridge to East McComb and began our distribution of circulars. Mack parked the truck near the beginning of a street. He told me to take one side and he would take the other. We walked up the sidewalks and across the lawns, walking onto porches and putting rolled-up circulars inside screen door handles. It was not yet day.
Some houses had dogs in the yards, and they all barked. This started a chain reaction with dogs barking long after we had disappeared from sight. In some houses there would be lights on, and every now and then an unseen occupant would call out, "Who is it?" I knew that if I answered "Billy Crittenden," the person wouldn't know any more than he did before, so I decided to answer, "Me!"
That first street was a long one, Locust Street, I believe. The last house was a farmhouse, which sat a long way back in a field. We had taken enough circulars with us so that we could go over to the return street by way of a street running at right angles, and deliver ads all the way back to the truck.
The work went well. We finished East McComb by 10:30 AM and then drove to North McComb. In some areas the streets were arranged in rectangles, and the plastering went easy; in some areas, however, Mack and I got separated as he followed a diagonal or circular drive one way, and I went the other. As soon as he got out of sight, I dumped the handful of circulars I had in a sewer and went back to the truck to wait for him. I looked at all the bundles we had left with a sinking heart. I was so tired already I could hardly pick up my feet and we had covered less than one third of McComb.
That was one of the longest days I had ever spent. The afternoon was filled with endless streets of houses in Central and South McComb.
Time after time, Mack and I would start off together, and I would contrive to fall so far behind, or I would take a cross street as if to deliver circulars in the next block and when out of Mack's sight, I would dump my ads. Then I would go back to the truck, take out more sale papers, and go out and dump them.
After dark, the circulars FINALLY ran out. As we rode back to the store, I began to figure how much I was going to get paid. Gone was all thought of a cute blond Marilyn. It was too much to hope for $5, because that would have been generous even for a man. Surely, $2.00 was about right, and that's all I needed to get my .22 rifle so Charles Emmett and I could go hunting squirrels next week.
At 8:30 PM we went into the store. My head was drooping; Marilyn could have been on the counter dressed in a grass skirt dancing the hula and I would have only seen the three nickels Mr. Mitchell put on the counter for me. I pushed the nickels back and said, "Coffee Candy, please."
Mr. Mitchell counted out 15 pieces of dark paper wrapped candy from the big jar and put them in a paper sack. I didn't say anything and he didn't either. I took the candy and walked out of the store. Before I got to the fire house on the corner, I had unwrapped a piece and had it in my mouth. I didn't drink coffee and didn't know what to expect in taste, but it was bitter and didn't taste like candy at all.
I spit it out, threw the bag into the ditch, and walked back home, a sad but wiser boy.
KILLING TIME KILLING ANTS
I always needed money and I was always out of it. When school dismissed for the summer in May 1940, I was in desperate need of $5 to pay for a week at Camp Tangipahoa with my Boy Scout Troop 123. I was Senior Patrol Leader and I was to be in charge of all the Scouts in my troop. It was imperative for me to go. I had no luck finding a job, but mama's friend at church, Mrs. Eschol Lieb, offered me a temporary one. She was an important administrator at McComb Lumber and Coal Company on South Broadway, across the street from my Grandfather Crittenden's house. The company occupied about 10 acres between the cotton gin to beyond the drainage ditch and between Broadway and the railroad on the east side of the street. My job was to cut the weeds, briars, and high grass that had grown up all over the lot, using a swing blade mostly.
Mrs. Lieb greeted me warmly, introduced me to a lot of folks in the main office and store. This was 7 AM. She said I would be paid $2.00 a day and the day ran from 7 in the morning to 6 in the afternoon, with an hour off for lunch. Already feeling the warmth of the sun from outside and thinking of how hot it was going to be the rest of the day, I managed a weak grin and an even weaker "Thank you, ma'am." She told me to get a new swing blade off the rack and a pair of gloves. As I got the necessities, I was thinking, "Well, bud, you asked for it. Swinging a yo-yo blade for 20 cents an hour in that snake-infested jungle!"
I went to work with a will, first clearing all the unsightly patches around the office and in front, figuring to get off to a good start so the bosses would easily see the fruits of my labor. I took no breaks for several hours, again striving to make a good first impression. When the inevitable blisters began rising on my hands, even under the gloves, I stuffed some rags into the space between my hand and the glove, and kept swinging. By the end of the first day, the area around the main building was well-cleared and looked like "yard of the month." I must have gotten a dozen compliments, and Mrs. Lieb said she was pleased with my work. She looked at my bleeding hands, with their burst blisters looking like raw hamburger meat and said, "Ludie will have to doctor your hands, and you must take it a little easier tomorrow." (Ludie was mama's given name.)
The walk home was about one mile long, and it took all my will power to drag myself there. I had briar scratches all over my arms and legs and though I didn't know it until that night, I was covered in redbugs or "chiggers."
The second day was different. It started off fine. All the top brass made a special point of telling me what a great job I had already done. The yard foreman and the men who worked on the sprawling lumber yard congratulated me and several said, "Don't work so hard. You've got all summer." I though of me and that swing blade and those blisters and that 20 cents an hour and those 10 hour days and thought, "That's what YOU think!" If I could have thought of a decent way to quit RIGHT THEN, I WOULD HAVE GRABBED IT LIKE A PERCH HITTING AN EARTHWORM!
Oops. I felt an urge to visit the little house with the crescent moon on its side. Yes, the company had a privy on the yard for the use of the workers. On the way to the "seat of ease," I remembered that I had not gone even once to the outhouse yesterday. That was possible, I figured, since I sweated so much and plus, I was so determined to make a good impression. The visit was wasted, because it was a false alarm; but I figured that hummm, that took 45 minutes and I made 15 cents.
Back to the briar patch. After a furious attack that lasted 30 or 40 minutes more, my mouth was as dry as the inside of a cotton sack. Mama had told me to drink plenty of water to keep from getting overheated, and so far I had not taken a single drink. Of course, I could have gotten a drink when I went to the restroom because the barrel of iced water with the dipper hanging on its side was nearby, but I forgot. To go to the water barrel, drink my fill, wipe the sweat off my face, and get back to the swing blade, took another 10 cents (or 30 minutes time). hummmmm...
On the third day I had completely cleared the briar patch. The company grounds looked a lot better, and again I was forced to accept compliments for my work. Honest Mrs. Lieb told everybody at church how hard I worked and how good the place was looking. It made me feel guilty about spending a total of FOUR HOURS in the privy, frequent trips for water, sitting and sharpening the blade...I had filed on the swing blade so much, it was getting narrower by the day, but I thought of that full rack of new ones in the store.
The rest of the property was huge but didn't take too long to blade. Meanwhile, I discovered the dry drainage ditch was lined with concrete. A person could sit on its bottom for a long time and remain out of sight, as if he were working behind the sheds or along the tracks. Long streams of ants were going busily to and from wherever ants go in long streams to and fro. I began killing them with my fingers. I must have mashed the life out of 10,o00 on some of the occasions when it was G.I. Billy against "the ants from Mars"!I was engaged in research, really. How long would it take a human finger to kill all the ants that used that particular drainage ditch to go to and fro? I didn't discover the answer, because I never slowed them down or interrupted the lines in the least; the only sign that they even noticed me was a slight curve in the line where my finger dropped the hammer.
On the 5th day, I told Mrs. Lieb I had finished the whole lot, and there was no need for me to keep working, because it would take at least 2 weeks to grow bad again. She thanked me profusely, paid me 10 whole dollars and eent me home. There was no Social Security tax held out of my pay. On the way home I figured out that I had worked about 25 hours and gotten paid 40 cents an hour, or killed 10 ants for a penny.
Either way, I was happy. But killing ants was more fun!
Mrs. Lieb greeted me warmly, introduced me to a lot of folks in the main office and store. This was 7 AM. She said I would be paid $2.00 a day and the day ran from 7 in the morning to 6 in the afternoon, with an hour off for lunch. Already feeling the warmth of the sun from outside and thinking of how hot it was going to be the rest of the day, I managed a weak grin and an even weaker "Thank you, ma'am." She told me to get a new swing blade off the rack and a pair of gloves. As I got the necessities, I was thinking, "Well, bud, you asked for it. Swinging a yo-yo blade for 20 cents an hour in that snake-infested jungle!"
I went to work with a will, first clearing all the unsightly patches around the office and in front, figuring to get off to a good start so the bosses would easily see the fruits of my labor. I took no breaks for several hours, again striving to make a good first impression. When the inevitable blisters began rising on my hands, even under the gloves, I stuffed some rags into the space between my hand and the glove, and kept swinging. By the end of the first day, the area around the main building was well-cleared and looked like "yard of the month." I must have gotten a dozen compliments, and Mrs. Lieb said she was pleased with my work. She looked at my bleeding hands, with their burst blisters looking like raw hamburger meat and said, "Ludie will have to doctor your hands, and you must take it a little easier tomorrow." (Ludie was mama's given name.)
The walk home was about one mile long, and it took all my will power to drag myself there. I had briar scratches all over my arms and legs and though I didn't know it until that night, I was covered in redbugs or "chiggers."
The second day was different. It started off fine. All the top brass made a special point of telling me what a great job I had already done. The yard foreman and the men who worked on the sprawling lumber yard congratulated me and several said, "Don't work so hard. You've got all summer." I though of me and that swing blade and those blisters and that 20 cents an hour and those 10 hour days and thought, "That's what YOU think!" If I could have thought of a decent way to quit RIGHT THEN, I WOULD HAVE GRABBED IT LIKE A PERCH HITTING AN EARTHWORM!
Oops. I felt an urge to visit the little house with the crescent moon on its side. Yes, the company had a privy on the yard for the use of the workers. On the way to the "seat of ease," I remembered that I had not gone even once to the outhouse yesterday. That was possible, I figured, since I sweated so much and plus, I was so determined to make a good impression. The visit was wasted, because it was a false alarm; but I figured that hummm, that took 45 minutes and I made 15 cents.
Back to the briar patch. After a furious attack that lasted 30 or 40 minutes more, my mouth was as dry as the inside of a cotton sack. Mama had told me to drink plenty of water to keep from getting overheated, and so far I had not taken a single drink. Of course, I could have gotten a drink when I went to the restroom because the barrel of iced water with the dipper hanging on its side was nearby, but I forgot. To go to the water barrel, drink my fill, wipe the sweat off my face, and get back to the swing blade, took another 10 cents (or 30 minutes time). hummmmm...
On the third day I had completely cleared the briar patch. The company grounds looked a lot better, and again I was forced to accept compliments for my work. Honest Mrs. Lieb told everybody at church how hard I worked and how good the place was looking. It made me feel guilty about spending a total of FOUR HOURS in the privy, frequent trips for water, sitting and sharpening the blade...I had filed on the swing blade so much, it was getting narrower by the day, but I thought of that full rack of new ones in the store.
The rest of the property was huge but didn't take too long to blade. Meanwhile, I discovered the dry drainage ditch was lined with concrete. A person could sit on its bottom for a long time and remain out of sight, as if he were working behind the sheds or along the tracks. Long streams of ants were going busily to and from wherever ants go in long streams to and fro. I began killing them with my fingers. I must have mashed the life out of 10,o00 on some of the occasions when it was G.I. Billy against "the ants from Mars"!I was engaged in research, really. How long would it take a human finger to kill all the ants that used that particular drainage ditch to go to and fro? I didn't discover the answer, because I never slowed them down or interrupted the lines in the least; the only sign that they even noticed me was a slight curve in the line where my finger dropped the hammer.
On the 5th day, I told Mrs. Lieb I had finished the whole lot, and there was no need for me to keep working, because it would take at least 2 weeks to grow bad again. She thanked me profusely, paid me 10 whole dollars and eent me home. There was no Social Security tax held out of my pay. On the way home I figured out that I had worked about 25 hours and gotten paid 40 cents an hour, or killed 10 ants for a penny.
Either way, I was happy. But killing ants was more fun!
Friday, August 14, 2009
EVERYBODY, TAKE A NUMBER 1939
The beginning of high school for me came along just after the Social Security System was inaugurated in the United States. I had never heard of it, but that oversight was corrected when I applied for my first real job. I learned at school one Monday in the fall semester that Handelman's Clothing Store on Main Street needed a boy for after school. I hotfooted it to downtown when school dismissed and asked the manager if he had a job open. He answered, "Yes, I have, son, but do you have a Social Security card?"
"No sir, I don't. I don't even know what it is."
"Oh, yes, everybody that works now has to have a Social Security card. I have some blank application forms here, if you want. Just fill one of these out and I'll mail it for you."
"Thank you, sir. What about the job?"
"I need you to come by here every week day after school and sweep out the store. Also, every Monday you will wash the display windows and squeegee them dry. I'll pay you two dollars a week. Once in a while you can work on Saturday selling shoes for another two dollars." When I heard his words, I thought I had died and gone to Heaven! Four dollars a week was good money for a 14 year old boy!
I went to work the same day, sweeping and washing the windows. It was not until I started home that my mathematical mind began looking at my job and its salary in another way. Each weekday I had a walk from school to downtown, an hour's work, and then a mile's walk home for a total of 40 cents. Then I thought about the time Charles Emmett and I walked a round trip of 10 miles out on S. H. 24 for two movie tickets worth 8 cents and I felt better.
The Saturday hours began when the store opened at 9:00 in the morning and finished at 10 that night after I had swept out the store. The doors were closed to customers at 9:00 PM and we replaced stock and cleaned up, then we got paid for the week. I was surprised to receive only $3.96 in a little envelope. I must have looked my disappointment, for the manager said, "Don't forget the Social Security tax. It's not much, only a penny on every dollar, and that will stop after you earn $3000 in a year." As far as I was concerned, I didn't imagine I would EVER earn $3000.00 in a LIFETIME, much less a year; right now I was more concerned about the loss of 4 pennies.
When I got off work on Saturday night, there was nothing to do in downtown McComb. I was too tired to wait for the midnight movie to start, for during the entire day I was allowed to sit down only at lunch break. The only places with lights on were the Greyhound bus station and the bakery. I chose the bakery, because that envelope full of money was burning a hole in my pocket. The smell of bread was so powerful that I realized I had eaten nothing during the day. A dozen big fresh glazed doughnuts cost a quarter so that's what I bought. On the way home, I ate the whole bag, finishing the last one as my foot hit the front porch steps of my house. I didn't need a key to get in because nobody locked their houses in those days. In fact, I never saw a front door key until I got to Houston in 1953.
What happened to the other $3.71? I haven't the slightest idea. I do remember where 25 cents of my money went every Saturday as long as I worked at Handelman's.
"No sir, I don't. I don't even know what it is."
"Oh, yes, everybody that works now has to have a Social Security card. I have some blank application forms here, if you want. Just fill one of these out and I'll mail it for you."
"Thank you, sir. What about the job?"
"I need you to come by here every week day after school and sweep out the store. Also, every Monday you will wash the display windows and squeegee them dry. I'll pay you two dollars a week. Once in a while you can work on Saturday selling shoes for another two dollars." When I heard his words, I thought I had died and gone to Heaven! Four dollars a week was good money for a 14 year old boy!
I went to work the same day, sweeping and washing the windows. It was not until I started home that my mathematical mind began looking at my job and its salary in another way. Each weekday I had a walk from school to downtown, an hour's work, and then a mile's walk home for a total of 40 cents. Then I thought about the time Charles Emmett and I walked a round trip of 10 miles out on S. H. 24 for two movie tickets worth 8 cents and I felt better.
The Saturday hours began when the store opened at 9:00 in the morning and finished at 10 that night after I had swept out the store. The doors were closed to customers at 9:00 PM and we replaced stock and cleaned up, then we got paid for the week. I was surprised to receive only $3.96 in a little envelope. I must have looked my disappointment, for the manager said, "Don't forget the Social Security tax. It's not much, only a penny on every dollar, and that will stop after you earn $3000 in a year." As far as I was concerned, I didn't imagine I would EVER earn $3000.00 in a LIFETIME, much less a year; right now I was more concerned about the loss of 4 pennies.
When I got off work on Saturday night, there was nothing to do in downtown McComb. I was too tired to wait for the midnight movie to start, for during the entire day I was allowed to sit down only at lunch break. The only places with lights on were the Greyhound bus station and the bakery. I chose the bakery, because that envelope full of money was burning a hole in my pocket. The smell of bread was so powerful that I realized I had eaten nothing during the day. A dozen big fresh glazed doughnuts cost a quarter so that's what I bought. On the way home, I ate the whole bag, finishing the last one as my foot hit the front porch steps of my house. I didn't need a key to get in because nobody locked their houses in those days. In fact, I never saw a front door key until I got to Houston in 1953.
What happened to the other $3.71? I haven't the slightest idea. I do remember where 25 cents of my money went every Saturday as long as I worked at Handelman's.
JUST IMAGINE!
GONE WITH THE WIND
I once roomed with Olivia De Havilland's brother-in-law. She played Melanie Wilkes, the good-hearted friend of Scarlett O'Hara who was married to the man Scarlett loved, Ashley Wilkes. In real life, she married Will Price of my hometown after the film was released. The wedding was in McComb.
If you are wondering how such a famous movie star fell in love with and married an ordinary McCombite, and married him in McComb to boot, it's not a difficult connection. Will Price was the technical advisor on "Gone With the Wind." He taught the actors to speak like Southerners. Not only that, it was Will who brought the world's most famous film to little old McComb for the premiere showing in the State Theater! That event in 1939 ranks right up with the most famous things that ever happened in McComb!
A special daytime showing of GWTW was allowed for high school students who were dismissed from school for the day. The movie lasted 4 hours and had a 15 minute break in the middle. When Rhett Butler said to Scarlett O'Hara, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," there was an audible gasp from the audience of high schoolers. It was the first profane word we had ever heard in a movie or on the radio. We also gasped at the price of a ticket! 75 cents!
In January, 1947, I spent a few months attending Gulf Radio School and rooming in New Orleans, and my roommate at 1010 Carondelet Street was Lloyd Price, Will's brother. He was working for the railroad there, but his home was in McComb. In his company we would board the back side of the locomotive for the Panama Limited on Fridays at 4:00 PM and we rode up to McComb for the weekend at over 100 mph, sitting in the rear-facing engineer's seats on the second engine! It faced backwards. We got off in McComb at 5:45 on the opposite side of the train from where the paying passengers boarded. I am sure this was contrary to railroad rules, but Lloyd worked on the trains, and every worker knew him.
MAKING DO
Growing up in the 1930's with a dad often laid off was a boyhood very shy of pocket money. Until my 16th birthday, the State Theater charged 4 cents for admission to a movie, and that was very often hard to get. I have already mentioned in these sketches that mama made dresses and that was the source of most of the "walking around" money for us boys. She also cut hair--- ours and most of the neighborhood boys. Ours was cut for free, of course, but they paid her a nickel each, if they had it. On Saturdays, when I had no money, which was almost every week, I scurried around looking for a friend who had a nickel and sometimes succeeded in getting one to come for a haircut. Mama would always stop what she was doing and cut the boy's hair, then she gave me the money. That meant I could go to the picture show and have a penny left over to spend. There were a lot of things you could buy with a penny.There was almost a revolution when they reduced the age from 16 to 12 as the point at which a youth had to pay adult prices for movie tickets. It didn't happen until the beginning of WWII. The new fare schedule charged 5 cents for moviegoers under 12 and 15 cents for 12 and over.
One Saturday T. M. Hardy, my cousin, had a yard to mow for a dime and he offered me half to help him. Of course, I jumped at the chance. It was a large yard, and the mower we used was the push-type with roller blades. My job was to go ahead of the mower with a hoe and chop off the Johnson weeds; the mower wouldn't cut them. I had to remove any rocks or other impediments as well.
The big social event of the week for the young people was what we called the "midnight" movie at the State Theater on Saturday night at 10:30. Though its name was a little misleading, it ended after midnight. It was always well attended, especially by daters and other young folks; there was always a crowd waiting at the front of the theater for the movie preceding it to finish and dismiss the folks inside. Most of the ones coming out just turned around, bought new tickets, and went back in.
Theaters of the 1930's presented more than ads for coming attractions and a single movie. There was an occasional double feature, but in addition to the featured film, there was a chapter of an ongoing serial, a cartoon comedy, the Movietone News, and short documentaries. The serial ended every week with a disaster for the hero, like being shot, or run over by a train, or falling off a steep cliff. That left us all trying to figure how he was going to save himself at the beginning of next week's chapter, because we knew the sequel could not end until the last chapter. The disaster of the preceding week, however, was easily disposed of in a humdrum fashion, such as by rolling off the track before the train got to him.
In my family, the custom was to order a new suit of longjohns from Sears Roebuck for each boy in September, which we had to wear every day until the end of March. Saturdays they were removed for washing, and while in that process, we took our weekly bath in the same No. 10 washtub on the kitchen floor. We hovered around the big wood stove until our turn in the warm bath water. On cold wet days, mama hung a temporary clothes line above the stove and pinned the longjohns to it to dry. By bedtime on Saturday night we all went to bed in a clean suit of long handles. Mama had heated the irons she used for pressing shirts and put a couple, wrapped in flannel, under the quilts to warm our feet on. On bed held 3 boys, and the other in the room held 2.
Physical education classes had an innovation when I entered high school in 1939. Twice a week our class walked from the high school building a couple of blocks over to the National Guard armory, which doubled as our gymnasium. We went downstairs into the dressing room where each of us had an assigned locker in which we kept our t-shirts and shorts (or trunks) that we played basketball in or another type of activity. My problem was to change out of longjohns, and later, to put them back on, without being seen by the other boys. I solved it by crawling into the locker, pulling the door as nearly closed as I could, changing clothes in the dark. When the next September rolled around, we persuaded mama to order us boxer shorts and muscle undershirts. That was what the other boys wore.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT GIRLS, BUT I LEARNED
Having no sisters, I knew absolutely nothing about girls. By the time I was 13, I began to notice them in a different way than before.
I developed a crush on a girl named Carolyn Pearl McDaniel. She knew I had a crush on her, but she pretended she could care less about me, turning up her nose when I approached with the hang-dog look of obvious liking for her. For a time, I suffered terribly, being in hopeless love with her, but I never said anything to her; it was an arms-length unrequited romance. She was my age and went to the same church, and my advances to her were strictly with my eyes; I stared at her every chance I had. She had beautiful long wavy brown hair, brown eyes, dimples and a nice smile-for everybody but me.
My chances multiplied during Vacation Bible School. She and I were in the same class. When I sat down beside her, she would pretend being called across the room by a girlfriend, which left me staring across the room at her instead of watching the teacher. The whole class could not help but know my pitiful obsession. When we lined up for Kool-Aid, I stood behind her, hoping to be jostled enough to touch her or feel her hair, but she would step back in line a couple of places and I was too proud to follow her.
Suddenly everything changed. When I was my deepest in despair, she came up to me, to my astonishment, without saying a word, and got in line in front of me! I was dumbfounded. We didn't talk. I couldn't have told her my name. After recess, when we went back to class, she stood waiting until I picked a chair, and, wonder of all wonders, she promptly sat down beside me. I looked sideways toward her, without turning my head, to see if it was really HER, and it was. From then on we were together all the time, and after the first day, I was able to manage a few stupid words. Of course, she started talking to me like we had been sweethearts for years, and everything she said was brilliant and wonderful!
We had a game at parties called, "Spin the Bottle." Boys sat on one side of the room and girls on the other. The boy or girl who was "it" would stand in the middle and spin a Coke bottle on the floor. If a boy spun, he tried to make it stop pointing at the girl he was sweet on. If it did, she jumped up, and they got to go out of the house into the darkness and walk to the corner and back together. If they tarried more than a minute an adult would saunter down the street and casually walk them back. On the other hand, if the bottle pointed at a wallflower, they would RUSH OUT and BACK before the next spin.
A particularly painful way for a boy to show his love for a girl was to carve her initials into his wrist with a kitchen match. It became a fad, and it meant the boy was serious. An unlit kitchen match's white head was rubbed back and forth on the arm until an ugly whelp was raised. By the time that I raised the initials CPM on my outside left arm just above my wrist, my love for a girl with that many names had been severely tested. I enjoyed showing it off at church, while Carolyn Pearl pretended to be proud of it. After a few days the whelps turned into ugly scabs, and their namesake was turning her nose up at them. After the scabs came, the white scars lasted for months, long after we had broken up.
I developed a crush on a girl named Carolyn Pearl McDaniel. She knew I had a crush on her, but she pretended she could care less about me, turning up her nose when I approached with the hang-dog look of obvious liking for her. For a time, I suffered terribly, being in hopeless love with her, but I never said anything to her; it was an arms-length unrequited romance. She was my age and went to the same church, and my advances to her were strictly with my eyes; I stared at her every chance I had. She had beautiful long wavy brown hair, brown eyes, dimples and a nice smile-for everybody but me.
My chances multiplied during Vacation Bible School. She and I were in the same class. When I sat down beside her, she would pretend being called across the room by a girlfriend, which left me staring across the room at her instead of watching the teacher. The whole class could not help but know my pitiful obsession. When we lined up for Kool-Aid, I stood behind her, hoping to be jostled enough to touch her or feel her hair, but she would step back in line a couple of places and I was too proud to follow her.
Suddenly everything changed. When I was my deepest in despair, she came up to me, to my astonishment, without saying a word, and got in line in front of me! I was dumbfounded. We didn't talk. I couldn't have told her my name. After recess, when we went back to class, she stood waiting until I picked a chair, and, wonder of all wonders, she promptly sat down beside me. I looked sideways toward her, without turning my head, to see if it was really HER, and it was. From then on we were together all the time, and after the first day, I was able to manage a few stupid words. Of course, she started talking to me like we had been sweethearts for years, and everything she said was brilliant and wonderful!
We had a game at parties called, "Spin the Bottle." Boys sat on one side of the room and girls on the other. The boy or girl who was "it" would stand in the middle and spin a Coke bottle on the floor. If a boy spun, he tried to make it stop pointing at the girl he was sweet on. If it did, she jumped up, and they got to go out of the house into the darkness and walk to the corner and back together. If they tarried more than a minute an adult would saunter down the street and casually walk them back. On the other hand, if the bottle pointed at a wallflower, they would RUSH OUT and BACK before the next spin.
A particularly painful way for a boy to show his love for a girl was to carve her initials into his wrist with a kitchen match. It became a fad, and it meant the boy was serious. An unlit kitchen match's white head was rubbed back and forth on the arm until an ugly whelp was raised. By the time that I raised the initials CPM on my outside left arm just above my wrist, my love for a girl with that many names had been severely tested. I enjoyed showing it off at church, while Carolyn Pearl pretended to be proud of it. After a few days the whelps turned into ugly scabs, and their namesake was turning her nose up at them. After the scabs came, the white scars lasted for months, long after we had broken up.
MCCOMB JR. HIGH PUPILS STRIKE
"Popeye" Lambright was older than most of his fellow students by almost 2 years. I first knew him in the McComb Jr. High School when I was in the 7th grade. He looked about 16 and was in the 8th grade, and I suppose he was shaving daily.
One Friday in the Spring of 1937, the high school let out for the day at 10 AM because they were hosting a Field Day for other high schools at the football stadium. Since most of the high school kids would not even be going to Field Day, they got the day off. This, to say the least, was not very popular in the Jr. High building next door. The teachers didn't sympathize with us in wanting the same privilege, because they knew the schedule called for a Festival Day for us later in the year. We felt WRONGED and the Jr. High students grew more and more indignant with being kept in.
There was a good deal of grumbling and dissatisfaction being expressed among us as we went downstairs for the 10:30 recess, and some near-belligerent looks and remarks directed at teachers. Our classrooms and auditorium were all on the second floor; the first floor was occupied by the system administrators. On the "dump," a huge red-clay raised playground area, we gathered in small groups discussing how we might force the school authorities to give us the rest of the day off. When the bell rang to end recess, and our not having consolidated a plan to rebel, we started back for the entrance. Head-high, being held in place by a wad of chewed green bubble gum, was a sheet of paper with words printed in large letters on it. They said, "IF YOU WANT A HOLIDAY, STAY DOWN AFTER RECESS."
Standing there eyeing us with a pleased smirk on his face, hands in his pockets, and not saying a word, was Popeye Lambright, and it didn't take a genius to know who had written the note. Well, it was just what the doctor ordered for us boys. We began encouraging each other to stay down and go on strike against the school; our Principal, Miss Woods, would be FORCED to give us the rest of the day off! About sixty boys stayed down. All the girls and some sissy boys went back upstairs.
We milled around the front steps, telling each other that we would NEVER go back, and there was NOTHING the authorities could do about it! They wouldn't DARE to drag us bodily up the stairs; we could use this method any time we wanted a day off! We made every boy promise NOT TO MOVE NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAID TO US; how could they expel ALL the boys in Jr. High School?
It didn't take long for our walkout to be noticed upstairs. Various teachers would come to the windows and look out with worried looks on their faces. Miss Woods was red0headed and had a reputation for strictness, and she tested our resolve by calling down, "You boys come up here right now!"
Well, we didn't go.
We said to each other that we were not afraid of her "whipping machine!" (It was commonly believed by the students that there was some kind of electric machine in the Principal's Office that could give whippings automatically.)
We boasted to each other that even if they did expel us, we didn't care!
After about 10 minutes we began to feel that we were winning, and we got louder and more boisterous. We chanted in unison, "WE WANT A HOLIDAY! WE WANT A HOLIDAY!" The faces that appeared at the window grew more concerned and worried. It was clear that the Faculty did not know what to do. At this point, the Superintendent of Schools, D. L. Blackwelder, stuck his head out the window, which brought a louder response from us. He didn't order us back and we had mustered up enough Dutch courage to have confidence that we wouldn't obey him anyhow. The strike had started as a prank, but its continued success was building up steam, and the situation was on the verge of violence.
Just when it appeared that victory was in our grasp, disaster fell. Miss Vera Netterville, the smallest teacher in the school, weighing about 85 pounds, and the sister of Miss Ruth Netterville, 2nd grade teacher at South McComb School, marched out of the school door. She had a no-nonsense look on her face, and she was the teacher most feared by all of us. She walked right through the mob of boys, who suddenly grew silent and stepped aside to let her pass.
"ALL RIGHT. YOU BOYS LINE UP!" she ordered. We lined up.
"WHEN YOU COME BY, GIVE ME YOUR NAME," and she took out her pad and pencil. "YOU MARCH YOURSELVES UP THOSE STAIRS AND TAKE YOUR SEATS IN THE AUDITORIUM."
One by one, we marched by Miss Vera, gave her our names, without a word. Popeye was as docile as the rest of us. The strike was over.
The last time I saw Popeye was in the Spring of 1941 when he, along with a number of our fellow students, marched by the high school from the armory to the train depot on their way to active duty. President Roosevelt had activated the National Guard for a year's duty, only it turned out to be 4 or 5 years. The war in Europe was in its third year, and Japan was becoming more and more threatening in Asia. They didn't return until 1945, because Japan bombed Pearl Harbor before their time was up and they were kept until the end of the war; that is, those who survived.
Our generation has been called "The Greatest Generation," because the chance of history had us arriving at young manhood just in time to fight in the largest war the planet has yet seen.
Bruno Johnston, like the rest of us, grew up in severe times and became one of the first of us to go to war. America owes men like Bruno Johnston.
Friday, August 7, 2009
MY BABY BROTHER DIED
My youngest brother, Ted, died for 7 minutes when he was a 1 year old baby. He was born with a heart murmur. On this occasion, Ted was ill with pneumonia and Dr. Hewitt had spent the night using poultices and what medicine he thought might keep him alive until his temperature went down. Mama told us about this later and she said his temperature was 106 1/2.
About 7:00 A.M., there were more than a dozen people gathered in the kitchen--- dad, the church pastor, neighbors and relatives, and the kids, of course. The doctor came out of the bedroom and said, "I'm sorry. The boy is dead." Immediately, the scene turned to grief, some giving comfort and others receiving it. Everyone was in the kitchen except mama. She was in the room with Ted. Dad announce, "She won't give up."
Ted had stopped breathing. The seconds were ticking away, turning into minutes. Mama had gone berserk, we thought. She ought to accept his passing and come out and grieve with us. But she wouldn't.
After a couple of minutes, she came out of the room. The crowd fell silent, looking at her. She only spoke to dad. "Get your bottle!" she ordered. The adults knew what that meant. The time was during prohibition. Liquor was illegal. Dad and many others drank anyway, keeping the bottle hidden. Even we kids knew he kept it in the barn behind the cotton seed hulls.
Without a word, he got up and hurried out to the barn bringing the bottle back. By now, 3 or 4 minutes had passed. Mama ordered, "Fix Ted a STRONG HOT TODDY!" Some of the women gasped but cut it short. They watched as dad quickly mixed the drink in a cup. Then he took the drink into the room. The doctor stood in the doorway. Mama held the baby up and began pouring the fiery liquid into the baby's mouth. Ted was already blue from the lack of oxygen. She poured so fast the liquid filled his mouth and ran over. She held him higher and slapped him on the back, then gave him more.
The doctor looked at the clock on the mantel; six minutes had passed and imperceptibly shook his head. Suddenly Ted's eyelids quivered and his lips closed. Mama stopped pouring and gave him another slap on the back. He squirted a mixture of whiskey and sugar out of his mouth and gave a weak cry. He was alive.
Never underestimate the power of a strong mother to do the impossible for her child. Mama attended church the next day, and, of course, taught Sunday School.
About 7:00 A.M., there were more than a dozen people gathered in the kitchen--- dad, the church pastor, neighbors and relatives, and the kids, of course. The doctor came out of the bedroom and said, "I'm sorry. The boy is dead." Immediately, the scene turned to grief, some giving comfort and others receiving it. Everyone was in the kitchen except mama. She was in the room with Ted. Dad announce, "She won't give up."
Ted had stopped breathing. The seconds were ticking away, turning into minutes. Mama had gone berserk, we thought. She ought to accept his passing and come out and grieve with us. But she wouldn't.
After a couple of minutes, she came out of the room. The crowd fell silent, looking at her. She only spoke to dad. "Get your bottle!" she ordered. The adults knew what that meant. The time was during prohibition. Liquor was illegal. Dad and many others drank anyway, keeping the bottle hidden. Even we kids knew he kept it in the barn behind the cotton seed hulls.
Without a word, he got up and hurried out to the barn bringing the bottle back. By now, 3 or 4 minutes had passed. Mama ordered, "Fix Ted a STRONG HOT TODDY!" Some of the women gasped but cut it short. They watched as dad quickly mixed the drink in a cup. Then he took the drink into the room. The doctor stood in the doorway. Mama held the baby up and began pouring the fiery liquid into the baby's mouth. Ted was already blue from the lack of oxygen. She poured so fast the liquid filled his mouth and ran over. She held him higher and slapped him on the back, then gave him more.
The doctor looked at the clock on the mantel; six minutes had passed and imperceptibly shook his head. Suddenly Ted's eyelids quivered and his lips closed. Mama stopped pouring and gave him another slap on the back. He squirted a mixture of whiskey and sugar out of his mouth and gave a weak cry. He was alive.
Never underestimate the power of a strong mother to do the impossible for her child. Mama attended church the next day, and, of course, taught Sunday School.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
FROM 5 BROTHERS TO 4
On a cold December night in 1937, my oldest brother E. J. was killed in a rare bicycle-car collision. He was 16 years old, and once again I heard those awful words, "The good die young." Since I am the only one of us left alive today, 72 years later, I guess I know what people think of me.
But E. J. really WAS good. He was dark-haired, blue-eyed and handsome. He was dependable, honest, and protective of his younger brothers. When I say we fought each other, I don't mean E. J. fought me; I was surely fighting hard, but he was just playing with me.
One time E. J., Milton, and I were picking cotton at Great Uncle Frank Easley's house on the Fernwood Rd. Mama sent our lunch down by Don. There was a quart of iced tea to be split three ways and Milton and I scuffled over it. E. J. intervened and divided the tea fairly, but I wasn't satisfied. I jumped on E. J. then, but instead of fighting, he just held me off. That made me try to get to him harder than ever. He took me by the arms and swung me around and around until I begged him to put me down. All the fight had been "swung" out of me.
When I was learning to swim at Wardlaw's and began to drown, it was
E. J. who saw me going down for the third time and jumped in and saved me.
E. J. was a good worker and had several jobs. His employers liked him. He delivered papers for the Enterprise (There were two newspapers-the Enterprise and the Journal) for several years. His last job was working for Mr. Lonnie Frazier, riding his bus from McComb to Woodville and back every day, assisting with luggage, mail, and delivering the paper to homes on the route.
Mr. Frazier operated an 18 passenger bus, leaving McComb every day at 4:00 PM, and returning at 10:00 that night. The bus was like a very long car with five doors to a side. It had a luggage rack on top. He went west on Hwy. 24 (now Park Drive) to Liberty, Gloster, and Centreville. E. J. would sit in the front seat with him, folding newspapers and throwing them out the window into the yards of subscribers.
At that time Hwy. 24 was gravel. Charles Emmett (my cousin and best friend) and I traveled by thumb and foot up and down it to various places so many times that every inch of it was familiar to us. We went out Hwy. 24 to Carroll's Creek (1 1/2 miles), Lake Percy Quin (7 miles), Hart's swimming hole (7 miles) and the East Fork of the Amite River (18 miles). On some occasions, we would be walking along the road when the bus with E. J. on board would pass us. Once he threw a folded newspaper out to us. We picked it up, unfolded it, and glanced over it, then left it on the side of the road 4 miles from town. The next morning E. J. asked me if we had gotten the movie tickets. I asked, "What movie tickets?"
"The two tickets that were inside the newspaper I threw to you and Charles Emmett yesterday."
I had to admit we hadn't seen them, and he was disgusted. As soon as we got out of school that day, Charles Emmett and I hotfooted it out the highway to the spot where we had discarded the newspaper. We found the tickets, which were somewhat faded by going through the dewfall and being dried by the sun. E. J. had written on the front page, "I hope you boys can use these." he seldom went to the movies himself because of his work.
E. J. would ride his bicycle to school in the morning, and over to the Five Points Service Station after school. At the symbolic center of downtown five streets came together. One was the head of Main Street; U. S. 51 Highway (named Broadway) passed going north and south; Third Street meets Main there; and Delaware Avenue begins there. Called Five Points, there was a service station there with an upstairs garage in which Mr. Frazier kept his bus. After completing the bus run, E. J. would ride his bicycle home.
On the evening of December 10, 1937, E. J. rode downhill on Third Street, passing City Hall and the Fire Department, and ran head-on into the front passenger side of a car in the act of crossing Third to a restaurant on its west side.
We were awakened by our neighbors who had a telephone. Mama and dad went down to the hospital. Later in the night, Aunt Wilena Boyd, turned the light on where the boys were sleeping. She asked, "Do you boys know what has happened?"
"I know," I replied quickly, "E.J. has been hurt in an accident."
"No, Billy. E. J. is dead," she answered gently.
I put my head under the quilt and cried.
But E. J. really WAS good. He was dark-haired, blue-eyed and handsome. He was dependable, honest, and protective of his younger brothers. When I say we fought each other, I don't mean E. J. fought me; I was surely fighting hard, but he was just playing with me.
One time E. J., Milton, and I were picking cotton at Great Uncle Frank Easley's house on the Fernwood Rd. Mama sent our lunch down by Don. There was a quart of iced tea to be split three ways and Milton and I scuffled over it. E. J. intervened and divided the tea fairly, but I wasn't satisfied. I jumped on E. J. then, but instead of fighting, he just held me off. That made me try to get to him harder than ever. He took me by the arms and swung me around and around until I begged him to put me down. All the fight had been "swung" out of me.
When I was learning to swim at Wardlaw's and began to drown, it was
E. J. who saw me going down for the third time and jumped in and saved me.
E. J. was a good worker and had several jobs. His employers liked him. He delivered papers for the Enterprise (There were two newspapers-the Enterprise and the Journal) for several years. His last job was working for Mr. Lonnie Frazier, riding his bus from McComb to Woodville and back every day, assisting with luggage, mail, and delivering the paper to homes on the route.
Mr. Frazier operated an 18 passenger bus, leaving McComb every day at 4:00 PM, and returning at 10:00 that night. The bus was like a very long car with five doors to a side. It had a luggage rack on top. He went west on Hwy. 24 (now Park Drive) to Liberty, Gloster, and Centreville. E. J. would sit in the front seat with him, folding newspapers and throwing them out the window into the yards of subscribers.
At that time Hwy. 24 was gravel. Charles Emmett (my cousin and best friend) and I traveled by thumb and foot up and down it to various places so many times that every inch of it was familiar to us. We went out Hwy. 24 to Carroll's Creek (1 1/2 miles), Lake Percy Quin (7 miles), Hart's swimming hole (7 miles) and the East Fork of the Amite River (18 miles). On some occasions, we would be walking along the road when the bus with E. J. on board would pass us. Once he threw a folded newspaper out to us. We picked it up, unfolded it, and glanced over it, then left it on the side of the road 4 miles from town. The next morning E. J. asked me if we had gotten the movie tickets. I asked, "What movie tickets?"
"The two tickets that were inside the newspaper I threw to you and Charles Emmett yesterday."
I had to admit we hadn't seen them, and he was disgusted. As soon as we got out of school that day, Charles Emmett and I hotfooted it out the highway to the spot where we had discarded the newspaper. We found the tickets, which were somewhat faded by going through the dewfall and being dried by the sun. E. J. had written on the front page, "I hope you boys can use these." he seldom went to the movies himself because of his work.
E. J. would ride his bicycle to school in the morning, and over to the Five Points Service Station after school. At the symbolic center of downtown five streets came together. One was the head of Main Street; U. S. 51 Highway (named Broadway) passed going north and south; Third Street meets Main there; and Delaware Avenue begins there. Called Five Points, there was a service station there with an upstairs garage in which Mr. Frazier kept his bus. After completing the bus run, E. J. would ride his bicycle home.
On the evening of December 10, 1937, E. J. rode downhill on Third Street, passing City Hall and the Fire Department, and ran head-on into the front passenger side of a car in the act of crossing Third to a restaurant on its west side.
We were awakened by our neighbors who had a telephone. Mama and dad went down to the hospital. Later in the night, Aunt Wilena Boyd, turned the light on where the boys were sleeping. She asked, "Do you boys know what has happened?"
"I know," I replied quickly, "E.J. has been hurt in an accident."
"No, Billy. E. J. is dead," she answered gently.
I put my head under the quilt and cried.
MORE STORIES FROM THE PAST
Go back in time as Dr. Crittenden transports you via true stories of his youth through his memoirs. Be sure to find more stories from "July" by clicking the month on the right of the page. I will be posting more stories in the days to come. Some of my favorite are yet to come, so be sure to check back.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
THE HERALD ANGEL 1937
Central Baptist Church had its baptistry located in the center front of the sanctuary behind the choir who sat in two rows of chairs immediately behind the pulpit. It was screened by a curtain and to enter it, you had to step in through the choir chairs. The tub was 4 feet deep and was kept dry except when there was a candidate for baptism. Steps led down to the bottom of the tub and a 12-inch shelf ran across the back wall high enough to be seen by the congregation.
The Christmas season of 1937 I was 12 years old, and Mrs. Mott, an artistic lady of the church, had planned a brief manger scene play for the last few minutes of the Sunday morning Worship Service. The usual routine was to be followed, except that Pastor Fred B. Bookter was to end his sermon at 11:50 A.M., at which time the choir was to leave the stage carrying their chairs and the play was to be presented.
The dry baptistry was to be the stable where Jesus was born, with the manger sitting on a high table in the center of the tub, so that it could be seen by the audience. The shepherds and the wise men were to approach the stage down the aisles and gaze into the baptistry at the manger where the baby Jesus was supposed to be. I was selected to be the herald angel and announce the coming of Christ. I had to be in place on the high shelf before the start of the Worship Service at 11:00 A.M. After I was in place, the curtain was closed, and I was to wait alone until time for the play to begin, at which time the curtain would be opened and I was to be a surprise!
I was almost 6 feet tall already. They covered me with a white sheet and used pipe cleaners to construct angel's wings attached to my shoulders. A shining silver crown made of tin foil from old cigarette packages adorned my brow. I was sitting on the 12 inch shelf, my fet propped on the manger table, at least 5 feet above the floor of the tub.
I took my place and after what seemed a LONG time, the service began. The choir opened with"What a Friend We Have in Jesus," and I sang along with then. A dusty hymnal lay on the shelf beside me, and I picked it up. Since I was immediately behind and only a few feet from them, my voice blended well with theirs; I really cut loose!
After the song service, Bro. Bookter began his sermon and I had some time to kill. I thumbed through the songbook reading some of my favorites, like "In the Garden," "Amazing Grace," and "The Old Rugged Cross." Then I came to "Trust and Obey," which had 7 verses in those days and I began humming Then singing...
"When we walk with the Lord, In the light of His Word, what a glory He sheds on our way! While we do His good will, He abides with us still, and with all who will trust and obey."
At first I was unaware of the effect my musical rendition was having outside my little cell, and my voice sounded very melodious to me, so when I came to the chorus, I began singing a little louder---
"T R U S T and obey, For there's no other wa-a-ay To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey."
By this time, I began to hear rustling and tittering from the congregation, and the pastor paused in his sermon to collect his thoughts. Then he began to preach louder like he did when a baby started crying.
"NOT A BURDEN W E BEAR>>>>>NOT A SORROW WE SHARE>>>>>BUT OUR TOIL HE DOTH RICHLY REPAY! NOT A GRIEF OR A LOSS----"
By the second or third verse I was getting louder, under the impression that the congregation was enjoying my music, and Bro. Bookter was using his FOGHORN voice, the one he used in preaching a revival.
"THEN IN FELLOWSHIP SWEET WE WILL SIT AT HIS FEET OR WALK BY HIS SIDE IN THE WAY..."
I could hear scratching noises behind me, but I didn't know what they were until later. Poor Mrs. Mott had run out of the church and around to the brick wall behind the baptistry and was trying to claw her way inside, or to attract my attention!
Just about the time I finished the 7th verse, complete with chorus, the pastor gave up and ended his sermon. He signaled the workers to begin the play, and, after the choir left the stage, a lady came on stage and opened the curtain. There I was in the middle of the chorus, singing, "FOR THERE'S NOOOOOOOOOO OTHER WAY TO BEEEEEEE HAPPYEEEEEE IN JEEEEESUSSSSSS..."; the light above me made my white angel outfit shine like the sun on snow. When the crowd saw me, they broke up in a roar that ended all hope of finishing the play. Mama rushed up and yanked me out of the baptistry with a pinch. Mrs. Mott gave up drama and Bro. Bookter had the Building Committee move the baptistry to the floor of the choir loft.
The Christmas season of 1937 I was 12 years old, and Mrs. Mott, an artistic lady of the church, had planned a brief manger scene play for the last few minutes of the Sunday morning Worship Service. The usual routine was to be followed, except that Pastor Fred B. Bookter was to end his sermon at 11:50 A.M., at which time the choir was to leave the stage carrying their chairs and the play was to be presented.
The dry baptistry was to be the stable where Jesus was born, with the manger sitting on a high table in the center of the tub, so that it could be seen by the audience. The shepherds and the wise men were to approach the stage down the aisles and gaze into the baptistry at the manger where the baby Jesus was supposed to be. I was selected to be the herald angel and announce the coming of Christ. I had to be in place on the high shelf before the start of the Worship Service at 11:00 A.M. After I was in place, the curtain was closed, and I was to wait alone until time for the play to begin, at which time the curtain would be opened and I was to be a surprise!
I was almost 6 feet tall already. They covered me with a white sheet and used pipe cleaners to construct angel's wings attached to my shoulders. A shining silver crown made of tin foil from old cigarette packages adorned my brow. I was sitting on the 12 inch shelf, my fet propped on the manger table, at least 5 feet above the floor of the tub.
I took my place and after what seemed a LONG time, the service began. The choir opened with"What a Friend We Have in Jesus," and I sang along with then. A dusty hymnal lay on the shelf beside me, and I picked it up. Since I was immediately behind and only a few feet from them, my voice blended well with theirs; I really cut loose!
After the song service, Bro. Bookter began his sermon and I had some time to kill. I thumbed through the songbook reading some of my favorites, like "In the Garden," "Amazing Grace," and "The Old Rugged Cross." Then I came to "Trust and Obey," which had 7 verses in those days and I began humming Then singing...
"When we walk with the Lord, In the light of His Word, what a glory He sheds on our way! While we do His good will, He abides with us still, and with all who will trust and obey."
At first I was unaware of the effect my musical rendition was having outside my little cell, and my voice sounded very melodious to me, so when I came to the chorus, I began singing a little louder---
"T R U S T and obey, For there's no other wa-a-ay To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey."
By this time, I began to hear rustling and tittering from the congregation, and the pastor paused in his sermon to collect his thoughts. Then he began to preach louder like he did when a baby started crying.
"NOT A BURDEN W E BEAR>>>>>NOT A SORROW WE SHARE>>>>>BUT OUR TOIL HE DOTH RICHLY REPAY! NOT A GRIEF OR A LOSS----"
By the second or third verse I was getting louder, under the impression that the congregation was enjoying my music, and Bro. Bookter was using his FOGHORN voice, the one he used in preaching a revival.
"THEN IN FELLOWSHIP SWEET WE WILL SIT AT HIS FEET OR WALK BY HIS SIDE IN THE WAY..."
I could hear scratching noises behind me, but I didn't know what they were until later. Poor Mrs. Mott had run out of the church and around to the brick wall behind the baptistry and was trying to claw her way inside, or to attract my attention!
Just about the time I finished the 7th verse, complete with chorus, the pastor gave up and ended his sermon. He signaled the workers to begin the play, and, after the choir left the stage, a lady came on stage and opened the curtain. There I was in the middle of the chorus, singing, "FOR THERE'S NOOOOOOOOOO OTHER WAY TO BEEEEEEE HAPPYEEEEEE IN JEEEEESUSSSSSS..."; the light above me made my white angel outfit shine like the sun on snow. When the crowd saw me, they broke up in a roar that ended all hope of finishing the play. Mama rushed up and yanked me out of the baptistry with a pinch. Mrs. Mott gave up drama and Bro. Bookter had the Building Committee move the baptistry to the floor of the choir loft.
By the way, did I tell you I was appointed the angel part because there was no singing? I am pitch deaf and a monotone singer. Have been all my life........
GROWING UP DURING THE DEPRESSION 1937
Dr. Crittenden's sight is progressing. He is still unable to see the small print on the computer but the doctor promises he will. In God's time...
CASH
Cash was scarce in my hometown during the decade of the 1930's. My dad worked in the railroad shops when he wasn't laid off, and layoffs happened frequently, some lasting long periods. Those men who had jobs would do almost anything to keep them. As an example, my dad cut the end of his thumb off on a table saw in the mill. Since the bosses prided themselves on how many days had passed since the last accident, dad was afraid to report the injury. He put the severed piece in his pocket, went to the office and checked out, and instead of reporting to the railroad doctor and have it treated free, he went to another physician and paid for the treatment himself.
We really didn't need much cash. With our huge garden, milk cow, chickens, hogs and continual access to itinerant street vendors, we didn't need to buy many groceries. Sugar, flour, salt, coffee, and similar staples were bought at Lewis Grocery Store on 25th Street and Bill Andrews Grocery at the corner of 5th and the Avenue between and parallel to Pennsylvania and Virginia. Both stores extended us credit, with the balance owing running for years sometimes. When we had a payday, each store we owed would get $5 or $10 paid "on our bill."
My brothers and I often contested for the privilege of taking the money to the store, because the owners were invariably nice to us and had a custom imported from Louisiana called "lagniappe." While writing a receipt for the payment, the storekeeper would nod to the convenient row of candy jars in reach on the counter and say "Take one." All our creditors gave lagniappe, which means "a little something extra." I'm sure the merchants had very hard times the same as their customers, but to my recollection they were willing to sacrifice themselves in order to help people during hard times.
All boys went barefoot from March to October, even to school and church, so for us stairstep boys, the once-a-year Sears and Roebuck mail order from the catalog usually needed only two or three pairs of shoes. Our policy was "hand-me-downs" all the way, and being the middle child, I seldom got a new pair. This order always included a suit of long-handled underwear for each boy. They got laundered every Saturday, while we were being bathed in a No. 3 tub of warm water in the kitchen-the same water for all five of us---getting in one at a time. We also got overalls which were worn everywhere until high school, pants, and a few other necessities, even baby chicks. Yep, you guessed it; these things were charged, too. We had to order dressy longsleeved shirts only, because mama made a lot of our everyday shirts out of used flour sacks. The 100 pound size came in printed cotton cloth. Plastics hadn't yet been invented.
Maurice Wall operated a clothing store on Main Street, and we kept a charge account there for years. I bought my first suit there to wear to my 16 year old brother's, E.J.'s, funeral. It was mustard yellow because it was the only suit that fit me. Many times our balance would rise dangerously high, but he never cut off our credit, and I hope he was finally paid in full. He didn't give lagniappe, however, because his stock was not suitable gifts for small boys, but he gave me a man's flat straw hat once that had a small piece broken from the rim.
J.D. Frith Drug Store, at the corner of Main and Railroad Boulevard, was my personal favorite creditor for lagniappe. He would give me 3 or 4 pieces of candy, and sometimes he let me come to the back of the store and let me watch him mix medicine for capsules or tablets. Pharmacists had to make a lot of medicine to follow the doctor's prescriptions then, which were written in Latin. Many people used the druggist instead of the doctor to save the money for an office visit. Physicians charged $1 for an office visit, but there were more house calls than office visits. A house call cost $1.50 or $2.00, but the doctor would take a bushel of peas or some other produce when it was offered; he knew the parent didn't have money to pay him with.
We had no credit cards. We would have been shocked out of our wits if we had seen one. Kramertown Seed and Feed Store offered all types of farm supplies. They delivered, first by horse and wagon, later by truck. We kept a running bill there. We took our order on foot, walking the two miles there and back, because we had no telephone. Walking was our chief means of transportation.
We had a wooden ice box. The large square top half held a 50 lb. block of ice. It took about 3 days to melt, but since the iceman delivered every other day, we never ran out of ice. He drove a horse that pulled a covered wagon, on the back of which were 100 lb. blocks of ice wrapped in quilts. Some people bought 25 lb. blocks for 5 cents; some 50 lb for 15 cents and a few bought the 100 lb. for 18 cents. The iceman had to be big and strong. He had a leather apron over his back. On his first trip in, he asked the lady how much ice she wanted; then he would take his ice pick and chip the remaining ice into a shape that allowed the block to fit. Going back to the wagon, he chipped the correct-sized block loose, hooked it tightly with his tongs, swung it to his back, and took it in. The bottom half of the icebox had shelves and contained perishables. The melting ice ran down a rubber tube to a hole in the floor.
We had large round tin tokens to help in paying sales taxes. A Coca-Cola cost a nickel plus 1 token. If you had no token, you gave 6 cents and the clerk gave you 9 tokens in change. You couldn't buy anything with tokens only, but you had to have then to pay taxes on amounts as small as 5 cents. It was a mess and soon collapsed.
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