This is the first of the "new" writings...I called it Chap 01 only because...well, it was. I wrote it shortly after a major violent social event involving black folks, and subsequent very un-Christian (or Muslim, or Buddhist, or whatever) blowback that made it appear they blamed the people of color for the violence.
So, here it is...
Early Summer, 1953
Clinton
County, Iowa
We were having a noon family meeting/discussion around the dining table; there were Mom, and Dad, and Snowball (the family dog, a white collie). We lived on a small acreage just outside the city limits, with other mini-farms down our gravel road. We grew some vegetables, had some fruit trees, and raised a couple of beef cows and such. We also had two horses, a Pinto and a Palomino.
I was “almost” five then, but was tall for my age, and I spoke better than most adults. I often was seen as eight, or nine, or…
All of the folks along our road knew each other in some depth. It was a necessary skill in those days. We were available to help when needed, no questions asked.
So, on that hot June afternoon, it was around 90 degrees, and folks were trying to simply stay under cover and drink something other than beer. Few places, other than commercial outlets, had air conditioning (called “refrigeration” then).
So, our meeting was to figure out what public school to put me in. There was a choice, actually; one of the elementary schools was a mile away, but had a reputation for being “progressive”. Because of scheduling and other logistics, Dad would not be able to take me to school and still make it to work on time. If I wanted to go there, I’d have to walk a bit over a mile; when school was out, I could go to the city library and read away until either Mom or Dad picked me up.
The other school was actually a private school, and they would pick me up and drop me off with their own bus. It was a good school, we heard...but had an element of fascist thinking in its leadership that neither of my parents was enthused over. Dad was a Mason, and the tuition would have been picked up by the lodge. I chose to not take advantage of the offer...for the same reasons as my parents.
So, our decision made (I started planning for a mile walk in the mornings), we began to square things away for the evening when I smelled smoke. “Seems like grass smoke, Pop,” I said; he hated being called Pop.
We all headed to the front door, and saw smoke up the road from us, at the neighbors’ spread. They were three elderly brothers who had lived together in that home for at least 30 years, according to other neighbors. They lived off their crops.
One of the brothers was at the edge of their property that faced ours, and was frantically waving his arms and yelling, “Fire! The field is on fire!”
Mom immediately got on the party line phone and began raising the alarm with everyone else on our road or nearby. Dad and I suited up with long pants, work boots, and gloves, and ran up to the neighbors. They had five fields of crops; soybeans, wheat, corn, alfalfa, and oats. The soybean field was half gone already; one could see where the fire had begun, and then radiated outward and blown by the prevailing wind.
Our county had fire service, of course; but, the fire department was not legally obligated to respond to non-structure fires outside the city limits. We had, by now, maybe thirty volunteers. Each of them was extremely valuable.
I took the job of wetting down gunny sacks to be used for beating down the flames; when they got dried out, the person would bring them back to me and take more wet ones. I would then rinse and soak them for reuse.
It took until sunset to get it all under control, but the only measurable loss was half the soybeans, and perhaps half of the alfalfa, but otherwise not so bad. When it was all done, I was surprised to see virtually all of the volunteers simply pick up their stuff and leave. We didn’t do that, however. Mom went into their kitchen and made a good dinner for all three of them, and us, and we shared it together at their table.
This is what I learned that day.
I asked Mom why no one else stayed for dinner, to boost the brothers’ spirits. “We could have passed the hat to help with their crop losses, even…” I said.
Mom: “I guess they weren’t comfortable with that.”
Me: “They just spent six hours fighting an open-field fire. I would think any venue would have been favorable in that instance.”
Mom: “Yes, you’re right, son. But, I think you already know, but might be having some difficulty reconciling it. Think about it.”
And, I did “get it.” Other folks on our road pretty much ignored the brothers, and seemed uncomfortable with the idea of my spending time at their place helping out with various things they had difficulty with (they were all over 70).
They were black.
This was the day I learned about bigotry, and about faux-Christians. Some of the volunteers were members of our Methodist church congregation.
The next week, Dad ordered an Encyclopedia Britannica for our home, and for me. I was enthralled with it, and began reading it front to back. Mom had taught me phonics around age 2, and I was reading the newspaper not long after. I started reading the encyclopedia. Within three months, I had read the entire collection at least once.
But then, I thought everyone had that same sense of excitement and energy when gifted with really good stuff to read.
Peace be with us all.
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