Memoir by Milton M. Smith, Jr.

About 75,000 Words 

MAMA AND PAPA AND US CHILDREN 

By Lenard Smith 

Chapter 1

                                                                                                                            

Leagueville, back in the eighteen hundreds, was one of the many small farming communities in Henderson County, Texas. My parents, Luetta Aileen and Milton M. Smith, were born here in the middle eighties. The little one-teacher school, which was there then, is the only school Mama and Papa ever attended in their lives. In line with and near the schoolhouse was a small white frame building known as the Baptist Church and directly in back of these buildings was the cemetery, a four-acre plot of ground, with some fifty graves in it. Across the dirt road from the schoolhouse and the church was a cotton gin, a blacksmith shop, and a general merchandise store. 

The church served as a funeral chapel for all religious denominations. Most of the deaths were attributed to smallpox, measles, pneumonia, typhoid fever, consumption, and black jonders. However, not all the deaths were caused from diseases. Uncle Earnest, one of Papa's older brothers, got killed in a duel. He, along with three horse thieves, who died from hanging, was also buried in the Leagueville Cemetery. Some of the graves had been there since long before the Civil War. 

Athens, then a town of some 1500 inhabitants and the county seat of Henderson County, was only 27 miles distance from Leagueville, but Mama had never been there before the day she and Papa went for their marriage license. I doubt Mama suspected that there would be nine children born to her in the next 13 years, when she loaded in Papa’s shiny black buggy and headed for Athens that cold December morning back in 1905. Ten and a half months went by before the firstborn arrived on September 9, 1906. The baby girl was named for Mamma's mother, Vera Ada Allen. Vera was hardly weaned before Milton M. Smith Jr., named after his father, was born on November 8, 1907. 

Papa was, from his early childhood, large for his age, high-strung, and overbearing. Many are the times I have sat spellbound listening to Papa tell of his malicious escapades. One of the most infamous of these was the time Papa left a long ugly scar on the right hand of Bill Lawrence, who was the twenty-year-old son of a retired Confederate War Colonel. Grandpa Smith, so the story goes, had numerous times spoken to Bill's father asking him to try to keep his grown son from teasing his, Grandpa's, fourteen-year-old son. Invariably Colonel Lawrence nonchalantly called Grandpa by his nickname and responded, "Shep, boys will be boys." Brother Reeves, the pastor of Leagueville Baptist Church, assisted by a visiting evangelist, Brother Elder, were in the process of conducting a protracted meeting on this fateful night. All those, including Papa, who were converted during this two weeks revival would be baptized in a nearby snake infested muddy stream called "Flat Creek”, thereby becoming members of the congregation. This wasn't the first time Bill had sat on a long bench behind Papa and reached his hand through the cracks of it and pinched him. But this time Papa had his Barlow knife open and was all ready for Bill. To say the least, Bill was stunned and shocked when he jerked his bleeding hand back through the crack. The Colonel was furious, he told Grandpa, "Shep, you're going to pay the doctor's bill and you'll be lucky if you keep your son out of reform school." Grandpa jokingly replied, "Colonel, boys will be boys." 

Papa said this night was the turning point in his life because the next day he accepted Christ. The hellfire and brimstone sermon the Evangelist preached on this night had nothing to do with Papa's joining the church; he’d been converted and wanted to serve God. The congregation was singing "Almost Persuaded", and the Evangelist was making his final passionate plea for converts when Papa stepped upon the rostrum and proffered his hand. Brother Elder said, "God bless you son," as he took Papa's hand. Then he asked, "aren't you the boy who broke up the services here last night?" "Yes,” Papa told him, and explained, "but I've been born again." 

From this day on, Papa was a very zealous, God fearing Christian and, so he said, had been called to preach the gospel. As the years passed, Papa did, from time to time, stand in the pulpit with a 38-caliber pistol in his hip pocket and admonish the few people attending his services to accept Jesus Christ or suffer the wrath of God. Looking back and remembering all the mild tempered people of that day makes me wonder why God chose Papa to be his messenger. There was one thing about it, though. Papa didn't preach for the money because he never had a church to pastor. And the times he preached in some pastor's place, the deacons didn't even pass the hat around. 

Chapter 2

          Milton was some two months old when Papa sold his horse and buggy and with the proceeds moved his family to the sparsely populated territory of New Mexico via train. The United States Government was at this time giving free land to families who could survive the barren desert there for three years. The only lodging Papa’s family could afford, when they arrived and settled on some land near Seminole New Mexico, was a tent. Another homesteader, who had been there for a year or so, helped Papa dig a well. This was the only improvement Papa ever made on his tract of land. 

          Cultivating and living on the land six months out of each year for three years were the only requirements necessary to get ownership of the 160-acre tract. Papa didn't cultivate nearly all of the land; he did buy a hoe and twenty-five pounds of cottonseed, which he planted by hand. There was little hope of the seed coming up, let alone producing, because it seldom rained in this part of the country. It really made little difference whether the seed came up or not because the herds of cattle which roamed Papa's unfenced tract of land would have soon trampled the plants under foot anyway. 

Even though Papa furnished most of the wood the neighboring homesteaders burned, he himself used cow chips for fuel. Papa had to sell all the mesquite bushes he could grub and cut into wood in order to survive because this was his sole source of income. It's too bad there wasn't any welfare back in those days because Papa could have surely used it. Groceries were cheap but you still couldn't buy many out of earnings of fifty cents a day. And that's about what Papa says he averaged on days he stayed with it from sun up to sun down. He did have one advantage, though. Papa had no chores to do at home, other than bring in water and pick up cow chips, because he had no livestock, not even a dog or cat.

While Papa was spending his first six months on the New Mexico desert, his younger brother, Uncle Egbert, left Leagueville to seek his fortune and wound up working for a wealthy combination farmer and rancher who lived near Ryan, Oklahoma. Uncle Egbert only worked a short time as a hired hand before he eloped with the wealthy man's daughter. After Mr. Hughes’ humiliation had subsided, he moved the newlyweds, Uncle Egbert and Aunt Ellie, into a guest house and promoted his new son-in-law to foreman of the ranch. 

Since Papa was free to leave his land for six months, he contacted Uncle Egbert, who sent him enough money to come to Ryan. Mr. Hughes hired Papa as a farmhand and moved his family into a small tenant house. The house wasn't elaborate like the one Uncle Egbert Lived in but it was as Mama said, "a house and not a tent." During the next six months Papa saved a little money out of his dollar a day earnings. Even though Papa was earning twice as much as he did in New Mexico, he had to get back or he'd lose out on the land he was homesteading. So Papa left his pregnant wife and two babies there in Ryan and took a train back to Seminole. Papa felt bad about the five dollars he took with him because he was afraid Mama and the children would have a hard time surviving on the money he had left behind. 

Papa had been back on his improvised farm for about three months when one night he dreamed that his little daughter had fallen in the fireplace, which was in the house Mama and the kids were living in. In the dream, Vera had burned herself beyond recognition, her pretty black hair was all gone, and she was seared and blistered from head to foot but still alive. 

Papa says he only worked about two hours the next morning. Then he took his axe and grabbing hoe to the tent, packed a small bundle of the items he thought he'd need most, and headed back to Ryan on foot. Hitchhiking wasn't too good back in 1909 because there weren't any cars to speak of. Papa had to depend on catching rides with farmers or with drummers, as they called traveling salesmen back in those days. 

Even though Papa caught one long ride with a drummer, it still took him three weeks to make it back to Ryan. Mama was so happy to see Papa she couldn't scold him for making such a foolhardy trip. Nobody had fallen in the fireplace, how could they? Mama kept a screen over it. And Vera and Milton were as fat as little pigs; Mrs. Hughes was giving them all the milk and butter they could consume for free. 

Papa had planned to make the long trek back in a couple of days but Mama wanted him to stay until the baby was born. On March 17, 1909, I, Lenard, the baby, was born. My parents didn’t’ know that there was supposed to be an "o" in my first name and then they nicknamed me: "Dick", so nearly all my acquaintances for years thought my name was "Richard". 

Chapter 3

By the time I reached the age of two years, Papa had commuted from Ryan to Seminole sufficient times and years to get his deed to the 160-acre tract of land in New Mexico. Papa wanted to do some farming on his own again, so he rented a small farm on the halves near Gainesville, Texas. In this kind of farming the landlord furnished all it took to get the job done, including the groceries which Papa would have to pay for after the harvest. 

We hadn’t been settled on the landlord’s, Mr. Easton's, farm long before Mama gave birth to another baby boy on February 25, 1911. Papa wanted to name the new baby after the little town we were living near but Mama wanted to name him after her father, Edward Allen. Since Papa didn’t like the name Edward, they compromised and named the baby boy "Gaines Allen." 

It looked as though the sharecropping venture was going to be a success because Mr. Easton was furnishing the brains, the groceries, a team of large mules, a Kelly plow, and a cultivator. Papa, who was at this time twenty six years old, stood five foot eleven inches and weighed 230 pounds, had no problem furnishing the brawn. 

All went well until the crops were laid by, at which time Mr. Easton told Papa he couldn't furnish him any more groceries. Papa managed to do a few odd jobs for other more fortunate farmers and out of his meager earnings he bought commodities such as cornmeal, oatmeal, and pinto beans; so we managed to survive through the summer and the harvest season. But again we crossed the border, this time the Texas border back into Oklahoma. 

We got moved back to Ryan in late October and on November 7, 1912, another girl was born to our family in the same house I had been born in some three years before. Mama and Papa, being prone to shorten names by leaving out letters, spelled the baby’s name Amy," but in later years, the then three little girls, whose names ended in y, dropped the y and added “ie”. 

Mr. Hughes was happy to have Papa back because he was a good farmhand. Papa didn't get along too well with his fellow workmen is the reason Mr. Hughes didn’t let him work on the ranch. Uncle Egbert was the exact opposite of Papa in nature and temperament. He enjoyed a dirty joke and a drink but Papa was a God Fearing Christian and wouldn't tolerate either. 

We spent that winter in the same house Amie and I were born in but the weather was too bad for Papa to do much work other than the chores. Just about the time the weather cleared enough for Papa to work again Mama got homesick; so Papa loaded us on a train and we went back to East Texas. Two years before this Grandpa and Grandma Allen had bought a little farm in a community called Pine Hill and moved there. 

The train bringing Mama home to her Pa and Ma arrived in Brownsboro, Texas, a small town near Pine Hill, about noon on this spring day back in 1913. Grandpa was at the station in his wagon waiting for us. I was only four years old but I faintly remember how happy Grandma was to see us. She had never seen Gaines, Amie, and me before. "What a fine lot of children" Grandma exclaimed, as she eyed the five of us. Grandma was crying when she hugged and kissed Mama and told her, "Luetta, I didn't think I would ever see you again, why you’ve been gone nigh on to five years." 

We stayed at Grandpa and Grandma's house about a week before we went to see Papa's kin in Leagueville. Papa’s parents were dead but he still had two brothers and three sisters living there. Uncle Bertie, Papa’s oldest brother, was teaching school at Leagueville. Uncle Sell, the youngest boy, was grown now and was working as a hired hand for one of the local farmers. The two oldest members of the family, Aunts Ambler and Beulah, were old maids; they were both past thirty years of age and had never been married. Their Pa, during his lifetime, wouldn’t let them go with boys. Aunt Una, the youngest in the family, was different; she was going with boys since her Pa and Ma had passed on. 

Papa rented some land at Leagueville, this time on the third and fourths. He borrowed a mule from Uncle Bertie, who had been a farmer before he began teaching school. Now Uncle Bertie didn't intend to farm any longer. He planned to attend a teachers normal and spend the rest of his life teaching school. These plans interfered with Uncle Bertie's love life. He had been engaged to a girl, Neva Tindel, but she had long since given up waiting for him and had married another man before Uncle Bertie finished his first term in teachers normal. Finally, Uncle Bertie, at the age of 28 years, married a college coed, who was from a well-to-do family. 

Papa netted enough money that year of 1913 to buy the mule he had been borrowing from Uncle Bertie, so he rented the same farm another year. The second spring we were there the sixth child was born, on April 14, 1914. Mama and Papa named this little girl, "Avy," and made plans to name their next girl baby "Abby". 

Chapter 4

          Papa undoubtedly knew he couldn't make a living for a family of eight farming; so he did some conniving and got himself a Second Grade School Teacher’s Certificate. Papa then, with Grandpa’s help, contracted for the Pine Hill one-teacher school. Fortunately for Papa, Grandpa Allen was one of the trustees and he talked the other two trustees, Mr. Everhart and Mr. Bonds, into giving the uneducated farm boy a break. We had already gotten moved in to the shabby farm house on the Old Kidd Place Papa had rented at Pine Hill before the baby girl Mama and Papa had planned to name "Abby" was born on December 8, 1915. 

          Mr. Everhart and Mr. Bonds told Papa that they would have preferred a teacher with a First Grade Teacher’s Certificate because the new school building, which was under construction, would be ready to occupy by January the first. They had wanted a teacher with a first grade certificate so he could have taken over the principalship of the new two-teacher school. Papa assured them that he could get the first grade certificate before the new building was completed and with Uncle Bertie’s help, he did. 

          Vera, Milton, and I were all of school age and enrolled in the one-teacher school that first year. Before the next term began, the new building had been completed and Papa had passed his examination and had contracted for the principalship of the two-teacher school. One of the community boys, Pat Anderson, had passed the examination for a second grade teacher's certificate and had contracted to teach the primary room in the new building. This school term of 1916/17 went without unfavorable incident to speak of, so Papa and Mr. Anderson had no difficulty in contracting for the Pine Hill School another term. 

          This year of 1916 was an exciting one for me. I saw and rode in what we at that time called "an automobile" for the first time in my life and Papa bought us a new wagon and traded his mule in on a team of young mare horses. Alone with these happy events came disappointments and trouble. Papa didn't get to teach another term at Pine Hill because he was accused of lying to one of the trustees, Mr. Bonds, and knocking Mr. Simmons, an influential citizen of the community in the head with a hunting axe. 

          We had heard about Uncle Egbert buying a new car but had no idea he'd make the trip from Ryan, Oklahoma, to East Texas in it. Uncle Egbert's folks had spent two days and nights in Chandler, a small town some seven miles from Pine Hill, at Uncle Bertie’s house before they came out to our house. Papa's young mares tried to break out of the lot they were in and us children gathered around Mama and Papa and looked on in amazement when Uncle Egbert parked the horseless carriage in our yard. 

          Papa’s other brothers and sisters, on learning that Uncle Egbert was home, had scheduled a family reunion for the coming Sunday and Uncle Egbert invited us. Papa, at first, said we couldn't make it because it would take most of the day to complete the sixteen mile round trip from Pine Hill to Leagueville and back in our wagon. But after Uncle Egbert said he’d come for us in his car, Papa agreed to go. 

          Mama and Papa were both cautioning Uncle Egbert, as they got in the front seat of the automobile, "Egbert, do drive careful." Avie and Abbie rode in Mama and Papa’s laps and the other five of us crowded into the back seat. None of us had ever ridden in an automobile before but Mama had heard a lot about them. Even though Mama had heard a lot about them, she still said it was unbelievable to think one could travel eight miles in less than thirty minutes. 

          Papa wanted to teach a third term at Pine Hill but the trustees thought it would be wise to make a change since Papa had shown so little tact in his dealings with outsiders of the school. Too, Mr. Bonds said Papa had lied to him and this didn't help matters any. This trustee, Mr. Bonds, said he'd forgotten all about the little cuss fight he and Papa had engaged in over the summer school of 1917, but Papa knew he hadn’t and told him so. 

          The other trustees, Grandpa, who naturally wanted Papa to teach another term, and Mr. Everhart, didn’t know the details surrounding Papa’s and Mr. Bond’s disagreement until Papa aired it that day he was talking to them about teaching a third term. They seemed surprised when Papa told Mr. Bonds, "I know, and so do you, why you don’t want me to teach another year here." Then he went on to tell Mr. Bonds, "just because I wouldn't give you my summer’s earnings for that little old pony, you say that I haven't been tactful with outsiders of the Pine Hill School."

          There hadn't actually been any definite understanding between Mr. Bonds and Papa but Mr. Bonds thought that if Papa got to teach the summer session he’d buy the pony. When they had discussed the summer school, Mr. Bonds had been against it until Papa made the statement, "you know I'd like to have a little pony like you have." Seeing that Mr. Bonds was interested, Papa elaborated further, "I might be able to buy your pony if I could contract for this two months summer session, that is if you wanted to sell him." Well Mr. Bonds did want to sell the pony but Papa could not, he decided, after the contract had been signed, afford to buy the pony after all. 

          The trustees were speaking of the fracas Papa had with the Simmons family when they accused him of not showing enough tact in his dealings with outsiders of the school. They said it certainly could not be called tactful to knock one of the community’s most influential citizens in the head with a hunting axe. 

          The summer school there at Pine Hill had been running smoothly until the morning Mr. Anderson brought Papa some willow switches and explained, "Mr. Smith, if I hadn't happened along, I guess Clark Simmons would have beaten that little Hammet orphan boy and girl to death with these." It was unfortunate but Clark was the influential Mr. Simmons’ twenty-two year old son. Mr. Bonds and Grandpa wanted to call the sheriff but Papa said he’d attend to the matter himself. So Papa wrote Mr. Simmons and Clark a joint letter; in it he told them that it would be better for Clark to come to the schoolhouse and submit to a whipping, just as one of the students would. Papa promised to be fair, just give Clark the whipping he felt such a deed merited. 

          Papa had written a couple of nice letters to Mr. Simmons and Clark and had had no reply from them before he decided to go to the Simmons home and whip Clark there. "Now Mr. Smith, if you’ve come here to discuss suitable punishment for Clark, you’d just as well leave," Mrs. Simmons told Papa when she opened the door. "That’s not my purpose, Mrs. Simmons," Papa informed her, "I’ve come here to administer suitable punishment." When Papa entered the room where the Old Man Simmons and his two grown sons, Clark and Clint, were seated around a fireplace, he decided not to use his belt on Clark as he had planned, but to whip him with his fists. Papa had suspected that Mr. Simmons and Clint might intervene but he had no idea that Clint would nearly kill his own dad; Papa said that he had no sooner knocked Clark over into a corner of the room than Clint grabbed a hunting axe and began swinging wildly. Well the old man was on his feet by this time and got in the path of the axe. 

          The Simmons family was too excited for reason before the fight ended, Papa said. Beulah, the oldest Simmons girl, was so excited she called the Sheriff instead of the man they needed, Dr. Moon. She pleaded with the sheriff, "Mr. Merrow, do get here as quick as you can, Mr. Smith has just knocked Papa in the head with a hunting axe and he's right this minute literally stomping one of my brother’s lungs out.” Papa said that the reason he stomped Clark in the chest was because he was afraid he’d kill him if he used his feet on his head or stomach. 

          I suppose Papa and Clint are the only ones who will ever know the straight of "who hit Mr. Simmons with the hunting axe". Even Clark said he didn't know whether it was Clint or Papa who left the nasty scar on his dad’s head. Clark did remember the brawl though some twenty-five years later. I saw him in Dallas, Texas during World War II and after he learned my last name was Smith, he asked, "are you Old Man M Smith’s son?" When I told Clark, "yes," he commented, "you’re probably too young to remember it but your dad nearly killed me one time." 

          Old Man Kidd, Papa’s landlord, told him that it was just as well he didn't get to teach at Pine Hill another year because he certainly couldn’t have rented the farm again. Then he went on to tell Papa that the land was capable to producing 10 bales of cotton and 100 bushels of corn if tilled properly. I guess Papa really bungled, because we harvested 5 bales of cotton and about 35 bushels of corn. Mr. Kidd’s last comment was "I’ll never rent to another school teacher or preacher and certainly not to the combination of the two." 

Chapter 5

          It took Papa a few months to avail himself with another school but he eventually contracted for one in the adjoining district to Pine Hill. I can still remember the speech Papa made on opening day there at the Martin Springs one-teacher school. "Girls and boys, I’m Mr. Smith, your new teacher,” Papa began, "and I've come here for the sole purpose of instructing; I'm not a hard person to get along with, I'm a God fearing Christian, who abides by the golden rule." In closing, Papa told the students that there shouldn’t have to be any discipline among such a fine looking lot of boys and girls.

          After we sang a couple of songs, Papa asked us to stand and bow our heads and then he prayed humbly and sincerely for God to guide him. I could feel warmth and good will in Papa's voice when he uttered the words, "dear God steer me into peaceful channels and let there not be dissension and bloodshed in this little school.”

          The school had progressed well into the second half of the seven-month term before there was any bloodshed. Even then there wouldn't have been any if Audy Murphy, one of the grown girl students, had submitted to a little switching. Papa intercepted a love note Audy had intended for one of the grown male students, Moss Tidwell, on this unforgettable day. The note wasn’t passed on to Moss. However, Papa treated him fairly, he did read it to Moss in the presence of us other students. 

          Papa was amused at Audy’s desperation and laughed a couple of times while he was reading the note. Audy, so Papa said, was making a cupid of him, she wrote in part: "I love you more than life itself and if you’ll marry me, it'll make me very happy. You’d better let me know though because if you don't, I’m going to marry some other boy and I won’t be choosy." Then Audy went on to say that she couldn't stand to go to school to "this old thing," much longer and that her mother wouldn't let her quit school unless she got married. 

          Words of encouragement and sympathy were interposed by Papa as he read the note. Papa told Audy, "you are a very pretty girl and I know you won't have any trouble marrying this fine young man but should you have difficulty in roping him in, it's as you say, you can get some other fellow, you don’t have to be too choosy." Then Papa consoled, "it’s too bad your mother won’t let you quit school, not that I wouldn't miss you terribly." Audy must have suspected that there might be some kind of punishment for this slight infraction of rules and had prepared for it. She had tied her coat belt around her waist in a hard knot while Papa was talking. Since Papa never whipped anyone with his or her coat on and after Audy flatly refused to untie the knot and doff the coat, Papa had only one alternative, get the coat off before proceeding further. Audy put up a good fight but it only took Papa a matter or seconds to get her on the floor. He was holding Audy down with one hand and getting his knife out with the other. When Papa opened his knife, some or the students called to him, "Mr. Smith, don’t you cut her with that knife!" 

          Moss was sitting silently with his head hung until Papa pulled his knife, then he intervened. Papa saw him coming and closed the knife and put it in his pocket, so he said later, but all of us students thought he kept the knife in his hand. Whether he used his fist, hand or the jaws of the knife seemed insignificant compared to the damage he did to Moss’s face. 

          After Papa had cut the belt on Audy's coat and had meted out the punishment, he helped Fanny, Moss’s younger sister, administer first aid. Moss was in a severe state of shock and blood was trickling from his nose. Papa was telling Fanny that he only meant to push Moss out or the way, when she told him, "Mr. Smith, don’t try to lie about it; you struck my brother with the jaws of that knife you had in your hand." “Why Fanny, how can you say such a thing!" Papa exclaimed, “I didn’t strike your brother at all, I merely pushed him with my open hand." 

          Ben Glaze, another one of the grown boys, went to tell Moss's father to come to the school house and take Moss home. Papa said the boy wasn't so badly hurt but that he'd be better off at home because he was upset. Papa talked very kindly to Moss, he considered the Tidwells as being about the nicest family in the community.

          Mr. Tidwell was calm when he reached the schoolhouse and loaded Moss into the wagon; he didn't make any comment. Fanny, Hattie, Timothy, and King, the other Tidwell children, continued on in school but Moss never returned during that term. Mr. Murphy, Audy’s father, was a very elderly man and had always thought a lot of Papa up until now. But he never was friendly again; well he only lived a few months after the unfortunate incident. 

          The eighth child was born to our family during this term of school on April 4, 1917. The baby boy was named for one of Papa’s uncles, who was a Confederate Major during the Civil War. Clarence has during his sixty years of life, been healthy and intelligent enough, other than for an impediment of speech. However, as it proved out later, this name was not befitting because Private Clarence Smith’s military career had no similarity to that of his great great Uncle's. 

Chapter 6

          Papa didn't think there would be any chance for him to teach there at Martin Springs another term because one of Old Man Murphy’s sons was a trustee. Well, he, Ross Murphy, could only say "no” was the way Papa felt about it. To his surprise, Ross Murphy said that Papa was the kind of teacher they had needed at Martin Springs for years. Elie Browning and Clark Thedford were the other trustees. Mr. Browning felt much the same way as Mr. Murphy did but Mr. Thedford, who was a first cousin of Buddy’s, was a little reluctant, but did sign the contract. 

          The first day of school began as usual; Papa had his Bible with him and he made a short speech, and then we sang a couple of songs and Papa prayed. Papa’s speech was worded about the same as the one he had made the previous year, excepting for one slight deviation. “I’m still a God fearing Christian but I can cope with any situation that comes up, whether it concerns you or your parents,” he phrased it this year. 

          There hadn't been any bloodshed and no dissension to speak of, up until Mr. Browning’s boy, Norton, and I had a fight. Papa had whipped one of the grown girls for writing a poem on the blackboard but he wasn’t really angry. There wasn't much to the poem and Papa said later that perhaps he’d been better off if he'd just laughed about it. Thelma Knowling was the author of the poem, which read: "I love pumpkin and I love squash but I hate Old Professor Smith by gosh". 

          Norton was a frail city type of boy, well his dad had just recently moved to the farm. Mr. Browning had been, previous to this, postmaster in a small Central Texas town called Center. Since Mr. Browning’s only child was somewhat of a weakling, he had had him trained in the art of self-defense. Milton and I found that Mr. Browning's protective measures, in so far as safeguarding Norton from bodily injury during a fight, had been effective, indeed. I was suffering from fright, shock, and numerous bruises when the fight between Norton and me ended. Papa didn’t like this, so he coaxed my big brother into taking it up and Milton was a bloody mess, too, before Norton finished with him. 

          After Milton and I healed and kind of regained our composure, Papa asked us if we thought we both together could whip Norton. We had our doubts about it but Papa couldn’t see why not because I was as large and Milton was larger than Norton. Papa and Milton made all the plans for the forthcoming fight while I sat silently by and trembled with fear. 

          Crops were all harvested and since we Smiths invariably did a poor job farming, there was a lot of good grazing on the land we had cultivated and Papa was letting Mr. Browning pasture his cattle on it. Each evening after school Norton herded up the milk cows and drove them home to be milked. Papa knew that this would be an opportune time to catch Norton by himself, so he took Milton, Gaines, and me up to the field to meet Norton. I don't know why Papa took Gaines along, unless he intended to use him for a spare, which he didn't do, even though we needed him.

          When we reached talking distance, Papa told Norton, “son, my boys are going to whip you this evening.” Norton didn't answer; he just made a lunge at Milton with the whip he had in his hand but Papa took the whip away from Norton before he could strike Milton with it. Nor ton was mostly concentrating on Milton during the fight but every time he’d backhand me I’d fall and the last time I fell, Papa handed me the whip and scolded, "now get up from there and help your brother.” He didn’t tell me to strike Norton with the whip handle but I took the hint and struck him a couple of times in the back of the head with it before Papa pulled me out of the fight. He told me, "that's enough, Dick, I think Milton can whip Norton by himself now." 

          When Milton had finished whipping Norton, Papa took us four boys to the Browning home and told Mr. and Mrs. Browning the whole story. Mrs. Browning, after hearing the story, was shaking with rage and she said plenty but Mr. Browning didn’t say much until Norton told him, "Dad, I had them both whipped before Mr. Smith gave Dick the whip and told him to hit me with it." "You’re lying," Papa told him but Mr. Browning must have believed his son because he told Papa, "Mr. Smith, when all the boys recover, let’s do this again. I mean let your two boys or all three of them as for that matter try whipping Norton without the whip." Papa turned on his heels and started to leave but I suppose he decided to talk us out of the next fight, so he raced back to the front and threatened, "Mr. Browning, if you boy whips my boys again, I’m going to whip you.” 

Chapter 7

          Even though we had the trouble with one of the trustee’s boys, Papa still had a good chance of teaching at Martin Springs another term because Mr. Murphy and Mr. Thedford just laughed and joked about it taking one man and two boys to whip one little city boy. However, Papa muffed his chance of teaching there again when he had the trouble with Mr. Murphy. 

          It was odd the way this little fracas turned out. It all started one Saturday afternoon while Papa and Milton were in town. Papa had left Gaines and me at home to mind the Old Lady Murphy’s chickens out of our oat patch. It must have irked Gaines and me a little not to get to go to town, anyway we killed a half-bushel basketful of Mrs. Murphy’s chickens while minding them out of the oat patch. 

          Our father and older brother didn't get home until late that Saturday evening, so Mrs. Murphy didn't tell Papa about the chickens until Sunday morning. We were all dressed for church and Sunday school when Mrs. Murphy called Papa out to the front gate. I could see Papa shaking his head and hear him telling Mrs. Murphy, “I'm glad you told me and believe me we’ll be up to your house shortly to take care of the damage." 

          After Mrs. Murphy left, Papa told Mama, "Luetta, we’ll be back in a few minutes," then he beckoned for Gains and me to follow him. None of us spoke a word until we started by the barn, then Papa shoved me and said, "get a basket." I got a half bushel basket out of the barn and we went to the branch where Mrs. Murphy had told Papa we hid the dead chickens and continued from there to Mrs. Murphy’s house. 

          Mrs. Murphy was trembling when we entered her front yard. She told Papa, "Mr. Smith don't whip them too hard," and it was a good thing that the old lady cautioned him, otherwise I guess Papa would have killed us. Ross was sitting on his mother's front porch snickering while Papa literally skinned Gaines and me alive with his belt. Ross was there to see the show and too he wanted to tell Papa about the way Milton had acted. From the way Mr. Murphy told it, Milton had made some improper advances towards one of his little girls. 

          Five of the Smith family were in the whipping party when we went to Mr. Murphy’s house. Mama went along this time to kind of control Papa and try to keep him from killing Milton in Mr. Murphy's front yard. Now the Murphy's were happy; they saw that Papa would mete out discipline to his own offspring just as unmercifully as he had meted it out to Audy, Mrs. Murphy's daughter. 

          This friendly relationship was of short duration because it was only a week or so later that Mr. Murphy and Una Mae, the little girl, came to our house with the same story. Milton had again insulted her. Milton put on a good act, he wrung his hands and cried, Papa I think Mr. Murphy wants you to kill me!" Papa undoubtedly didn't believe the story this time. Anyway the next day at school Una Mae told some of her classmates, "you should have seen my Daddy yesterday after we left Old M Smith's house, I had to lead him part of the way home because both of his eyes were swollen to before we got there." 

Chapter 8

          After having the trouble with two of the trustees at Martin Springs, Papa knew there was no use in talking to them about contracting for the school again. But there was another little one-teacher school some three miles distance from Martin Springs which Papa had no trouble getting. This school, which went by the name of Delta, seated thirty-six and the grades ranged from the primer through the seventh.

          Even though we weren't very well liked at Martin Springs at this time, Papa bought a forty acre tract of woodland and managed to clear enough land to build a four room bungalow house and a log barn with cow sheds on one side and a wagon shed on the other the first year. Soon after we moved into our new house, the ninth and last child was born on November 12, 1918. Luetta M. was an odd name for a boy but this was the name given to the last child, however this was shortened to L. M. 

          I have no personal knowledge concerning Papa’s affairs there at Delta because we children continued to attend the Martin Springs one-teacher school for the next two years that Papa taught at Delta. From what I understand there was no dissension, let alone bloodshed. We did have some more trouble there at Martin Springs, though. Miss Nellie Cede, a young, attractive girl from the nearby small town of Chandler, taught the next term and a half at Martin Springs. Miss Nellie disliked us Smith children from the beginning of the first term. I think one reason for this was her dislike for our Uncle Bertie Smith, who was at this time County Superintendent of Public Schools. 

          The Smith children attending school there at Martin Springs had been treated shabbily by Miss Nellie all through the first term. But the real trouble began soon after the first of the year of the second term. Someone had slipped into the school building and had contaminated Miss Nellie’s water glass the night before this fateful day. Nothing much was said about the incident until time for the noon recess. Then there was no mention of it, other than Miss Nellie telling Milton and me to stay in for a part of the noon hour. 

          We stood there beside Miss Nellie's desk as she lined up the other students and dismissed them. "Boys, I know who committed this filthy deed," she told us "and it was neither of you.'' "Well, what did you want with us?" Milton asked. "I'm going to make you boys pay for something your daddy did,” she answered. Miss Nellie then reached under her desk and picked up a homemade ball bat and began beating Milton with it. Milton was on his all fours trying to get up when I made my escape and ran home to get Mama. 

          I was too tired to keep up with Mama on the way back to the school building, which was about two hundred yards from our house. So by the time I got there Mama had already taken the bat away From Miss Nellie and Milton was sitting on the steps of the school building bareheaded and in a daze. Mama calmly told Miss Nellie, "I'm going to show my husband what you whipped our little boy with," as she waved the bat in her face. 

          We had no sooner gotten Milton home than Mama called Dr. Moon and then she called Mrs. Hargett, who lived near the Delta School, and told her to tell Papa to get home just as fast as possible. In a very short time after Papa got home, he and I were in the wagon on our way over to Chandler. We went by the schoolhouse on the way and Papa threatened Miss Nellie, "I can’t whip you because you’re a female, but God help me if I don't beat your old grey haired dad's head down into his shoulders with this bat when I find him." Mama had begged Papa not to take the bat Miss Nellie had whipped Milton with and she didn’t want him to take the pistol either but he took both of them to town with him. 

          Miss Nellie must have called her dad and warned him because Papa couldn’t find the Old Man Cede when we got to Chandler, but he did contact two of Miss Nellie’s brothers. One of them was working in the store he owned and Papa talked to him first, "will you, Mr. Cede, back up what your sister did?" Papa asked him, as he drew back the bat. "Certainly not," Mr. Cade shook his head and replied. "Well I just wish you would," Papa told him, "so I could beat your head in with this bat." The other Cade brother was dumfounded when Papa told him the story and asked him the same question he’d asked the other Cede. "No Mr. Smith," he answered, and then begged Papa, "please don't beat up my poor old dad because he had nothing to do with Nellie’s brutal act." "That’s true, Mr. Cade," Papa told him, "and my little boy's just as innocent as your dad." 

          The three trustees of the Martin Springs School, even though two of them were not on speaking terms with Papa, came to our house the next morning and took a look at Milton. "I just can’t believe that Nellie would do such a terrible thing!" Mr. Murphy exclaimed when he saw the bruises on Milton’s body. Mr. Thedrod was shocked, too, but Mr. Browning, Norton’s father, calmly told Papa, "Mr. Smith, I think the punishment meted out was small in comparison to what you and your boys deserve." "Well Mr. Browning, I'm sorry that you have taken this attitude," was the only comment Papa made at this time. 

          Papa had a little more to say to Mr. Browning the next day, which was Saturday, when he met him in the wagon yard over at Chandler. "Take that pipe out of your mouth,” Papa told him, “before I knock it down your throat." Before the men standing by could pull Papa off of Mr. Browning, he was in about the same condition Milton and I had been in, when we had the fights with Norton. 

          Papa was determined that somebody besides Milton was going to be whipped with that bat so he coached Mamma Saturday night, Sunday, and all day Monday, up until school turned out that evening at Martin Springs. Papa even took the day off from his school. "Now Luetta, don’t hit her on her back and legs, go for her head." Well Mama was doing just that, she was going for Miss Nellie’s head when Papa called to her, "come now Luetta, don’t strike her on the head again, you might kill her.” Mama was crying and begging, "don't stop me M, I want to kill her while she's down," when Papa finally got out of the wagon and took the bat away from her. 

Miss Nellie tendered her resignation the next day and the trustees let her sister, Miss Grace Cede, finish out the unexpired term of school. I was afraid Miss Grace would be mean to us Smith children, too, but one little incident proved to me that Miss Grace was very kind. On this particular day, I felt sad and inferior and was in the cloakroom crying during the recess period. Miss Grace was at her desk doing some paperwork when she heard me sobbing and came in, put her arms around me and asked, "what ever is wrong?" I didn’t answer her until she insisted, "why are you crying?" Then I told her, "because I'm ashamed of myself." "Well I don’t know what ever for!” she exclaimed and then went on to tell me, "you’re about the nicest little boy in this school." 

Chapter 9

Papa could have taught a third term at Delta but Uncle Bertie, who was still County Superintendent, wanted him to teach at Independence, Texas the next year. It had been several years since that three-teacher school had been taught more than four months in succession. Each time teachers went to Independence, the ruffians in the community ran them off before they nearly completed the term.

Since it would be hard to find two other equally persistent teachers as my father, Uncle Bertie came up with the idea of letting Mama teach one of the rooms and using the third room as a rumpus room for the three under school age children, Abbie, Clarence and L.M. Mamma didn’t have a teacher's certificate but Uncle Bertie said he could take care of that and did. 

Uncle Bertie talked the trustees into letting Papa and Mama teach a nine month school, a two month summer session and then a seven month regular term, so we just planted a corn crop this year because we would have to have it laid by before school started in July. 

We got moved into our new home in Independence a few days before the summer school began and attended church that first Saturday night. The church wasn’t of our faith, so we actually went to sort of get acquainted. Vera and I had just recently become converted but hadn’t been baptized as yet, is the reason I said "our faith". 

The farm we rented was only a short distance from the schoolhouse and the tabernacle, where they were conducting the services, so we walked to church that night. We were strolling down an incline when a man and his family riding in a wagon galloped past us and the man yelled, "you'd better get out of the way down there because I don't have any pole straps!" "You’d better look out yourself," Papa cursed and called back to him, as we all jumped to the side of the road. After the team had sped on past us some fifteen yards, Papa again called to the man and told him, "I have a pole strap in my hip pocket and if you had run over one of these children, I'd have used it." Mama didn't say much, well she did asked Papa why he brought the pistol along, and she cautioned him to guard his temper because she wanted us to make a good impression that first night at church. 

I think we did make a pretty good impression, that is to begin with, anyway. All of us were dressed real nice. Milton, Gaines, and I had on our summer knee pants, waist style shirts with ties and tennis shoes. The three little girls, Amie, Avie, and Abbie were barefoot and so were the little boys, Clarence and L. M., but other than that they were dressed nice, too. Mama and Vera were dressed very nice and they were wearing a little rouge. Of course, Papa didn't know it. I remember he commented, "Luetta, you haven’t painted that girl up have you?" Mama just smiled and answered, “no, she’s nearly grown now and she’s taking on that rosy complexion that makes young women beautiful.” 

Services hadn't begun when the eleven of us walked under the tabernacle and seated ourselves on one long bench. We were hardly seated before a man in his late thirties introduced himself as the young Mr. Franks. He explained that his father, who was living with him, was quite an elderly man was the reason for acquaintances calling him "the young Mr. Franks". “I assume you’re the new school teachers," he then said, as he stuck out his hand. After Papa had told him that he and Mama were indeed the new schoolteachers, Mr. Franks shook hands with all of us children and we stood and recited our names to him. Mr. Franks was telling Papa about the Old Man Franks, and come to find out we had rented our place from young Mr. Franks’ dad. Papa waited until Mr. Franks had finished what he was telling before he glanced to the front and asked, "is that young man who is reading the Bible our preacher?” "Yes he is," Mr. Franks answered, then turned and started for the pulpit, after saying, "I’ll just introduce him to you." 

The introductions were no sooner over than Papa told the preacher, Brother MacDougal, something about us children. "My oldest daughter here has been converted and so has one of my sons," Papa told him and then went on to say, "I believe the boy's going to be a preacher from the way he’s started taking an interest in the Bible and so forth." “Well Brother Smith, it’s a hard row to hoe but if he’s been called to the ministry I’d never dissuade him," Brother MacDougal commented, as he eyed Milton. "No, not that boy, here's the boy that’s going to be the preacher," Papa corrected, as he pointed to me. Papa then explained, "the other boys haven't decided, as yet, what they are going to be.” I looked at Gaines about the same time that the preacher did and I thought to myself, "I’ll bet Brother MacDougal wonders what you’re going to be." 

Papa and Mama seemed to be enjoying the services, even though they were being conducted by what we called, back in those days, "A Carmelite Preacher", until three men rode up on their horses. The older man of the three was hollering, “ride 'em cowboys,” when one of the horses bucked right up on the pallet where the younger Smith and Franks children were sleeping. Mama and Mrs. Franks were trying to gather the children up from the pallet and Papa and Mr. Franks were trying to reason with the men. Papa had one of the horses by the bridle when the old man called to the young men, who we later learned were his sons, "never mind the stranger, boys." No sooner had the old man, Mr. Robinson, made this statement than Papa let go of the bridle and cursed him and threatened, "I’ll flatten your nose even with your face." I think Papa was about to say something else when I interrupted, "Papa, he hasn't got a nose." Papa kind of laughed and told me, "you’re right son, he doesn't have a nose, but I’ll bat his face through his head.” The three men galloped away on their horses about this time and Milton, Gaines, and I put our knives back on the chains and we all sat down again under the tabernacle.

Brother MacDougal dismissed the services; he said he was too upset to continue on. He, Papa, and Mr. Franks discussed the brawl before we went home that night. Papa kind of sniggered when Mr. Franks explained that Mr. Robinson’s nose had been eaten off by a cancer. "Mr. Franks, I hope you don’t think I was amused to hear that unfortunate episode that you just related,” Papa apologized, then told Mr. Franks, "I happened to notice that one of the boys’ noses is deformed, too, and that’s what amused me." I hadn't said anything about it but I too had noticed the boy's nose, it was dipped in. Mr. Franks explained this too. He said that a mule had kicked the boy in the face and that’s what caused the deformity. Brother MacDougal and Mr. Franks were in agreement, they said that's what caused the old man and the older boy to drink moonshine whiskey, they felt pretty much the same as I had felt that day in the cloak room, ashamed of themselves. The younger boy, well he was just following in his father’s and older brother's footsteps. 

Mama was worried and she told Papa after we got home, "M, I think we should leave this community. I’m afraid there’s going to be more trouble if we stay here." Papa just laughed and said the men were drunk and would no doubt apologize to him later. 

Papa didn't have his pistol with him that first day of the summer school; he wasn't anticipating trouble so he took his Bible instead. Papa didn't ring the bell that first rooming though until he went back and got his pistol and then went by Mr. Franks’ house and brought him to the school house. Somebody had written Papa a very strong Ku Klux Klan notice which took up every blackboard in the three room building. One paragraph of this notice was very exciting, it read: "Your wife and children will be crying for mercy. Your fine horses will have their tails and manes sheared to the skin and your dead body will be drug from the horn of a saddle down this community’s dusty roads, if you don’t leave Independence immediately." 

After Papa arrived back at the schoolhouse with Mr. Franks, he rang the bell and the higher graders marched into the big room and the others marched into the little room, which Mama was going to teach. “Now Mr. Franks, I want you and all of the students in this room to copy that Ku Klux Klan notice, which is written on the blackboards," Papa told us when we were seated. I knew what Papa had in his hip pocket and I'm sure Milton and Vera did, too, but I don't think the other students did until he laid the pistol on the desk. I never imagined I'd ever hear Papa make such a speech on opening day of school as he made there at Independence that morning. He was swearing something ridiculous, as he held the pistol in his hand, "now here's what I have for that so and so who wrote the notice and I’ll give his widow one hundred dollars if he’ll come to this school house and admit writing it." Papa was standing there staring off into space; I think he was trying to think up some more vile words to say, when one of the Brown girls spoke up, "why give it to his wife, just give the money to him when he confesses." "I’m glad you brought that up young lady," Papa told her then went on to explain, "the reason for not giving the money to him… well he’ll be so full of holes you could use him for a sieve." 

This girl heckled Papa all during his speech; at one point, she told him, "I never heard such a foul mouthed professor during all the years I've gone to school." When she made this statement, Papa asked her, "who are you anyway? What's your name?" After the girl told Papa, "Ora Robinson’s my name," he exclaimed, "now we’re getting somewhere! Are you that old noseless man’s daughter, who broke up the church service the other night?" Ora admitted that she was and Papa told her, "now I know who wrote the Ku Klux Klan notice so if you’ll get your daddy to confess it, I’ll write your mother a check for one hundred dollars." Ora got very angry and began to swear, too. She told Papa, "why you good for nothing so and so my daddy ain’t afraid of you, if he wrote the notice, he'll admit it without you giving him any money." Papa glanced at Mr. Franks then reached for his belt and started for Ora’s desk, “I didn't want to have any trouble with the students on the first day of school," Papa commented, as Ora dashed out the door. 

Mr. Robinson was at the schoolhouse in a few minutes after Ora and Papa had their tussle there on the school grounds. Mr. Robinson said that Ora was bruised all over and was as dirty as a hog when she got home. We students could hear Papa and Mr. Robinson swearing at each other but I didn’t go to the door until I heard Papa tell Mr. Robinson, "get out of that wagon before I get in it and stomp you down through the bed." When I peeped out, Papa was in the wagon with Mr. Robinson and I guess you could say that he was pistol-whipping him because every time Mr. Robinson reached for the pistol, Papa hit him in the head with it. Papa stayed in the wagon until the pistol went off and the team ran away, then he jumped out and came back into the classroom. 

The two-month summer school was nearing an end before any of the threats that Mr. Robinson had penned on the blackboards came to pass. Mama and us children weren't crying for mercy yet but our fine mares got their tails and manes sheared right down to the skin one Saturday night during church services, just as Mr. Robinson predicted they would. Again Mama wanted to leave the community but instead of leaving, Papa posted a fifty dollar reward for the man or men who would confess to the crime. 

Chapter 10

Papa had a lot of trouble at Independence but he did teach a full term of school, not to mention the two month summer session. The regular term ended about the middle of April of 1921, but we didn't move from the community until October. The fifteen or sixteen months we spent at Independence were very profitable. Papa and Mama made over two hundred dollars a month teaching and we farmed several acres of land. 

Since we were enjoying prosperity at this time, Papa decided that we could afford to buy us a new car. This was a momentous day in my life, the day Papa told Mama, "Luetta, you know what? By George I think I’ll go over to Kemp (a small town twelve miles distance) and buy us a brand new Ford." One of the neighbor boys went to town with us to drive back because Papa had never driven a car. 

We took several short trips to nearby towns so that Papa could learn to drive well enough for the long trip we had planned to Grandma Blunt’s house, which was about a hundred miles. Just about every place we went in our new car, Old Man Franks, or Papa Franks, as we children often called him, went with us. Papa complained that the old man was an awful pest but I didn't mind Papa Franks going along because he was a good spender when you caught him in the right mood. A couple of times I had run on to Papa Franks in a café and he had bought me a soda pop and one time he even bought me a hamburger. 

Milton and Gaines hadn't ever cared too much for me but they didn't like me at all since I’d been converted and had decided to be a preacher. They would oftentimes slip off and leave me while we were in town. I wanted them to do this again on this Saturday evening because Papa Pranks was with us and I planned to work it right and get a bowl of chili or a hamburger out of him. 

We had no sooner arrived in Kemp than my brothers slipped off and left me, and Papa Franks took off on his own, too. I knew the old man was not going to stay in town all evening and not go in a café to eat, so I started looking for him. I soon found Papa Franks in a barber shop; he was getting a haircut. I sat outside of the shop for several minutes before I looked in again and saw that Papa Franks was getting a shave, too. "Well," I said to myself, "it won't be long now.” But the next time I peeped in the shop, the barber was piling hot towels on Papa Frank’s face. I didn't see any use in staying out there in the hot sun any longer and walked on in the shop and sat down under a large ceiling fan.

I hadn’t any more than seated myself before one of the barbers told me, “get you a drink of water and get out." I wondered if he talked to everybody like that, how did he know I just wanted a drink? Naturally he knew I didn't want a haircut because Mama had cut my hair the day before. I didn’t want to have any trouble and I was a little thirsty, so I went back and got a dipper of water. I took a couple or swallows but the water was so cold I couldn't drink it. When I started to put the dipper back in the bucket, the barber stormed at me, don’t put that back, throw it out!” then he grabbed me by the arm and pushed me out the door.

After I left the barbershop, I strolled around for awhile because I was too mad to eat right then anyway. As soon as I got over my mad spell and regained my appetite, I went in the "Greasy Spoon", as folks called the little restaurant in Kemp. I didn't see Papa Franks when I first entered but I had hardly finished saying to myself, "as far as I’m concerned Old Man Franks can keep his money. I’ll pay for my own hamburger," when I saw him sitting way back towards the rear of the café. 

Papa Franks didn't look up when I sat down beside him. I started to go ahead and order me a hamburger and pay for it but I decided to give the old man a chance to do what was right. There wasn't anything wrong in Papa Franks buying me a bowl of chili and a soda water after he’d ridden all over the country in our new car. As I sat there, I thought to myself, "the fact is, he should buy all three of us boys a chili and a soda water." However, I didn't care if Milton and Gaines didn't have any more sense than to spend their quarters for something to eat; it was all right with me. The old fossil could buy me a chili and a soda water, though, because I intended to spend my quarter for a pen staff and a bottle of ink. Before I even got to say a word to Papa Franks, some character with a dirty apron on, who customers were calling "waiter", walked up in front of me and said, "outside, son." I didn't feel too good over having to leave so soon and told him, “now this is a free country and I’m going to stay in here until I get ready to leave." I was getting tired of these people chasing me out of their places of business, "what's the matter with them anyway" I thought to myself. The waiter was standing there staring at me until Papa Franks looked up at him and then he asked, "Mr. Franks, is this boy with you?" I didn't wait for Papa Franks to answer, I spoke up, "no, Mr. Franks is with me, he rode to town with us this morning in our new car." "Yes that’s right, I did," Papa Franks agreed. The waiter tried to talk to me after he learned we had a new car and that I knew Papa Franks, he commented, "oh, so you have a new car," I corrected, "no, I don’t have a new car, we have a new car." He wanted to know, "who is we?" and when I told him, "Mama and Papa and us children," he mumbled something and walked away. 

I ignored what the waiter had mumbled and asked Papa Franks, "are you having your dinner?" He just grunted, didn't even answer me. I couldn’t understand it, all of these people mad; what I had done to Old Man Franks was beyond me. I thought we had been pretty nice to him. You should have heard the tone of voice Papa Franks answered me in when I commented, "it sure looks good." "Are you hungry?” he asked. I still tried to be nice, I told him, "ah I can wait until I get home to eat. I don't want to sponge on you.” I thought Papa Franks would take the hint and order me something but he didn't, he just looked down at his plate and kept on eating. I sat there for a couple of minutes before I told him, "I'm not so hungry but I would eat a bowl of chili if I had fifteen cents." "Give the boy a bowl of chili," Papa Franks grumbled to the waiter. When the waiter brought me the chili, I told him to bring me a strawberry soda water and a glass of water. Old Man Franks looked around at me and I explained, "I'm going to pay for the soda water; I have a nickel." I politely said, "thank you," when Papa Franks paid our checks but he didn't even answer. 

          I wasn’t actually addicted to it but sometimes when I went to town I carried my tobacco with me and smoked. On this day I had my sack of Bull Durham and decided I’d have a cigarette because Papa Franks had gone and there'd be nobody to tell on me. After I got my cigarette rolled, I turned to the waiter and asked him, "would you give me a match please?" "Throw that cigarette down!" he hollered at me. I felt like really telling him off but I held my temper and begged, "come on, give me a match, everything’s paid for ain’t it?" "Yeah," he told me, "but you didn't pay for it." This remark angered me so I asked, "well what difference does it make who paid for it just so you got your money?" then I boasted, "I could have paid for it, you know." 

I never did get to smoke the cigarette but it made quite an impression when I held it in my mouth. A young couple was sitting over at a table eating and the girl laughed so hard she couldn’t finish her meal. I knew she was laughing at me but I didn't care. After I saw the waiter wasn’t going to give me a match, I threw the cigarette down and started to leave. The waiter turned and walked away when I stood up; so he was surprised when he came back down the counter and found that I was still there. "Are you still here?" he asked. I didn't answer him and sat there a few more minutes before I asked for a glass of water. He was really riled up by this time, he told me, "now you go, I’m tired of fooling with you."

I still didn't leave, I turned to a man, who had just come in the café, and asked him, "Mister, where could I get a drink of water?" "Why asked the waiter for a glass of water," he told me. ''I did," I replied, "but he won't give me one." Then I explained, "I ate a bowl of chili and drank a soda water but I’d like to have a glass of water, too." The man motioned for the waiter to come there but before he could say a word, I told him, "I’ll gladly pay for the water.” "You don't have to pay for it!" the man exclaimed. When the man called the waiter some bad names and dared him to step outside, I decided I'd better leave because it looked like they were going to have some trouble and I didn't want to be mixed up in it; so I drank my water and left. 

Chapter 11

Papa had learned to drive our new car well enough for us to take the long trip back to Pine Hill to see Grandma Allen by the middle of July. It was a little crowded in the car but we felt we could endure anything for a nice long trip like this. There was room in the back seat for us four largest children to sit down and Amie and Avie sat on syrup buckets at our feet. Abbie and Clarence stood up most of the way; when they got tired they sat in Vera and Milton’s laps. Mama held L.M. in her lap; Clarence could have also ridden in the front seat but Papa wanted Mama to have plenty of room just in case of an emergency. He had told her how to conduct herself in the event he did need help. Mama was to grab the emergency brake, yank it all the way to the rear, and Papa would push the gas lever up and operate the foot brake. 

We left before daylight and had planned to eat supper with Uncle Bertie's folks who lived in Athens, but it was long past bedtime when we drove into Athens. Papa said that it would have been almost as fast and a lot cheaper to have made the trip in the wagon. He said our young horses could make thirty miles a day hitched to a wagon and we had hardly come fifty miles in a long fifteen hours. Papa couldn't understand it, the car was almost brand new and was supposed to have twenty-one horsepower, but as it was running on this day it didn't seem to have two horse power, let alone twenty-one. We had to get out and push on every hill and almost failed to make some of the sand beds. Papa would pull the gas completely to the bottom and then throw it in high gear but the car just wouldn’t run in high gear. 

Papa started a couple of times to turn around and go back home but Mama insisted it wouldn't hurt the car to run it in low gear provided we stopped occasionally and let it cool off. We had stopped one time when Papa went to a nearby branch and got his nice, lightweight felt hat full of water. Mama didn't notice what he was doing but when she saw Papa standing there pouring the water in the radiator from his hat, she exclaimed, "M, why on earth didn't you use one of them syrup buckets to get that water in?" Papa kind of blamed Mama for his stupidity, he told her, "well it's a fine time to be telling me now.'' Papa did literally ruin his hat, it was wet and all out of shape. Mama said that she was actually ashamed for Uncle Bertie to see Papa with that old sloppy hat on because Uncle Bertie was the personification of neatness. 

The hat incident was hardly mentioned the rest of the day though because all the talk was about Milton. Mama said she thought she was having a nightmare when she saw Milton, standing there surrounded by all those little children, holding that cottonmouth water moccasin by the tail. Mama screamed and Papa grabbed a stick and struck at the snake. Milton thought Papa was striking at him and dodged. Gaines was standing close by and when Milton dodged he wrapped the snake around Gaines’s neck. Papa said he would have to give Milton credit for having enough sense to pull the snake off of Gaines. Milton started running with the snake in his hand after he pulled it off of Gaines and Papa was hollering, "put that snake down, son!" Milton was still holding the snake by the tail when Papa caught him and as Papa said, "literally pried the grown boy loose from the deadly reptile." 

Milton had a hard time convincing Papa that the snake hadn’t bitten him. Papa said it was a miracle that it didn't bite Milton because the snake was coiled into a semicircle and was licking his ears. After Papa knew for certain that the snake didn't bite Milton, he began to curse him, he told him, "you ignorant bastard, I should stop this car and get a tire tool out and knock you in the head with it.” Mama begged Papa to hush but the more he swore and talked the angrier he seemed to get. Milton didn't say a word for a long time but he finally muttered, "you’re everything you call me.” This was too much for Papa and he turned the steering wheel loose and whirled around in the seat with his fists doubled up and said, “I’ll knock you through that back seat.'' Mama screamed, “don’t you strike that boy with your fists" and grabbed the emergency brake. That's the first we knew that the emergency brake was up. Mama had forgotten to push it down after she'd finished practicing. Papa pushed the brake down and the car ran as smoothly as you please the remaining few miles into Athens. 

We left Uncle Bertie’s house early the next morning and arrived at Grandma's house about one o’clock that afternoon. Papa said if the roads had been good and if we hadn't had the emergency brake up for nearly half the way, we could have made the hundred-mile trip in a long day. Grandma's folks were glad to see us; we hadn't been to their house in nearly a year. Grandma couldn't believe her eyes; us children had grown something ridiculous. She looked at Milton and said, "why, son, you’re very nigh a grown man; it won’t be long before you will be shaving.” "This is Dick, ain't it?" Grandma commented, as she placed her hand on my shoulder, then she asked, "have you done any preaching yet, son?" I hung my head and grinned, when Mama told her, “no Ma, he hasn't preached yet but one of these days he’s going to." Grandma allowed, "it’ll be a great day for this old soul, when she sits back in the congregation and listens to her grandson preach the gospel to lost sinners.” 

It made me feel sad when Grandma smiled with a far away look in her eyes and said, "I wish Ed could see you children." I had already thought of how good it would have been if Ed, as Grandma called him, could see us and I’d like to see Grandpa, too. I missed seeing him; he had been dead two years now. Grandpa had been sick about a week when they took him to the hospital. He told Grandma that morning, "Ada, I’ll be back before a week I hope, now take care of things; make the boys help tend the stock and everything." Grandpa was back the next day because he died that same night. 

Grandma wanted to know if Vera and I had joined the church yet. Mama told her that she was trying to get settled in some community long enough for us to join, she kind of hated for us all to join and then move right away from the church. Mama and Papa had had their memberships at Martin Springs for a number of years but had withdrawn them because we were moving to Independence. Independence didn't have a Baptist Church so we couldn’t join there. And Pine Hill only had one church, the Methodist, of which Grandma was a member. Mama had been a member of the Methodist Church, too, before Papa talked her into accepting Christ and being baptized into the Baptist Church. 

Grandma suggested that Vera and I join the Rock Hill Baptist Church. She said, "Luetta, they have services there each Saturday night and all you’ll have to do is just go to church tomorrow night and tell Brother Birchfield, the pastor, that you have two young converts who wish to unite with his congregation and he’ll open the doors of the church." Rock Hill was only three miles from Pine Hill, so Mama thought for a minute and then exclaimed, "why yes, we could do that and M and I could join by letter." 

After we were accepted for membership in the Rock Hill Baptist Church, the four of us, Papa, Mama, Vera and I lined up in that order to receive the right hand of Christian fellowship. Didn’t many of the brothers and sisters get to shake my hand but they passed by, nodded and said, "God bless you, young man." I think it was my age and size which caused Sister Wheeler, Rock Hill's oldest native daughter and staunch Baptist, to become hysterical. I was, at this time, nearing twelve years of age, stood some two and a half feet high, and weighed fifty-eight pounds with my clothes on. 

Milton told me the next day that he’d never been so embarrassed in all of his life. He said nearly all the kids and some of the grown ups were laughing at Sister Wheeler and me. Milton then asked, "who was that hollering? Gaines spoke up, "they's both hollering." I curtly replied, "neither of us. Sister Wheeler was shouting.” Milton said he didn't know whether I hollered or not but he did know that I sure looked silly standing there crying and holding that old woman in my arms. 

Chapter 12

Mama and Papa had contracted for another school, The Pine Forest Two-Teacher School, by the fall of 1921, but we hadn't as yet moved from Independence when we took in the Henderson County Fair. We made the trip to Athens and back that same day and still had ample time to see the sights there at the fair. We had planned to have dinner at Uncle Bertie's house but there was no use in doing this because they had long tables laden with barbecue and all kinds of good food free, right there on the fair grounds. 

Naturally Papa and Mama didn't want to do all the things we children wanted to do; so Papa placed us older children in charge of the younger ones. Vera took L. M. with her, Milton took Clarence with him, Abbie was my ward, Amie and Avie went together, and Gaines, well it would be all he could do to take care of himself. Then Papa gave Vera, Milton and me two dollars each to be shared equally with the child we were escorting. He also gave Amie, Avie, and Gaines a dollar each to spend on themselves. 

Abbie and I strolled around over the fairgrounds seeing some of the wonders and hadn't spent any of our money until we came to a merry-go-round. Abbie, who was at this time nearly six years old, just wouldn’t leave without riding the little horses. I thought I was too big to be riding on a merry go round but the man selling the tickets wouldn't let Abbie ride by herself. I felt bad over throwing away that twenty cents and I could just hear people saying, "look at that big old boy riding on those little horses." 

I wanted to play fair with my little sister but I felt like this twenty cents should be deducted from her share of the money; so when we passed a hot dog stand, I only ordered one hot dog. The vender was calling, "get your hot dogs right over this way folks; they are only ten cents, one tenth part of a dollar; get them while they’re hot!" Just as Abbie and I approached, he veered from his sales pitch and said, "dogs hot and juicy, one for you and one for Lucy." 

When the vender noticed that I only ordered one hot dog, he asked, "didn't the little girl want one, too?" I told him, "no," then mumbled, "she ain't Lucy so she don’t get one." I think that’s why he didn't put any meat on the bun he gave me. I watched him, as he fixed the sandwich; he put onions and pickles on the bottom but he must have had one of his fingers laying in the bun because I saw him putting mustard on something which looked like a wiener. However when he handed me the bun there wasn't anything in it except onions and pickles. I went back and told him that I didn’t get a wiener in the bun and he said, "don't bother me son, can't you see I’m busy?" 

Abbie only had seventy cents of her money left now because I gave her the bun with the onions and pickles in it and deducted the dime from her share or the money. I thought it was fair because if the vender hadn’t mistaken her for Lucy I’d probably got a wiener with the bun. Besides, the bun with the onions and pickles made quite a tasty sandwich for a small girl. They didn't need much meat at such a tender age. 

I felt sorry for Abbie but there was nothing I could do about it. She spent all of her money but twenty cents, when we went in a silo looking contraption to see a man ride a motorcycle around the vertical walls. I had intended deducting a quarter from my dollar but after she embarrassed me, I just let her pay the full fifty cents for the tickets. We were standing up close but we sure moved back when the man zoomed up to the edge of the building with that motorcycle he was riding. It scared me, too, but Abbie was so frightened she began to cry and held her breath. A lady said to me, "son, you had better take that child out of here." And a man, I supposed he was the lady's husband, asked, whose child is that anyway? I didn't think it was any of his business, so I answered, "she's my child," "Aren’t you a bit young to be a father?" he asked, I told him, "I might be older than I look." "Pardon me Mister," he exclaimed, "I didn’t see that beard on your face." Then he turned to the lady and said, "honey he’s a midget."

I hadn’t spent any of my money yet but I wanted to get Abbie some more money so I began to look for Papa and Mama. I finally found them in the exposition part of the fairgrounds, looking at the livestock, pumpkins, and watermelons. I talked to Mama first and explained how Abbie had blown most of her money. Papa interrupted, "what did she spend it for?" I told him, "she wanted to ride the little horses and she got hungry, then after I had bought her the hot dog she saw a man sitting on a motorcycle and wanted to go in there." Papa asked, "didn’t you go in, too?" "Yes," I told him, "but I didn't get to see anything because Abbie began to cry and a lady made me take her out." Mama knew it wasn't any fun to take care of a kid and she told me, "well you can leave her with us and go spend your money now." I didn't want to do this, I knew Abbie was having a good time; so I told Mama that I didn’t mind taking care of Abbie but I didn't feel like it was right for me to spend my money on her. Mama turned to Papa and told him, "give them another half dollar M." When Papa handed me the money, he looked at Mama and smiled then said, "son, spend some of this on yourself, don’t spend it all on your little sister.” 

We went to see a rodeo after we left Papa and Mama. I thought Abbie would enjoy seeing those horses and steers buck and she did, too. Abbie laughed, hollered, and made a lot of noise. I tried to keep her as quiet as possible because the ticket man told me to take her on in free but to keep her quiet. I kind of storied to get in free. I told the man I had a half dollar to pay my way but my little sister didn’t have any money. He argued for a long time before some man, I think he was drunk, told him, "if you’re that cheap, I’ll pay both of the kids’ way in." The ticket man turned pale and said, “well go on in free but keep quiet and behave yourselves," but when we started in, he called me back and said, "I thought you were going to pay your way." I reached in my pocket but the drunk man said, as he tossed a dollar in the ticket window, “I suppose it would break you if you let those little country brats see your rodeo free." I would have thanked the drunk man if he hadn't called us "country brats", but as it was I just took Abbie by the hand and walked on in without saying a word. 

After we got out or the rodeo, we passed by a lemonade stand and Abbie began to cry for some lemonade. We often had lemonade at home so I didn't see the point in spending a nickel for that. I knew she was just thirsty so I asked the man inside for a cup of water. He seemed to be exasperated and told me, "for Christ sake, son, I’m busy." But he gave me a cup of water for Abbie after an old lady shamed him, "all you people think about is money, that little girl's thirsty."

The other children began to talk about how much money they had spent as soon as we got home from the fair. Milton spent ninety cents of his dollar and Clarence, Gaines, Amy, and Avy spent all of theirs and Vera met up with a simple-minded boy she had been dating; so she and L.M. didn't spend any of their money. I didn’t say anything until Papa asked me, "Dick, how much of your money do you have left?" I knew if I told him that I had ninety cents more than I had to begin with left he wouldn't understand, so I just answered, "none."

Chapter 13

We attended church services there at Independence for the last time on the first Saturday night after we had been to the fair. Vera’s boy friend, Dempsey Elston, walked her home from church, as he had been accustomed to doing, even before he took her and L.M. all through the fairgrounds. It was my turn on this night to play chaperon to my ladylike and romantic older sister. Papa had cautioned Milton and me to always follow Dempsey and Vera at a good distance but to never let them out of our sight. I knew I shouldn't be following them so close on this, their farewell night, but I was curious to know what they were talking about, so I trailed along real close. They were strolling down the dusty road holding hands and talking; Dempsey was doing most of the talking. He was telling Vera about the escapades he had been in, fights, romances, and different places he had been. From the way Dempsey talked, he had been around a lot, had even been to Dallas any number of times. 

Dempsey and Vera hadn’t nearly reached home before they stopped and faced each other; Dempsey took Vera in his arms and said, "I’m the sort of fellow your dad is, a good man but a hot headed one!" Vera cautioned him, "now Dempsey, I don’t want you to be all the time fighting!” I wondered if they were going to get married, they sure talked as if they were. Dempsey interrupted his story of valor, romance, and travels and said, "let's talk about you for a change, what about all those fellows you courted back at Martin Springs?" Vera hadn't started telling Dempsey about the other fellows before he pulled her close to him, put his arms around her waist, and commented, "I’m a lucky guy." Vera giggled and asked, "why do you say that?" 

I never heard a person lie like Vera did as she stood there in the moonlight in Dempsey's arms. I thought a couple of times I was going to have to tell them to break it up because they were so close together I couldn't see but one shadow. I thought Dempsey kissed Vera once during the conversation but I didn't say anything because I couldn’t be for certain. I wasn't paying so much attention to their movements; I was listening to Vera’s line. 

I felt that I should tell Papa and Mama that Vera wasn’t a Christian like they thought she was but I didn’t say anything to them about it that night after we got home. You couldn’t say that I was jealous of Vera, why should I be? She did read the Bible a little but I spent hours on end reading the Bible. However I did want Vera to live a good clean Christian life, since she professed to be one and I didn't think this lying and necking in the moonlight was behaving like a Christian should. I was nearly twelve years old at this time, and had myself walked a couple or girls home, but I didn’t even hold their hands, let alone kiss them. 

Vera cried after Dempsey left our house the next day; she told Mama that she hoped she’d get to see him again sometime but that she felt she never would. Mama tried to console her, "Vera, Dempsey can come to see you, if he likes, and besides that you'll meet other boys there at Pine Forest." Vera said she didn't want to meet any other boys because as soon as she began to like them Papa would move away like he was doing this time. 

Milton had learned to drive our car by this time, so he drove Mama, Vera and the little kids to Pine Forest. Papa, Gaines, and I made the trip in our wagon. This was a very slow trip for us because Papa had six hogs loaded in the wagon and was leading two milk cows behind it. We made it to Uncle Bertie’s house early in the evening of the second day and Papa decided to stay overnight and clean up a bit while the team and cows rested. Aunt Etta, Uncle Bertie’s wife, kind of hurt Papa’s feelings when she suggested that we go to the garage and kind of hose each other down before we got in her nice clean enameled bath tub. We didn't do this though. Papa had our wash tubs tied to the slats on the wagon frames and he went and took two of them and commented, as we entered the garage, "boys, we’ll just bathe like we do at home and then we won’t mess up your Aunt Etta’s nice city bath tub." 

Papa and Gaines didn’t have anything in common to talk about on this trip and they were both almost bored to death by the time we got to Pine Forest on the late evening of the fourth day. I was tired too but I wasn't bored because I had sat there in the spring seat and read the Bible most of the way.

Chapter 14

The little school of Pine Forest was one of the easiest Papa and Mama ever taught; they had hardly any trouble with the students. Two grown girls, who were sisters, did get a little sassy one day but Papa handled this situation with diplomacy, he told them, "now Alice, you and Lena are nice young women so far as I'm concerned and I don’t feel like switching you, so the best thing for you to do is turn in your books and go home." They thanked Papa and told him that they weren’t accustomed to discipline, said their dad, Mr. Weesner, had never whipped either of them and that they would certainly rather be expelled than to submit to a whipping. 

Milton caused Papa all the serious trouble he ever had there at Pine Forest. On one occasion a man asked him, "son, does your dad know you use that kind or language when you’re out of his sight?" "You tend to your own business, Mr. Scott, or I’ll stick my knife in you," Milton threatened him. "All right son, I will but I should tell your dad how you have talked to me," Mr. Scott shook his head and replied. Then there was the time Milton and his buddy, Dan Peary, went into the two-room school building at Pine Forest and cut the blackboards from the walls. Milton was disciplined for this act. Papa lost his temper and whipped Milton with the buckle end of his belt. 

The real serious trouble we had at Pine Forest stemmed from Milton’s disobedience and disregard for other people’s property. Papa thought his fifteen-year-old, ninety-eight pound son was home in bed the night the trouble began with the Scotts and Harris’s. On this night, Milton had slipped out of bed, dressed, and gone to a party, which Papa had forbidden him going to. "Son, what ever happened to you?" Papa asked Milton the next morning after the party. Milton began to whimper and told Papa, "Howard Scott beat me up.” Howard was the man's nineteen-year-old son, who Milton had threatened to knife a few days before this. Besides being much older, Howard weighed nearly twice Milton’s ninety-eight pounds. 

Milton and Dan had a time that night at the party; they smoked cigarettes and cursed to their hearts’ content. Howard cautioned them a couple of times about swearing in the presence of his sisters but to no avail. Milton even called Howard a bad name. Howard said later that he certainly had no intention of striking Milton until he and his sisters went to get in their wagon that night and found that the wagon lines had been cut into about two foot lengths and lay all over the ground around the wagon. 

Howard didn't have to take a second guess, he knew who the culprits were and told his sisters to wait there beside the wagon. He then took off in the direction Milton and Dan would likely go on their way home. When Howard overtook them, Dan ran and Milton drew his knife. Howard was so angry that he paid no heed to the knife and after he had beaten Milton about as much as he thought a delicate boy such as him could stand, he picked up the knife, stuck the blade in a nearby fence post and handed Milton back the handle. 

Mama talked Papa into handling this incident with diplomacy, too, so Papa went by the preacher's, Brother Harley's, house and got him to go over to Mr. Scotts with us. Papa took Milton, me, and the Bible with him on this mission of goodwill and understanding. Howard was very arrogant, he told Papa, "Mr. Smith, I could have knocked the boy down every time I struck him but I held my punches after I had knocked him down a couple of times." Papa didn't say much, he did tell Howard, "if this should ever happen again, I won’t hold my punches.” Finally Howard told Papa, "now if you’ve come here expecting an apology, you are at the wrong place and if that boy messes with me again you won’t recognize him when he gets home.” Papa turned pale and told Howard, "if you ever lay your hands on this boy again, I’ll stomp you until your liver falls out of you in chunks." 

Mama was proud of Papa when we got home; she told him, "M, you see how much better that is than going over there and jumping on somebody?” Then she went on to say, "now the Scotts and us are all friends again; Milton’s bruises already look better and his nose will be well before you know it." Tears were in Papa’s eyes when he replied, "yes Luetta, it was better to do it the hard way and that’s what I did." 

The next day was dipping day; everybody back in those days had to dip their cattle to free them from ticks. Milton, Gaines, and I had been driving our cows to the vat each Monday but Papa decided to go with us on this day. Mama must have thought this was a bit strange but she agreed to ring the school bell and appoint one of the large female students to take charge of Papa’s room until he returned. Papa didn't say anything, other than, "boys, I’m going to have another talk with Howard Scott, if he’s at the dipping vat this morning." Milton suspected there was going to be some more trouble, so he borrowed my knife and I was happy to let him have it because I wouldn't have used it anyway. 

Howard and Mr. Scott were running their cows through the cresol solution when we reached the dipping vat. Papa was trembling and his face was ashen when he jerked Howard away from the fence surrounding the dipping vat. "You broke my little boy's nose," Papa reminded Howard, when he knocked him down the first time. Papa kept his promise, he didn't hold his punches; he had knocked Howard down several times before Mr. Scott joined the fight. Then Mr. Scott struck Papa with the stick he had been coaxing the cows into the vat with, Papa called to Milton, "get him off son!" Milton must have thought Papa said, "cut him off son!" because he stuck my long bladed knife in Mr. Scott's shoulder and drug it the full length of his arm and hand. 

An old man by the name of Harris lived next door to the Scotts and he had a family of five husky grown boys. One of these boys, Claude, had married into the Scott family. After this boy had spread the dipping vat news among the neighbors in that section of the community, he came to the school house and warned Papa not to ever be caught anywhere on the dirt road from the dipping vat to the Anderson County Line, which was about a mile away. Several families lived on this stretch of road and they had all agreed that it wouldn’t be safe for Papa to enter that district. 

I never have known whether Papa depended on his bluff to carry him through or not but he wasn't, to my knowledge, ever afraid to travel any section of any community. And Pine Forest proved not to be an exception; he put his pistol in his hip pocket and placed his double barrel shot gun on the front seat and slowly drove that road up and down with the model T car horn blowing, night and morning before and after school hours until the sheriff and two deputies took him into custody. The constable or Frankston had been out to our house and had tried to arrest Papa but gave up and called the sheriff after he found that he couldn't take Papa peacefully. 

Some of the citizens there at Pine Forest wanted Milton sent to a reform school for his part in the brawl, but after Papa told them there in justice court that he’d shoot down every Harris and Scott male in the community if Milton had to spend one day in a reform school, the judge fined Papa and Milton fourteen dollars and eighty cents each for fighting and then added a thirty-five dollar fine onto Papa for driving up and down that dusty road with his pistol and shot gun. 

Chapter 15

Papa and Mama didn't get to teach at Pine Forest a second term but they were lucky in that they had no difficulty contracting for a nearby two-teacher school. Mama had gotten her another second grade teacher’s certificate and would again teach the primary grades at this, The Fincastle School. 

Milton and Vera both got married the last summer we were there at Pine Forest. There wasn't any incident to speak of when Vera got married. Mama and Papa were reconciled to the marriage and sanctioned it. Vera married a nineteen-year-old boy by the name of Jack Weesner, who was the son of Milton's father-in-law. Mr. Weesner had talked to Papa concerning Vera and Jack's relationship some three months before they were married, he told Papa, "Mr. Smith, I’m not saying that I approve of your conduct but I would like for you to know I believe you have a nice little girl and I have no objections to her marrying my son." 

It was unfortunate that Papa and Mama decided to have Milton marry Mr. Weesner's fifteen year old daughter a week after Mr. Weesner and Papa had had the talk about Vera and Jack. Now Mr. Weesner swore that Jack could never marry Vera, not that he had anything against her, other than that Milton had married into the family, and he had plenty against him. Even though Jack didn't get his parents’ consent, Mr. and Mrs. Weesner didn't contest the marriage. 

Milton hadn't even thought of getting married until Papa and Mama discussed his future, “Luetta, we have to head that boy off some way or he'll break us up or land in the penitentiary," Papa told Mama. Then he went on to say, "I think marriage would calm and tie him down." Mama agreed but she wondered how a fifteen-year-old boy, who only weighed ninety-eight pounds, could get a marriage license. Papa said he could get the license and did get them for Milton and Josie, the girl they had picked to be Milton's wife. Mr. Browning, the county clerk, was an old school chum of Papa’s, so getting the marriage license was as easy as getting the second grade teacher's certificates had been. 

Milton and Josie eloped during a Pentecostal protracted meeting they were having under an arbor there at Fine Forest. That night when Mr. Weesner got ready to load his children, of which there were eleven, into the wagon and head for home, Josie couldn’t be found. Jim, Josie's older brother, was the last one to see her. He had assumed that Milton and Josie were going to a nearby well to get a drink of water but instead of stopping at the well they took off in our Model T Ford. 

Mr. Emerson, the justice of the peace, who had just a few weeks before fined Milton for mutilating Mr. Scott’s left arm and hand, performed the ceremony. Papa had given Milton enough money to get a room in Athens, which was about twenty-five miles distance. Papa thought this would cinch the marriage because Mr. Weesner wouldn't want it annulled after Milton had spent the night in a hotel room with Josie. 

Papa was mistaken; Mr. Weesner’s whole family was in our yard the next day when the newlyweds returned home. Mrs. Weesner was crying and begging Josie to come home with them and Mr. Weesner was down on his knees in front of Papa pleading for him to have the ridiculous marriage annulled. "No, the damage, if there was any, had been done and the marriage was not going to be annulled," was the way Papa felt about it. Mr. Weesner told Josie, "daughter, I love you just as much, even after this, but you have to make your choice. If you don't come home with us and start back to school this fall, you can never, as long as I live, enter our home again." That was good enough for Josie, she had the man she wanted and could live without her family. 

This child marriage looked as if it was going to be a brief one because Milton got with his old time buddy, Dan Peary, and ran off and left Josie before they were married six weeks. This time Papa went to Mr. Weesner’s house and got down on his knees, "I sincerely want to ask your forgiveness," Papa told Mr. and Mrs. Weesner, as he stood there in their yard on his knees with our family Bible in his hands. Papa was on his feet again and was about to leave the Weesner home when Mr. Weesner asked, "Mr. Smith, can I come to your house now and get my daughter?" "Yes you surely can Mr. Weesner, that is if she wants to come home, otherwise Josie can stay with us." Josie didn't want to go home; she wanted to stay with us and did until Milton returned. 

The young wife deserter and his buddy were only gone a couple of months before they came home. They had ridden a freight train to somewhere in West Texas and picked cotton, nobody had heard from them until the morning Milton called from Frankston and asked Papa if he'd come pick them up. Milton and Dan had boarded a passenger train home and they both had on new suits. Mama said she hardly recognized Milton; he had gained so much weight; the then expectant father weighed one hundred and ten pounds. 

Papa and Mama resigned from their seven-month term of school at Fincastle one month before it would have ended. Papa had, for many years, dreamed of putting in a country store at Martin Springs. Now, he reasoned, was an opportune time because we had our forty-acre farm paid for, had a new 1924 Model T Truck and Papa had a sizable bank account. 

We moved back into our four-room bungalow house at Martin Springs two days before my fifteenth birthday. A few people had passed on and some had moved out of the community during the three years we had been away, but we still knew practically everybody in the neighborhood. The animosity existing between Papa and the Murphys and the Brownings had apparently eased at this time. 

We, Papa, Mama, and I, joined the Baptist Church there by letter. The Pastor, Brother Alfred, having been briefed beforehand, made special mention of me. He told the congregation that I was a Bible student and had been called to the ministry. I felt proud of myself as I stood along side of Papa and Mama waiting to receive the right hand of Christian fellowship. I knew Milton and Gaines were jealous of me when I observed them holding their noses to keep from laughing out loud. 

Milton and Josie lived with us until the carpenters, who had built the store building, could build them a small two-room house next to ours. Josie use to say, "I’ll tell Milton M Smith the third, after we have a lot of money, you were born in that little old house on your Grandpa Smith’s place.” But Josie didn't get to tell Milton M Smith the third this because he died in the hospital at Tyler Texas where he was born on the fifth day of his life. 

I felt sorry for Josie when she came home and they brought her in our house on a stretcher. She looked pale and sad and I hadn't realized that she was so tiny. I was glad to see her, I hadn't seen her in nearly two weeks. I, as well as the other children, always inquired, "how is Josie?” when Papa, Mama, and Milton came back each time from visiting her in Tyler and the answer was invariably the same, "she's a mighty sick girl." Papa told Josie, after she got home, “girl if God hadn't intervened, you wouldn't be here today” Josie didn’t know much about God; she didn’t profess to be a Christian at this time, so she was bitter. She said, "Mr. Smith, I went through an awful lot of suffering not to get anything out of it.” Then she began to cry. 

Josie had always tried to talk and act like a grown woman since she'd been in our family but on this day she talked and acted like a little girl. She told Mama, between sobs, "I wouldn't have named the baby Milton M Smith the third if I had known he was going to die." Mama told her, "Honey, why don't you change his name and call your next boy Milton M Smith the third?" Josie was still crying when she told Mama, "no Mrs. Smith, I couldn't do that and besides I ain't going to have another baby, not ever." 

Chapter 16

Soon after we moved back to Martin Springs, I become listless and inattentive to my surroundings. Papa said later that he had noticed peculiarities about me for some time but I hadn’t realized that I was deteriorating mentally until early fall of that year. We were picking cotton and carrying on a conversation at the same time on this day that I became conscious of my condition. Papa was taking two rows; Milton and I were picking three rows together; Gaines had one row to himself; Amie and Avie were taking one row together; the little girl, Abbie and one of the little boys, Clarence, had on their flour sacks and were just picking cotton at random. Papa had laid our work out in this manner so that we could all be abreast of each other. 

We were working along in perfect harmony when all or a sudden Clarence took off in a dead run. Milton, Gaines, and I stripped out of our sacks and took after him, when Papa called to us, "catch him boys!" Clarence wasn't hard to catch because he was running with his sack of cotton on. After he calmed down, Papa wanted to know what on earth was the matter, Clarence told Papa that a big worm got on his sack and that he just momentarily went berserk. All the other children, including my married brother, had tears in their eyes when we caught Clarence and brought him back. I felt a little ashamed or myself later but I was literally splitting my sides laughing as I stood there watching Clarence tremble. "Son, does it amuse you to see your little brother upset like this?" Papa turned to me and asked. "No, Papa," I told him and then explained, "I’ve seen the mule we used to have run away with a plow but this is the first time that I ever saw a boy run away with a cotton sack on and it struck me as being funny." 

We went on back to picking cotton and there was nothing else said about the incident all that day but I noticed that afternoon that Papa was keeping an eye on me. When we went to the scales with our first sack of cotton, Papa weighed all of them and then he, Milton, and Gaines climbed into the wagon and emptied theirs and the little kids’ sacks. The other children had their sacks on and had started back to the field when Papa turned to me and said, "all right son, let's go back to work, too." I shouldered my full sack of cotton and trudged along behind Papa until I came to my row where I had left off picking and then threw my sack down and went back to work. Papa grabbed a sassafras bush and started towards me saying, "I think I can wake you up, young man." Just as he struck at me he stormed, "now get that sack on your shoulder and let's go back to the scales and when we get there you climb in the wagon and empty it." 

I was nearly exhausted by the time we got to the scales because I had to run all the way with that sack of cotton on my shoulder. After I had emptied my sack, Papa told me, "now let's get going back." “Did you want me to run all the way back too?" I gasped. Big tears streamed down Papa’s cheeks when I asked this and he put his arms around me and said, "son, don't ever tell your Mama about me whipping you today because I'm very sorry for it." Then Papa half whispered to me, "you just lay under the wagon there and take it easy the rest of the day."

Milton came to the wagon a couple of times to see about me before the next weighing time. The last time that he peeped in on me, I asked, "what did you want?" ''Nothing," he told me and started back but I called to him, "tell Papa that I feel all right now and will go back to work if he wants me to." "He knows you feel all right," Milton said, "but there's something else wrong with you."

When Papa brought the other children to the scales to weigh their cotton again, I pleaded, "Papa, I think I’ll be all right now, so let me go back to the field with you." "No son," he said, and hesitated for a minute before he told me, "you take the jug and go to the well after us some fresh water." 

While I was at the well drawing the water, I noticed that Papa was still at the scales and was watching me. Being conscious of this must have upset me, anyway when I got back to the scales, Papa took the jug out of my hands and asked, "Dick, did you spill the water?" When I told him, "no, I must have forgot to fill the jug," he kind of laughed and said, "well go back to the well and try again." Papa was very upset, when I came back a second time because I didn't even have the jug with me. 

I lay in bed that night and listened to Papa and Mama discuss my condition; during the conversation Papa mentioned Maudy Harrison. Maudy, so far as I could see, wasn't in the same category with me, he had been idiotical all his life, whereas I had just recently become demented. Papa said that Maudy certainly hadn't inherited his mental defects from his dad, Mr. Harrison, because the old man was very intelligent. But from what I’d heard, I wasn’t so sure that Maudy hadn’t inherited some of his feeble mindedness from his dad. I know they said Mr. Harrison met his son in town one day and even though Maudy was idiotical, he recognized his father and spoke to him, but when the old man shook hands with Maudy, he commented, "son I’ve seen you around town many times but I’ll be danged if I can place you." 

I couldn't be too sure either that some of my mental aberrations were not inherited because I had heard Papa’s older sisters tell about an incident which happened one time when they were all children and were playing hide and seek. Aunt Ambler was the goat this time and she had no trouble finding the other kids but all of them together couldn't find Papa and finally gave up. Papa wasn't found until Grandma Smith went to the well to draw a bucket or water and there Papa was, down in the hundred foot deep well holding on to the rotten pine curbing. 

It must have been hard for Papa to believe that his once most promising offspring had become mentally ill. But the real disappointment came when Papa realized that his timid, Bible reading, called to the ministry, fifteen-year-old son was becoming an alcoholic. The first time I ever got drunk was Christmas of this same year of 1924. Our family, including my married brother and sister and their spouses, were having dinner at Grandma's house this year. Some of the older boys, Jack, Milton, and one of Mama's younger brothers, Bud, decided to buy some bootleg whiskey to go with the other Christmas festivities. The other boys had drank before but this was my first try with alcohol and I was the only one who got drunk. I had a feeling of elation and well being similar to what born-again Christians say they experience when Christ comes into their lives. 

Chapter 17

 As I stated, Papa had become disappointed in me and I had became disappointed in him, too, by the time I reached the age of fifteen. I began to realize that my father wasn't the pious, tenderhearted individual he pretended to be. Along with his knack of being innocently cruel and high tempered, he had a tendency to be deceitful. So I knew what Papa was going to say when he stood in church that second Sunday morning in May of 1924. I'd heard him say, "I’m just like the others of you, I think I had the best mother in the world.” However this wasn’t what Papa told us at home, "I’m ashamed to admit it but I couldn't feel sad when Ma passed on because she was so cruel to Pa during his lifetime." Then Papa would go on to say, "I think Ma and Earnest poisoned Pa; I don't think he died a natural death." 

Ordinarily there were no Christmas presents for the children in our family who had learned that there was no Santa Claus. Just a good dinner was all we deserved on this day of days. When school would dismiss for a week’s Christmas vacation, Milton (before he left home), Gaines, and I had the pleasure of cutting wood. We used some of the wood but most of it Papa sold. 

There’s only one time during the seventeen years I spent at home that I received a Christmas present after I knew there was no Santa Claus. Mama had saved two dollars out of her egg money to buy her big boys, Gaines and me, fourteen and sixteen years old respectively, something for Christmas. When Papa came home from town that Christmas Eve, he had bought Gaines a shaving set and me a pocketknife. Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I stood there holding the nice little celluloid handle knife in my hand. Mama scolded Papa, "M, why didn't you get Dick a shaving set, too!" Even though Gaines was two years younger than me, he had a little fuzz on his upper lip and chin but there was no indication that I’d ever have any beard. Papa never pampered us children, I didn't have any fuzz, and it wasn't practical to buy me a razor because I didn't need it, is the way he felt. 

In Papa’s mind Milton and I reached maturity at about the age of ten years. If Papa happened to be occupied with something else, we were capable of hitching our twelve hundred pound mares to the wagon and hauling a bale of cotton to the gin. And this was the age we laid our hoes aside and began plowing with our altered plows. Papa always shortened the handles on the plow stocks Milton and I used until we grew large enough to operate the standard size. Even though I was seventeen years old before I left home, the standard size plow was still a little awkward for me. I don’t remember my height at this age but I do recall that I weighed eighty-six pounds. I looked more like a girl than a boy because my hands and feet were very small and I still didn’t have any fuzz. 

I’ll never forget one of Papa’s cruel acts. It was the last time Papa ever whipped me. I was fourteen at this time and Gaines was twelve. Gaines and I had set a steel trap beside a round hole in the bank of a nearly dry tank we had on the farm we were renting. We had planned to catch a mink and make ourselves a cash prize. The money was not forthcoming because we didn't catch a mink but we did catch one of Papa’s pigs in the trap. The pig wasn't large enough to eat but its leg was broke and Papa had to kill it. He threw our trap in the tank and whipped us with a switch, so he said, but Gaines, Mama, and I knew that Papa cut the blood out of us with baling wire until it seeped through our thin shirts.

My memory leaves me with a feeling of kindliness towards my late father because I know he meant well back in the old days. It was unfortunate that he had an uncontrollable temper and a low earning capacity. But it does seem to me that we could have been a little more modern if Papa hadn't insisted on us living according to the scriptures, even though times had changed some since Biblical days. All the teenage girls, excepting my sisters, wore bobbed hair back in those days. But the Bible spoke of a woman's hair as her glory; so Amie, Avie and Abbie had two long plaits of it each. 

For many years my sisters and Mama begged Papa to let the girls bob their hair but to no avail. Finally, on one of our visits to Grandma’s house, while Papa tended the store, Mama coaxed her younger sister, Aunt Ola, into cutting the girls’ hair. After Aunt Ola had rid Amie, Avie and Abbie of the long, beautiful plaits. Mama told her, "now Ola it’s my turn, clip it high in the back and make some nice bangs, just like you did the girls." 

Papa must have thought he was having a nightmare when he saw his women folks unload from our Model T truck with their freshly shorn hair. He had a sheepish grin on his face when he walked slowly towards the truck and half whispered, "well you did it, Luetta." Then Papa half-heartedly apologized, "I've often wondered if I shouldn’t give in and let the girls bob their hair." Mama was on the verge of hysteria when she told Papa, "no you haven't, M, you wouldn't have ever given in and I’ll tell you something else, my daughters are going to look like other girls because they are going to wear lipstick and rouge, too."

Chapter 18

We had been living back at Martin Springs nearly two years before Papa had any trouble. He had tried very hard to get along with people in the community because Papa knew if they didn't like him they wouldn’t trade at his store. But when the two religious groups we had at Martin Springs got into a squabble, Papa was in the big middle of it. The two denominations were using the same small building to conduct services in at this time. This arrangement had never been very satisfactory, so the Carmelites, as we called them, and our faith, the Baptists, were each raising funds to build them a church of their own. As soon as both faiths had their buildings completed, the original church building would go to the Martin Springs School to be added on to the one room already there. Mr. Luker, a wealthy landowner, donated the land for the Baptist Church and Papa gave a quarter acre of our forty-acre tract of land to the Carmelites for their church. 

The Baptist Church building had hardly been erected before the Carmelites discovered that Mr. Luker had given away a part of the school grounds instead of his own land. Seeing that the Baptists had no intention of moving the building, the Carmelites decided to fence the school grounds. Papa, Gaines, and I were sitting on our store porch when some men began putting up the fence. Papa waited until the fence was nearing completion, then he told us, "boys, I'm going to get my pistol and axe and chop that fence down right before their eyes.”

The men were warning Papa, as he wielded the axe, “Mr. Smith, it’s a penitentiary offense to cut down a fence in Texas.” Papa was using foul language and threatening the men before one of them told the others, "fellows, there’s nothing left for us to do but go to Athens and get the sheriff and let him take care of this matter." 

It was a couple of hours before the men returned with Sheriff Morris. Mr. Merrow, the men, and Papa and us boys walked the short distance from our store to the church building to survey the damage done. The Sheriff was astounded that these men could be so petty and envious, he told them, "this man (referring to Papa) donated land to your church, and you have the unbiased gall to try to keep his faith from having a place to worship. I have no intention of arresting anybody, what difference does it make if the church building is on the school grounds?" Then the sheriff commented, "you still have plenty of room for playgrounds left.” 

This little wrangle cost Papa a few friends and customers but the fracas he had with Austin Rallison one night during the Carmelite protracted meeting won most of them back. Austin was considered an undesirable in the community because he was what we called “a drunkard" back in those days. Papa must have had a guilty conscious on this particular night or he would have sold Austin the second bottle of lemon extract, which was eighty three percent alcohol. Papa had sold Austin this extract before but to clear his conscious, he’d asked, "Austin, you’re not buying this to drink, are you?" and Austin had always replied, "no Mr. Smith, Mama's going to make a cake with it." This night was no exception, Papa asked the same question, but Austin didn’t answer until he had drunk half of his soda pop and poured the extract into the remainder. Then he drank the contents and commented, “Mr. Smith, that’s the way Mama makes cakes." Papa just shook his head and didn't say anything, but when Austin ordered another bottle of the extract, Papa wouldn't sell it to him. 

Austin became belligerent when Papa refused to sell him the extract but after a little persuasion he left the store peacefully. Papa was a little afraid that he might have some more trouble with the drunk that night at church; so when he put the quilt in the wagon for the little children to sleep on during the services, he hid an axe handle under it. Church services hadn’t started and Milton and I were standing outside of the arbor smoking and talking with some more boys and men, when Austin joined our crowd and began waving a wagon wrench and boasting about what he intended to do to M Smith. Milton didn't know about the incident at the store but nevertheless he wasn't going to have anybody talk about his dad in this manner; so he took it up. Austin told Milton, "I know you’re married, son, but I want to ask you one question. Are you a man?" When Milton told him, "yes," Austin took after the seventeen year old, beardless, underweight man with the wagon wrench. Milton ran so fast I couldn't keep up with him and Austin had already given up the chase before we reached the arbor. 

After Milton explained how Austin had acted, Papa retrieved the axe handle from the wagon and went out to where the drunk was ranting. Austin said he was just drunk and promised not to cause any more trouble. "Well you put the wrench back in the double tree of your wagon and we’ll forget the whole affair," Papa told Austin and turned to walk away. But Papa had no sooner turned around than Austin struck him in the back of the head with the wrench. 

This time Austin was the one who was hard to catch, that is until he attempted to jump the branch which ran alongside of the arbor and landed in a hole of water about waist deep. Somebody finally told Papa, "Mr. Smith, don't strike him again because you’re going to drown him." If hadn't been for the intervention, Papa could have drown him because every time Austin got to his knees and cleared his head of the water, Papa knocked him back under with the axe handle. 

Chapter 19

I completed the eighth grade at the Martin Springs two-teacher school in the spring of 1926. Mr. Yarbrough, the principal, awarded me a special diploma of merit on graduation night. I had made a straight "A" report card including deportment, which Mr. Yarbrough said was beyond reproach. Since I did show an aptitude for book learning, Uncle Bertie, who was at this time principal of Athens High School, suggested that I get me a job the coming fall in Athens and attend High School there. 

I spent two days and nights that fall at Uncle Bertie's house before I got a job at the Athens Hotel. Mr. Murrell, the manager and owner, and Uncle Bertie did most of the talking that day I got the job at the combination hotel and café. Mr. Murrell was telling Uncle Bertie and me how he had made it possible for another boy, Tiltman McGuien, to go to Baylor University when I interrupted, "Mr. Murrell, I have never worked in a café." "I know that," he told me and then explained, "Tillman never had either when he came here and he probably never will have to work in another café after he finishes Baylor University." 

Mr. Murrell had elaborated to great lengths on how he had helped Tillman get a start in life, before I asked him, "what kind of work will I be expected to do here?" "You'll work in the front, waiting on people," he told me, then he glanced at Uncle Bertie and commented, "meeting the public is almost like going to college." I didn't want to work in the front and asked him if I couldn't work in the kitchen. Mr. Murrell studied for a minute and then answered, "I could let you wash dishes, but you are much too intelligent to belly up to a tub with a negro." I hung my head and said, "no I'm not and I had much rather do that because I don't have nice clothes like town people wear.” Mr. Murrell laughed and said, “don't worry about the clothes." 

People had begun to come in the café, so Mr. Murrell excused himself and turned to his wire and told her, "Julia, here’s a boy from Martin Springs who’s going to work for us and go to school. You can have Tom show him to his room." Mrs. Murrell called Tom and while he was coming down the hotel stairs, Mr. Murrell looked at Uncle Bertie and told Mrs. Murrell, "Lenard is Mr. Smith’s nephew. “I’m glad to know you," I said, when Mrs. Murrell introduced me to Tom but he ignored me and said to her, "I'm going to lay the law down to him about our room." 

Tom took me up to room number 210 and told me, "now you’re going to help me keep this room nice and clean. Mrs. Johnson, the maid, sweeps and changes the linens about twice a week but that doesn’t mean that you are at liberty to throw cigarette ashes on the floor and lay burning cigarettes on this furniture." He didn't talk like a high school boy when he warned, "I won't tolerate any such conduct." I wondered who he was and asked, "did you go to college, too?" "No, I didn't go to college, too," he sarcastically replied. “Are you one of the bosses, then?" I inquired. Tom must have thought I was trying to get smart with him because his face turned red and he answered, "Bud, I’m not one of the owners if that's what you mean but I’m boss over this room and I can make it tough on you downstairs if I'm so a mind to.” Tom then told me that this was his last year in school and that he had been working for Mr. Murrell two years. 

I tried to start a conversation with Tom but he seemed to want to do all the talking and when I'd say something he’d hide his face in his hands and exclaim, "what a character!" Uncle Bertie, who I admired very much, had told me many times, "Dick, if you have something you believe to be important to say, speak it right out whether the other party listens or not." So I decided I'd tell Tom how I felt and if he just hid his face and exclaimed, "what a character," I had at least told him something which I believed to be important. "I want to get an education and be like town people; I don’t care how you or anybody else treats me just so I get to go to school,” I told him. Then I warned, "you know I might be smarter than you one or these days because I’m going to college.” "How do you know that I'm not going to college?" he asked. "Because you told me that this is your last year in school," I told him. "Ah, I meant this was my last year in high school. I graduate this year," Tom explained. 

I saw I didn’t stand much chance of holding my own with Tom and commented, "I know I'm dumb but Abraham Lincoln was dumb too before he got an education." “What kind of talk is this?" Tom wanted to know. Then he shook his head and asked, "you’re not aspiring for the presidency, are you?" It seemed to disgust him when I mumbled, "no, not exactly," and he told me, "you won't ever be president; I know I sure wouldn't vote for you." "Well Tom, if that’s the way you feel, it's alright with me and just remember, if you ever run for that high office I won't vote for you, either," 

Before the conversation ended, Tom got real nasty; he told me, "you don't seem to remember what I told you; now you listen while I try to pound something into that thick skull." "Sure I’ll listen," I meekly replied. "You’re not going to tell Mr. Murrell that I came up here and argued with you, are you?" I asked him. "No I’m not going to tell Clark anything," he stormed out. I was astonished and asked, "do you call Mr. Murrell by his first name?" "Yeah," he told me then cautioned, "but you’d better not.” I shook my head and exclaimed, “indeed I won’t!" 

I was getting ready to go back downstairs when Tom opened the clothes closet door and asked, "do you see all these trousers and shirts and that brown suit?" “Yes, and they are nice, too," I told him. "None of them will fit you; they belong to me," he gloated. Tom noticed that I was admiring the suit and said, "just feel of that material." While I was feeling of the silk-like lining, he laughed and asked, "wouldn't you love to have a suit like that?” I mumbled to myself, "I sure would." "Well It will probably be a long time before you can buy one like that; it cost twenty five dollars and is tailor made,” Tom bragged. "Yeah, it will be a long time but I’ll get one even better than that some day," I told him. 

I went off into a trance as I thought of all the good things in store for me. I wasn't actually speaking to Tom when I said, "I'm going to have a lot of money some day; I know I will because I'm going to save nearly all the money I make until I do have. Someday I’ll have a big diamond ring on my finger, then I’ll buy this hotel and café and park my car in back of the kitchen." Tom interrupted, "why park in the back?" "Because there wouldn't be room to park it in front of this building, it would reach all the way across the street," I boasted. Tom was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his cheeks when he told me, "you’re even dumber than I thought, don't you know that if you lived to be two hundred years old and saved every dime you made, you still wouldn't have nearly enough money to buy this hotel and café?”

Chapter 20

As the months passed, I could more fully understand Tom's method of reasoning. He was wrong when he told me, "it will be a long time before you can buy a suit like that," but I had long since given up hope of ever owning the Athens Hotel and Murrell's Café because at the pace I was going, I could live to be a thousand years old and not have the money to buy them. 

I worked the first six months that I was at Murrell’s Café for my room and board, three or four haircuts, my tobacco, and a dime in cash and Mr. Murrell didn't give me the cash. Mr. LaRue, an Athens banker, told me one day, when he handed me a dime, "young man, buy yourself a cigar with this." I told him, "thanks anyway but I don't smoke cigars." Mr. LaRue smiled and said, "well keep it anyway, there might be a time when you'll need it." Mrs. Murrell apologized for my conduct, "Lenard's strictly a country boy now but I’ll bet you won't believe the change in him if he stays with us two years." 

I had heard the old adage, "you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy," and I was beginning to believe it. I didn't want to spend another twelve months, let alone the rest of my life, trying to become a city boy. After I thought it over, I said to myself, "I'm giving it up but I’ll wait until the Murrell’s go to bed and just leave the café open.” Mr. and Mrs. Murrell usually took off about nine o'clock each night and this night was no exception, they again took off at this time. When I was certain they had gone for the night, I pulled off my apron and walked out in front of the hotel and sat in one of the chairs, which was on the sidewalk.

Only a few people went in the café while I was waiting there and all those who did go in sat for a moment and left slamming the front door behind them, except for one man. He came out where I was and asked, "wonder where the waiter is tonight?" I answered, "I wouldn't know." The man began to laugh and asked, "did I say waiter?" I told him, "yeah, that's what you said." He was still laughing when he said, "permit me to correct myself, he’s anything but a waiter. However, I just wanted a cup of coffee and he could have handed me that." He went on to say, “did you ever go in there while that boy was working?" “No, I eat at Faults Gale," (this was a larger café a couple of blocks down the street) I told him. "Well you go in there sometime and watch that country boy work if you want to burst your sides laughing," he told me then added, "no reflection on the boy, he's just untrained." After he noticed I was keeping quiet, he asked, "you’re not from the country yourself, are you?" "No, I’m from Dallas," I disgustedly replied. 

After the man left, I sat there thinking about how I had been treated and got so angry I was trembling and I must have been talking to myself because some drunk man who happened to be passing by, asked, "what did you say?" I, at first, told him, "I didn't say anything." The man got angry and stormed at me, "I know you did, I’m not that drunk, you said, I'm going to borrow Uncle Bertie's pistol and shoot Taft." "Yeah, I did say that and that's what I'm going to do," I admitted. The man called to me when I walked off in the direction of Uncle Bertie's house, "who is Taft?" And when I told him, “read the paper tomorrow,” he asked, "what will It say?" "Country boy shoots negro cook," I mumbled and kept walking.

Mrs. Murrell told me that she wanted to talk to me the next morning when I passed her in the hotel lobby. She noticed that I had my suitcase and asked, "where are you going? Why aren't you in school?" When I informed her that I wasn't going to school, she said, "Taft tells me you pulled a gun on him last night." "Yes, that’s right,'' I told her. Then I went on to explain, "and if he hadn't told me that he was sorry for always laughing at me and calling me a country boy I would have shot him, too.” Mrs. Murrell didn't make any further comment other than, “I’m going to call your Uncle Bertie on the phone and tell him how you’ve been behaving." 

Uncle Bertie asked Mrs. Murrell, "did he shoot the negro?" "Not yet," she told him, "and I want you to tell him to let me have your gun before he does kill somebody." She then turned to me and said, "your Uncle Bettie wants you on the phone." "Why didn't you shoot him?" Uncle Bertie asked. “I would have if he had stood up," I told him. Uncle Bertie laughed and said, "oh I see! You wanted to see him fall.” I explained, "I couldn't shoot the negro and him layin' there on the floor begging me not to." Uncle Bertie talked as if he were disgusted when he said, "well give the gun to Mrs. Murrell and I’ll pick it up after school hours." 

Mr. Murrell and his head waiter, Stone, completely ignored me when I went into the café and sat down at the counter, until I asked Stone, "how much do you get for hot cakes?" "Fifteen cents," he muttered, then asked, "why?" I had already quit my job and I had made up my mind to talk back a little if it became necessary. I saw where Mrs. Murrell put the pistol and I thought of how I had scared Taft the night before; so I said to myself, "if these city folks fool with me I’ll take that pistol and give them a scare, too." "Lenard, I just told you the price of hot cakes," Stone calmly replied, when I asked him, “why can't you answer me decently?" But after he turned and walked away, he threatened, "and you’d better not get too huffy." I was really getting ready to tell Stone off when Mr. Murrell motioned for me to come with him. 

Mr. Murrell took me into a small storeroom in back by the kitchen and asked, "what seems to be the trouble around here?" When I told him that I was sick and tired of being run over, he asked, "well don't you want to go to school?" "Not that bad," I muttered. I thought he was leaving when he turned towards the door and said, "it's up to you. If you want to go through lire uneducated, there’s nothing more I can do about it.” After he turned around and faced me, he asked, "when do you want to quit?" "So you just locked the doors and walked out," he commented, when I told him that I had quit the night before. “I didn't lock the doors; Taft locked them an hour or so later," I told him. “Did many people go in the café, while you were out front?" he wanted to know. "Yes, quite a few went in," I answered.

Mrs. Murrell came into the storeroom and listened for a minute and said, "let's forget the whole mess and give the boy another chance." She then turned to me and said, "take your suitcase back to your room and go on to school." "Do you want to do that, Lenard?" Mr. Murrell asked, and he seemed shocked, when I replied, "no.” "Julia just told you that we aren’t angry, so why not?" he asked, "Because I'm never working another day without money for it," I boasted. Mr. Murrell hung his head when Mrs. Murrell told him, "Clark you could pay him something; he's worked here six months without virtually any pay, maybe he would be in a better mood if he made a little money." Mr. Murrell acted as if he were angry with Mrs. Murrell for saying this, he told her, "I’ll pay him something for working if he ever earns it but if he takes a notion to quit he can go right ahead." Then he turned to me and said, "I’m giving you a lift, you’re not doing anything for me, remember that!" I didn't want them to think I was ungrateful for all the nice things they had done for me, like giving me the suit and buying me a necktie for Christmas but I stood firm, "I’ll work if you pay me, otherwise I’m leaving," I threatened. Mr. Murrell pushed me out the door and said, "I told you I'd pay you, so go on to school, you’re late now." 

I appreciated Mr. Murrell giving me the suit, even though I couldn't wear the pants. Mr. Murrell was a rather stout man and the pants would wrap around me twice. Mrs. Murrell told him when they were in Tom's room trying the suit on me, "Clark, you’ll have to get this suit altered, it's much too large for Lenard." "It looks better than what he's been wearing," Mr. Murrell sarcastically replied. Mrs. Murrell happened to notice my shoes and exclaimed, "is that the only pair of shoes you have, Lenard?" When I answered, "yes Ma'am," Mr. Murrell glanced down at my feet and asked, "what size shoe do you wear?" Before I could tell him that I wore a size six, Mrs. Murrell scolded, "don't be ridiculous Clark. Lenard can't wear your shoes!'' "Certainly not," Mr. Murrell exclaimed, then told her, "I thought perhaps he could wear Lockwidge's shoes (Lockwidge was their ten year old son) but they would be too small." 

Mrs. Murrell talked as if she were going to buy me a Sunday shirt that first Christmas day I spent working for them. I was behind the counter when she handed me a package and said, "open it Lenard, and see how you like it." Mrs. Murrell could tell that I was disappointed when I opened the package and told me, "Lenard, I'm sorry you don't like the gift." "Oh the tie's pretty," I told her, "but I don't have a Sunday shirt to wear it with." When I made this statement, Mrs. Murrell hugged me and exclaimed, "God bless your heart Lenard, I’m going to see that you get a Sunday shirt to wear with the tie." She didn't ever buy me a Sunday shirt but maybe Mrs. Murrell did see to it that I got one because before I quit working for Murrell's Café, I was one of the best-dressed young men in Athens. 

Chapter 21

I thought Mr. Murrell was going to begin paying me two dollars a week because at the end of the first week, after he had promised to pay me for working, he gave me this amount. But I was beginning to think I’d have to quit again; he didn't pay me any more money for about five weeks. He'd hand Stone fifteen dollars each payday and say, "thank you," then pass on by me. I'd sit in the café on paydays until past school time expecting him to give me my two dollars but most of the time he wouldn't say a word, however sometimes he’d say, "don’t you think it's about time you were going to school?" I felt like telling him, "well if you aren’t going to give me any money, the least you could do is thank me." 

I was glad that morning Mr. Murrell passed by me while I was eating breakfast and handed me a five dollar bill that I hadn't quit. I took the money and exclaimed, "thank you ever so much, Mr. Murrell." He looked at Stone, when he said, "you earned it." After I got the money, I immediately walked up to the cash register where Mrs. Murrell was taking cash. "A can of Prince Albert?" she asked, when I handed her the five. “No, I’ll have Chesterfields this morning," I told her.

I lit one or the cigarettes and walked down the counter where Mr. Murrell and Stone were standing and asked them, "would you fellows like a chesterfield?" Stone didn't answer but Mr. Murrell said, "no, and furthermore…” Mrs. Murrell shook her head at him and he hushed and then motioned for me to leave. I had an idea what he was about to say because I had heard him talking to Mrs. Murrell once before and he said, "I can’t lay a cigarette down for a second without it disappearing." I suspected then that he thought I was smoking his snipes and I was sure he thought it after Mrs. Murrell scolded, "I wouldn't say anything to him Clark, you can always light another one." 

The Athens Senior High School boys weren't too proud to take my cigarettes, though. I met three of them in town that day at noon and lit up a Chesterfield as they approached. The boy wearing the maroon colored sweater with an embossed white letter "A" on its front exclaimed, "look boys, tailor made.” I handed them the pack and said, "help yourselves, fellows.” I meant for them to just take one cigarette each but one of them took two. I knew he did because I had counted them and knew I had seventeen when I handed them the pack but when I got it back I only had thirteen. 

Mr. Murrell started paying me a permanent wage of two dollars a week towards the end of the school term. Before he started paying me a straight salary, he asked how I would like to work eight hours a day instead of the six I had been working. I couldn't see how it would add much work to my regular job, it was as he said, I sat around in the lobby of the hotel for a couple of hours each night and studied anyway. Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays he told me needn't be changed; I could work a straight twelve hours as usual.

It made me feel good when Mr. Murrell told me, "I’d rather see you get the extra money than to see that negro porter get it, and taking that luggage up to the rooms isn't so much work.'' Then he added, "you know they do make pretty good money on the side." Mr. Murrell cautioned me not to pay any attention to the hotel side of the business while I was working in the café; he said he could always call when he needed me to take luggage up to the guests’ rooms. 

I didn't tell Mr. Murrell but it wasn't long before I did, as he hinted I would, start making money on the side. One night two girls came in and stayed at the hotel and they gave me a dollar for just taking them a pitcher of ice water. Mr. Murrell had told me to be careful how I let single girls register at the hotel but I felt sure that these girls were nice because they dressed and acted like real ladies. I was a little hesitant about renting them the room, though, until one of them asked, "how do you know we're not married?" I told her, "alright now, I'm going to let you ladies rent a room but you’re sure going to get me into a lot of trouble if you’re not nice.” I suspected that they weren’t nice after one of them wanted to rent a room without a bath and the other one told her, "I'm not going to run across the hall to wash up." 

As soon as the ladies signed the register, I asked them if they wanted me to show them to their room. "Thank you no," one of them curtly replied and then told me, "if any well dressed traveling man happens to notice our names on the register and asks about us, send him up." The other girl didn't say anything until they got about half way up the stairs leading to the rooms, then she called, "tell him to come on up and get acquainted, we’re friendly." I told them, "now ladies, Mr. Murrell wouldn't appreciate you having any company in your room and no man can visit you other than your husbands." "See what did I tell you?" one of them exclaimed. 

The ladies had been in room 115 for about an hour and I had almost forgotten them when I heard someone call "porter." I answered, "I'm not actually the porter, I’m a waiter but if you want some service I’ll bring it up to you." The girl standing at the head of the stairs said, "bring us a pitcher of ice water, please." I would have told them to get their clothes on and get out of the hotel when I took them the ice water if they hadn’t treated me so nice. One of them opened the door when I knocked and she didn't have on hardly any clothes. I turned my head and handed her the water and she said, "come on in good looking and have a drink with us.” I told her, "no, I'd better not, you ladies aren't dressed," and she exclaimed, "can you beat that!" I saw they weren't nice and started back downstairs to call the sheriff but one of them called, "come on back here simpleton, we're not going to molest you!" 

I didn't want the girls to think that I was bashful, so I went back, and one of them told me, "don't mind us, we’re more comfortable this way; just make yourself at home." While I was having a drink, one of them asked, "do you happen to know any nice fellows who would like to visit us?" I told her, "no I sure don't and I’ll tell you one thing, they couldn't come up here and you dressed like you are. If anybody comes up, it had better be decent or I’ll call the law.” They began to laugh and one of them assured me, "we'll be decent, you don't have to worry about that," then she told the other girl, "put on your clothes Ann and act like the lady you are." 

I would have still called the law when I got downstairs if one of them hadn't told me, "here, take this crisp dollar bill for bringing us the ice water and don't forget, send the first man who comes in up to see us." I took the dollar but I warned them, "now maybe I can send you some nice traveling man to keep you company but promise me that you’ll have your clothes on." Ann patted me on the back and said, "you don't think we’d entertain men without our clothes on, do you?" I told her, "well I don't know, you didn't have on many clothes when I first came into the room." That's different" she exclaimed, "you're a nice fellow and we knew you wouldn't try to get fresh with us." I couldn't talk to them any longer because I heard the hotel buzzer and wanted to get downstairs and register whoever it was before he woke Mr. Murrell. The ladies called to me, as I wheeled and ran down the stairs, "don't forget, send him up." 

When I got downstairs, some old man was standing at the desk bearing down on the buzzer and looking mean. I had called to him when I first started to running, "Mister I'm coming, don't wake…" He interrupted, "I don’t care if I wake everybody in the hotel, I’m tired and want to go to bed. I’ve been traveling all day," I was standing at the desk trembling and panting when he asked, "what do you have in the way of rooms?" then he muttered, "seeing that you don’t have any service." After he wrote his name in the register, I asked, "Mr. Durant, are you a traveling man?" He gave me a dirty look and said, "may I be so bold as to ask, what difference it makes?" I explained, "well two ladies told me if a nice traveling man happened to register tonight to send him up to their room and I know you have been traveling because that's what you said.” Mr. Durant nearly knocked me down when he hit me on the shoulder and exclaimed, "that’s different son, the service isn’t so bad after all." 

I didn't know what to do after that old man kept staying up there in the girls' room; I wanted to go to bed but I didn't want to leave him in their room, no telling what he might do. So I went up and peeked through the keyhole and called to him, "fellow, you’ll have to get out of there before I call the sheriff." Mr. Durant must have thought I was the manager because he answered, "yes sir, I’ll get right out." But when he came to the door and saw me, he threatened, "you tend to your own business before I knock you down those stairs." I told him, "now Mister, that girl promised me she'd keep her clothes on if I’d send some nice man up here to keep them company." Mr. Durant looked at me and said, "so you're a peeping tom," then he mumbled, "I think I’ll just call the sheriff myself." 

I was sorry that I had told Mr. Durant I saw that girl sitting on his lap but I tried not to act scared and told him, "listen Mister, if those girls hadn't insinuated that they were married, I wouldn't have rented them a room in the first place, now don't tell me you're their husbands’ friend is the reason one of them was sitting on your lap without any clothes on." Mr. Durant seemed to be in a good humor and he even smiled when he said, "I wouldn’t try to lie to a smart boy like you." Then he went on to tell me, "that girl you saw sitting on my lap is my wife and the other girl is her sister." Of course I knew better than this but I decided I'd better let it go at that after he told me I'd get from one to ten years in the penitentiary for peeping in that room at them if I called the sheriff.

Chapter 22

Stone must have suspected that I was making good money on the side because he called me up to his room one afternoon, just before the school term ended, and wanted to sell me an overcoat. He told me, "Lenard, I couldn't help but notice that you went to school most of last winter in your shirt sleeves and I told my wife I feel sorry for that boy, it's cold out and he doesn’t have a coat to wear." 

Well Stone was right, I did go to school all the winter before in my shirtsleeves except for two days. One of these days I wore the suit Mr. Murrell had given me and was so disgusted with it I hung it up in Tom's clothes closet and never wore it again. When Uncle Bertie saw me that day at school with the suit on, he asked, "Dick, is that one of your dad's old suits you have on?" Tears were running down my cheeks when I told him, "no," and then explained that Mr. Murrell had given the suit to me. After I told Uncle Bertie that I wasn't going to wear the suit again, he exclaimed, "for heaven's sake don't, it looks horrible on you!" Then he told me to come down to his house the next day before school time and he’d give me a coat to wear. 

When I arrived at Uncle Bertie's house the next morning, he immediately went to the clothes closet and brought out a combination raincoat and overcoat which had belonged to his artistic son, J.B., who was at this time attending Baylor University. "Now Dick, this is a nice warm coat and there could only be one objection in you wearing it," he said as he held the coat up and pointed to the back of it. "As you can see," he went on to tell me, "J.B. has drawn a bear on it and has written the words 'Baylor Bears' over the drawing."  

The coat was a good fit and it felt nice and warm as I strolled down the street the following day on my way to school. I was nearing the school building when I heard someone giggling and I, knowing that I had an inferiority complex, said to myself, "don't be stupid, they aren’t laughing at you." However, I realized they were after one of the girls said, "look at that bear, you wouldn't think that boy could pack him down the street, would you?" Then she called, "hey fellow isn't that bear pretty heavy?" I ignored them and kept walking and looking straight ahead until one of them punched me in the back with her finger and said, "go ahead Irene and stick your finger in the bear’s mouth, he's tame; he won't bite." I looked around just as Irene exclaimed, "not me! I don't want to get my finger bit off!" After the little show off, they walked up beside me and Irene asked, "do you go to high school here?" When I answered, "yes," she asked, "what are you?” and before I thought I answered, "I'm a country boy.” She laughed and said, “silly, we knew that. I meant what are you in school?” 

When I told them that I was a junior, the other girl, Charlsie, asked me how old I was and I told her, "I’ll be eighteen the 17th of March.” She was astounded, "and you’re just a junior in high school?" she shrilled. “Yes," I hung my head and replied and then explained, "I would actually be a sophomore if my Uncle wasn’t the principal of this school. You see I only went through the eighth grade back at Martin Springs. "Oh is Mr. Smith your Uncle? they asked in unison. "That’s right, he sure is," I proudly told them. Charlsie then asked, "and what does your dad do?" "What a strange combination," she commented, after I told her, "farms, preaches and teaches school." 

When Charlsie and Irene found out that I was working at the Athens Hotel, Charlsie said, "so you know Tommie Howell." "Yes," I told her. "Well he's my boyfriend," she informed me, then went on to comment, "and is he ever conceited." I knew Tommie, as she called him, was conceited and I felt the same way she did about his looks. I didn't think he was any better looking than me but I wanted to be modest, so I told her, "well I’d probably be conceited too if I were good looking like Tom." "Don't you say such a thing!" Charlsie exclaimed, "you’re just as good looking as Tommie and I’ll bet you are going to be better looking than him after you’ve stayed in town a couple of years and have bought yourself some nice clothes." 

School was already in session and I knew that we shouldn’t be sitting there on the school house steps talking but I wasn’t going to say anything because they were seniors and I was actually only a sophomore. I was enjoying myself for the first time since I had been living in Athens, until Charlsie asked, "is that your dad’s hat you have on?" After I told her, "certainly not; it's mine," she grinned and said, "nobody around here wears hats, other than the professors, so I thought it was your dad’s.” I felt embarrassed and said to myself, "you won’t ever see me with a hat on again," but I didn’t make any comment until after she suggested to Irene, "why don’t we let Lenard take us to the show sometime?" I kind of got angry when Irene said, "you know he couldn't take us anywhere with those kind of clothes or we'd be embarrassed to death." I still didn’t say anything until Charlsie said, "he knows Tommie, he could borrow one of his suits and take us to the show." When Charlsie suggested this, I hung my head and told her, "no I’ll just wait until I get a tailor made suit of my own, then I’ll take you to the show." "You might be too old by that time," she laughed and told me but I assured her that I wouldn’t be. "It’ll get me a real nice suit this next fall," I told her and walked on up the steps into the classroom. 

Stone kept insisting that I buy the nice warm overcoat and so did his wife, Roma. She said, "Lenard, it’s dirt cheap at five dollars and we’d rather see you have it at that price than to see someone else get it. They didn’t know Mr. Murrell had promised to pay me a regular wage of seven dollars a week during the summer months and when I told them, "I won’t need the overcoat because I’m going to buy me some nice clothes this next fall including a tailor made suit." "With what?" Stone asked. “You’d be surprised," I told him and left the room.

Chapter 23

I didn’t get to take Charlsie and Irene to the show like I had promised but I did get me a new suit of clothes and some Sunday shirts that next fall. I suppose I was the best dressed member or the Athens High School student body that first day of the 1928/29 term of school. Mr. Lamay, the superintendent, Uncle Bertie, and a couple of the other male members of the faculty had on suits but I was the only one of the students who had on a suit. I only wore the suit one other time; that was to the county fair the same year.

Mrs. Murrell talked Mr. Murrell into letting me off one Saturday evening while the fair was going on. She told him, "Clark, let Lenard off early today, I know he would like to go to the fair, you know how country boys are about carnivals." Then she went on to tell him that I hadn’t done anything except work and sleep all summer, Mr. Murrell called me and asked, "boy, do you want to go to the fair?" "Yes sir!" I told him, "I'd like to go if you'll loan me some money." Mr. Murrell asked, "don't you have any money?" "Sure I have some but it's all in the bank," I explained. He offered to loan me ten dollars but I just borrowed five and took off for the fair. 

I was having a good time and I guess I must have looked like a big shot because I was all dressed in my new tailor made suit and was smoking a cigar. They had about the same things I had seen the time Abbie and I had taken in the fair there a few years before; so I just kept my money in my pocket until a man called, "hey there prosperous looking! Do you want to win yourself a little money?" I shook my head,” no," and started to walk on by but he said, "come here mister, haven't I seen you somewhere before?" "I don't know," I told him, then commented, "you might have, I work at Murrell's Café." The man hit me on the shoulder and exclaimed, "well can you beat that. I knew I had seen you somewhere; that's where we're staying, at the Athens Hotel and we eat in the café. I suppose you fellows make pretty good money," he commented. I explained, "I don’t do so bad in the summertime after school days but it's pretty tough going during the winter." "Oh, so you go to school," another man, who I assumed was the friendly man's partner, spoke up, then he added, "that's pretty darn ambitious, this boy is working his way through high school." "I’ll bet you work pretty darn cheap during the school term," he sympathized, then said, "but you make good money during the summer months." "Well I don't make such a fabulous sum either season," I halfheartedly replied and again started to walk away.

After the two men insisted that I stay and chat with them for awhile, they withdrew to a corner of their concession and began to argue. "Don't be so tight, remember that kid's working his way through high school so let’s give him a break," the man who had called me by told the other fellow. "Pat, I feel sorry for the boy, too," the other fellow said, "but we can't just reach in our pockets and give him money.'' "Who suggested such a thing?" Pat asked, then explained, "we can work it in such a way as to make these rich people’s boys pay for the expense." 

The men were still arguing when I told them, "well I’ll see you fellows in the café," and turned to leave. I came back when Pat called to me, "don't run away kid; we’re going to let you win a little money if I can ever pound it into Freddie's head how we can do it without him losing a little of his bank roll." Freddie mumbled something and Pat disgustedly told him, "well we'll just call the whole deal off then," but Freddie said, "no, go ahead if you want to give some poor boy a part of our earnings, I can stand it if you can, but remember we’re not rich either." 

When I got back to the café, Mrs. Murrell asked, "back already Lenard? Why didn’t you stay longer? You haven’t been gone over two hours.” I tried to keep from crying but I couldn’t and when I began to cry she asked, "what on earth happened?" I at first told her, "nothing," but she kept on insisting that I tell her the whole story so I did. I told her about the men calling me by their concession to play a game and telling me if I'd put up twenty five dollars they would let me win fifty. "Why Lenard you only took five dollars with you; so how could you have lost twenty five?" she asked. After I explained that I had given the men a check for twenty dollars, Mrs. Murrell told me, "well we’ll let Clark take over; he'll straighten this mess out." 

Mr. Murrell was disgusted when he heard the story, but he told me that I wouldn't have to pay the check. After Mr. Murrell called the bank and had them void the check, he said, "don’t worry any more about it, put on your apron and go back to work," then he mumbled, "I’ll have Lockwidge go with you next time you go anywhere." 

I tried to reason with the men when they came in the café with the check but to no avail. Pat, the smaller of the two men, finally bodily drug me outside the café. I must have instinctively defended myself, I know I didn’t do it intentionally because I was so frightened I didn't remember anything about the night, but after it was over, witnesses said that Pat would have been beaten up pretty bad if he could have stayed on his feet. 

Chapter 24

Mama had passed on and Papa had married again by the fall of 1929. We had little suspected, when we lived in Independence, that Papa would someday marry the younger Mr. Franks' widow but that’s what he did on July 10, 1924. Mr. Franks had been dead seven or eight months and Mama had been dead less than six months at the time of the wedding. Mrs. Franks was the mother of six children; however Papa only took over guardianship or four: Lois, Marie, Herbert, and Adron.

The courtship between Papa and Miss Ellen, as we Smith children later called our first stepmother, was of short duration. It took two trips in Papa's new 1929 Model A two-door sedan, which had been bought out of the proceeds of mama’s insurance money, to merge the two medium sized families into one large one.

I wasn’t at home the night Papa brought our new stepmother and her four children, ranging in ages from five to fifteen years old, home with him. "This woman will never be as close to you as your natural mother was, but you're going to respect her and share this home with her and her children,” Papa told his six children still living at home, as Miss Ellen and her four offspring entered our house. Gaines, who was the oldest member of the Smith family living at home, took the news calmly and so did Avie and the little boys. Clarence, L.M., Amie, and Abbie rebelled, they swore that Lois and Marie couldn’t share the same room with them and they threatened Papa if he let Miss Ellen sleep in the same bed Mama had died in less than six months before. 

I didn't graduate from Athens High School but I had quit school and was working a full twelve hour shift, seven days a week at this time. I had made a lot of friends during the over three years that I had been in Athens, hardly anybody spoke of me as a country boy any more. Mrs. Murrell made a slurring remark about some other country boy one day and glanced apologetically at me when she did this. 

Mr. Murrell was quick to tell her, "Julia, I get sick and tired or hearing about country boys, now if you think Lenard's still a hick, you should see him..." He paused and then said, "never mind." I had an idea what was going through Mr. Murrell's mind, he was thinking about the time I drove him over to Corsicana, a good sized town near Athens. Mr. Murrell had just had a fight with Mrs. Murrell on this night and he was drunk besides, when he came in the café about eight o’clock in the evening and asked "can you drive a car?" When I answered, "yes sir, me, I sure can," he told me to lock the café up and drive him over to Corsicana to see some girls he knew. On the way over, he told me to sit in the car while he was visiting and if I could to get a little sleep because he might want me to open the café for him the next morning. Mr. Murrell went on to tell me, "Lenard, I'd rather you wouldn't go in this place where I’m going because the girls aren’t too nice." 

When we drove up in front of the house in Corsicana, I had intended doing as I had been instructed, until one of the girls called, "who do you have with you, Clark?" "It’s just a kid who works for me," Mr. Murrell told her. "Well bring that kid on in; we’ll find something to amuse him. It won’t be much fun sitting in the car by himself," the girl scolded. When Mr. Murrell told me, "well come on in, Lenard," I suggested that maybe I'd better stay in the car but after he insisted on me coming in, I did.

There were three pretty girls and an older woman in the gaudily furnished house. I at first assumed the woman was the three girls' chaperon. A juke box was playing and soon after we entered, Mr. Murrell began dancing with one of the girls. "Come on, let’s dance, too," one of the other girls, a little blonde with freckles across her nose, said to me. "Ah, I can't dance," I told her, then explained, "we went to parties down where I was raised; we didn't have dances." When the music quit playing, Mr. Murrell gave the girls and the woman a quick rundown on my past and told them that I wasn't use to being in that kind of surroundings and if I acted backward to just ignore it.

"Ignore him!" the little blonde with the freckles exclaimed. Then she told Mr. Murrell, "don’t be silly, these shy country boys are gems when you get them stirred up." Mr. Murrell kind of laughed and commented, "it would be pretty hard to get that boy going because he’s just as bashful as they come." The woman, who I later learned was Mrs. Gardner, the madam, told the little blonde, "Janie, get that boy a drink." Mr. Murrell didn't tell me not to have a drink so when Janie came back with a glass or whisky, I downed it. Well I had several drinks before the party ended. 

It was getting late when Mr. Murrell asked, “Lenard, do you think you can drive home?" Before I could answer, he told me, "no, you’d better crawl in the back seat and sleep when we get to the car because I believe you’re drunk; so I’ll do the driving." We were getting ready to leave, Mr. Murrell was putting on his scarf, top coat and everything when one of the girls asked, "Clark, do you have another country boy working for you?" Janie didn’t wait for Mr. Murrell to answer before she warned, "well if he doesn't, you're not going to share this one." Then she giggled and said, "this boy makes love so much like a dog, that I have been reaching for his tail all evening."

Chapter 25

I was doing exceptionally well financially by the end of the summer of 1933, had lots of nice clothes, a ‘28 Model A Ford roadster car with a rumble seat, and some money in the bank. Mr. Murrell had from year to year increased my wages until I was now making twenty-one dollars a week. I was a confirmed alcoholic by this time, but it was as Mr. Murrell said, "Lenard has a better personality when he gets drunk than he does when he’s sober." Mr. Murrell threatened to fire me a few times for becoming completely incapacitated, but he liked for me to have a few drinks because I was more talkative and friendly on these occasions.

I suppose I still acted like a country boy but I certainly didn't look like one back in 1933. I brushed my teeth with ipana toothpaste after each meal, showered and shampooed my hair daily, and stayed out of the sun as much as possible. Since I was one of the few young men in Athens who had a car, I was very popular with the fair sex, especially so with country girls. Mr. Murrell told me one day, “Lenard, I guess I’m going to have to give you Saturdays off." "Why?" I asked, and he said, "because I can't afford to have the house fill up with country girls who are not spending a dime, every Saturday." 

My splurge of prosperity and romance was on the decline before the end of this year though. The reason for it: I had wrecked my car, had very nearly been jailed for perjury, and was unemployed. The night before I wrecked my car, Mr. Chancellor, an elderly man, who was night watchman of Athens, brought some homemade wine by the café for us to enjoy. The old man, like myself, was a boozer; so I concealed the gallon jug of wine in a paper sack and made the rounds with him, after I closed the café. Before the night ended, Mr. Chancellor had given up punching the time clock altogether and we were concentrating on the wine. 

Mr. Chancellor halfheartedly completed his tour of duty and took off for home at 6 a.m., after making me promise I‘d go home, too. But instead of going home, I went by Lane's Drug Store and picked up a pint of 190 proof alcohol and took off in my car. This alcohol was sold by prescription only but I had no problem getting a prescription because Dr. Price was Lane's brother-in-law and silent partner in the business. 

I wasn’t far out of Athens before I ran into the back end of a bootlegger's truck. Melvin Dodd, the bootlegger, had his truck loaded down with three/two beer, which was illegal in that part of Texas. So after Melvin saw that I wasn’t hurt too badly, he was happy to call the incident an unfortunate accident and continue on his way, leaving me standing by the roadside. 

The man who picked me up and brought me to Dr. Pricot’s office for treatment, suspected that I was drunk, but after Dr. Price told him that I was a local boy, who had no doubt imbibed some but not enough to be termed drunk, the man agreed not to call the sheriff. My car could have possibly been repaired but I didn't have the money to invest; so I sold it to the garage that towed it in for twenty-five dollars.

The perjury charge stemmed from Mr. Murrell selling this three/two beer Melvin Dodd was bootlegging. When prohibition was repealed, Texas voted for local option. Henderson County, of which Athens was the county seat, voted dry. Two of the adjoining counties, Navarro and Smith, voted wet. This situation made it tough on Mr. Murrell and others of the restaurant operators in Athens because most of the moneyed people there were trading in the two nearby wet towns of Tyler and Corsicana. The new prosperity which the new president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, had promised to the public Mr. Murrell felt belonged to him just as much as it did to restaurant operators in wet counties; so he sold three/two beer until the Grand Jury convened and indicted him. 

The men on the jury talked nice to me; they assured me that they had no charge against me. All they wanted me to do was tell the truth. Morris Luker, a part time waiter, was also called before these men to tell what he knew about the beer selling. When I told them what Mr. Murrell had told me to tell them, "I'd rather not talk because I might incriminate myself," the foreman of the jury spoke up, "you can’t possibly do that," then he went on to explain, "we’re not trying to bill you for anything." Mr. Greenwood, the District Attorney, interrupted at this point, "Mr. Smith, you have no choice… so answer the question, yes or no?" 

The foreman had repeated the question, "did Mr. Murrell sell three/two beer in his café?" three times before I finally answered, "not to my knowledge." Mr. Greenwood reached for the phone and called for the constable when I made this statement. He told him that he had a man who had perjured himself and for him to come over. I knew who the man was and asked, "what's the fine for perjury?" "There’s no fine," he curtly stated, then told the constable, "just hold the line for a moment." After I told Mr. Greenwood, "I didn't know that perjury carried a jail sentence," he told me, "it doesn’t, it’s a felony and carries a prison sentence." The District Attorney was still on the phone but I hadn’t backed down because I would have considered doing even a short prison sentence for Mr. Murrell, but when I learned that perjury carried a sentence of from one to ten years, I commented, "well I wish I hadn't lied and if it was to do over I'd just tell you the truth about the whole mess." Mr. Greenwood didn't say anything else to me, he told the constable, "we won't need you. Everything is straightened out now," then he turned to a lady and told her, "take Mr. Smith's statement." 

Mr. Murrell didn't ask Morris and me what we had told the grand jury when we assembled back at the café, but he did caution us to remember what we had told and to tell the same story at the trial. "You didn't, you stupid idiot" he exclaimed when I hung my head and said, "it won't be hard for me to remember what I told them.” Mr. Murrell still had hopes when he turned to Morris and asked, "what did you tell them?" "The same thing Lenard did," Morris answered. When Mr. Murrell put his hand to his forehead and exclaimed, "well boys, that does it.” I was concerned and asked, "do you think you’ll get a very long sentence, Mr. Murrell?" "Oh about five years,” he told me before he got real angry and threatened, "you two idiots will starve while I'm gone because you don't either of you have enough sense to work for anybody else and you certainly are not going to work for me while I'm away."

Even though Mr. Murrell was acquitted, I don’t think he felt right about me being a prosecution witness, anyway he cut my wages to fourteen dollars a week soon after the trial. I worked a few weeks for the fourteen dollars before I had the car wreck; but after I totaled out my car and returned to work, Mr. Murrell told me, "that ends your short shift; you have too much time off." "I'm sorry if you begrudge me the two hours off," I told him and then mumbled to myself, "you yourself said it was just as well to close two hours early on Mondays because we didn't take in enough to pay the light bills.”

Losing the two hours off didn't bother me too much and I wasn't really angry until Mr. Murrell told me, "beginning Monday next, you're going to work twelve hours every day in the week and I’m going to pay you what I think you've been worth to me that particular week." When I asked him, "it won't be less than fourteen dollars, will it?" he laughed and said, "it won’t be more than seven dollars.” "Well I'm not going to work for nothing again," I warned him. Mr. Murrell studied for a minute and kind of grinned, then told me, "maybe you’d better just quit because there's been plenty of weeks that you weren't worth nothing." "Alright," I told him and asked, "how much notice did you want?" "None," he sneered, "you can leave right now." 

Chapter 26

I went down the street to the B & B Café the next morning after I had quit my job at Murrell’s Café. I stood near the cash register until Mr. Barrow, the owner, asked, "what could I do for you, young man?" "Well I was wondering if you needed a good waiter? I just quit working for Mr. Murrell and need a job pretty bad," I told him. I thought he was going to put me right to work, when he said, "sure I know you now, I see you pass here each day before noontime on your way to work. If you needed a job so bad, why did you quit down there?" he then asked. Mr. Barrow didn't make any comment when I mumbled, “just wanted to make a change."

I again felt confident of going right to work when Mr. Barrow got us both a cup of coffee and sat down beside me. While we were sitting there drinking the coffee, I told him that I could sure do the work because I had had nearly five years experience in a much larger place than he owned. "I could run away with this job," I grinned and boasted. I sensed that this remark didn’t set so well with Mr. Barrow when he said, "now wait a minute. I don’t want you to run away with it and besides that you surely aren’t the best waiter in the country." Then he asked, "who did you work for other than Mr. Murrell?" and when I told him, "nobody, but I worked for him four years and nine months.” He laughed and told me about one of his waiters, "Now this fellow, who works on the morning shift, was working as a waiter long before you were born." After Mr. Barrow thought for a minute he commented, "he was working for me before you were born, he started to work for me the first time back in 1912." When I informed Mr. Barrow that I was born before this date, he said, "well never mind all that; I might give you a job but in the meantime come in and watch a first class waiter work." 

When Shorty, the waiter Mr. Barrow had told me about, noticed me watching him the next morning he slid a glass of water down about ten feet of the wooden counter and asked, "what's it going to be this morning, Sir?” and before I could answer, he called, "strip a stack, strike one, Adam and Eve on a raft and a stack of brown." The negro cook asked, "buttered? Mr. Shorty." "No, make it high and dry," Shorty answered and quickly moved in front of me. I knew he expected an answer to the question he had asked and told him, "I didn't want anything. I just came in to watch you work." He gave me a cold look and said, "gawk all you please, son." 

I had been in the B & B Café nearly two hours watching Shorty before Mr. Barrow came in and asked, "what do you think about it?" and when I told him, "I think I can do the work alright," he said, "well if you can put out the orders like Shorty does, I’ll give you fifteen dollars a week and you can begin at ten o’clock in the morning." "And if I can't do it as well?" I asked, "well, I’ll pay you accordingly," he promised. I was telling Mr. Barrow that I couldn't turn in the orders like Shorty, when Shorty interrupted, "there’s nothing to it," then he told me to stick around and listen to him turn in orders for awhile longer. 

Mr. Barrow left after he told me to stay around as long as I liked, and to watch and listen to Shorty. Shorty had turned in several orders before a man came in and ordered a bowl of post toasties and two eggs sunny side up but none of the other orders had impressed me as much as this particular one did, "hay the mule with eyes wide open," he turned to the cook and called. I looked at Shorty to see if he was perturbed about it when the man jumped off the stool and walked out. Shorty just turned to the cook again and said in a calm tone of voice, "store the hay and close the eyes, the mule got out." 

At the end of the first day on my new job with Mr. Barrow I thought I was doing very well and was even thinking to myself, "I’ll bet I get the full fifteen dollars a week payday." But on the fourth day Mr. Barrow handed me three dollars and said, I’m just giving you this to help you out, you virtually haven't been worth a dime to me, you just got in Shorty's way." 

Chapter 27

It didn’t hurt my pride much for Mr. Barrow to fire me because I still thought I was a good waiter. I began to feel low though after I went broke and people began to shun me. I asked one of my best friends if he could loan me a little money until I went back to work and he said, "no, I sure can’t but I’ll buy you something to eat if you’re hungry." When I told him that I hadn't eaten in nearly two days, he handed me a nickel and said, "you’ll feel better after you drink a hot cup of coffee." 

I left Athens and went to Houston after I realized for the first time in my life that very few people have friends who will help them financially. Abbie, my youngest sister, was working in Houston and I had hoped she could help me, but I soon found that she couldn't and hitchhiked out of the city. I had just a few months before this sent Abbie money to help her get established in Houston. Now she was faring fine but I was starving, even though she owed me money. 

I went from Houston to Jacksonville, a small college town, some forty miles from Athens. I had at one time planned to attend teacher's college there and become a school teacher. I had never dreamed of being in the town with fifteen cents in my pockets begging people to give me a job at just anything. It seems like I interviewed every café owner in Jacksonville that day; some of them were busy and wouldn't even talk to me. 

As luck would have it, the last man I talked to hired me. I knew the man was going to put me to work when he said, "I couldn’t afford to pay you much and let me warn you the work would be hard." I told him, "I don't expect you to give me much money and don't worry, the work won’t be too hard.” When I made this statement, the man hung his head and said, "I have a negro boy washing dishes and he’s a good man, too, but I’d like to have a white boy so he could help my wife during rush hours out front." 

I had been glad to take the job at three and a half dollars a week until I found that it would be hard to get a room for less than four dollars a week. I had almost given up getting a room any cheaper when a lady told me that I could sleep in a little cubby hole, which she had curtained off in the back of the hallway, for three dollars and a half a week. She got a little angry at me when I told her, "now Miss, I can't pay you until I work a week." She exclaimed, "well of all the nerve! You jewing me down on my rent and don't even have the money to pay it when I cut the price." "Yes Ma'am, I know, but the price is very important as far as I'm concerned because I'm only going to make three dollars and a half a week," I told her. "Well I believe you'll pay me so go ahead and take the bed," she said. 

I didn't like to go back to the Sunset Café, where I had just an hour or so before been hired and tell the man that I'd nearly have to make fifty cents a week more but I did. Mr. White, the owner, said, "so you’re that type of guy... you take a job then after I fire the other man you asked for a raise... is that your game?" I was calm as I explained the circumstances. "A lady has agreed to rent me a room for three dollars and a half a week and I thought it would be nice to have fifty cents a week to buy razor blades and tobacco with." Mr. White didn’t seem impressed, he told me, "if you want the job at three dollars and a half a week, fine, and if you don't, just pay for the bowl of chili you ate and be on your way." 

After I apologized to Mr. White and told him that I would gladly take the job at the agreed price, he said, "if you are a good counter man, and I assume from what you have told me, that you are, you won't have any trouble making a few dollars a week in tips." Then he went on to tell me, "we're having a series of professional baseball games here beginning Monday. Those fellows make good money and they are good tippers, that is if they are pleased with the service." 

I guess those ball players weren't pleased with the service I gave them... anyway I didn't get any tips. Mrs. White wasn't too pleased with my work either from the way she talked. She told me, "Lenard, you surely don't wait counter like you have had five years experience and you're so slow with the dishes, I feel that we are virtually paying you for doing nothing." I needed the job nearly as bad as I had needed it that first day I started to work there. I wasn't hungry like I was that day I ate the free bowl of chili but I was still broke and didn't want to be too sassy, but I did tell Mrs. White, "that's strange because I feel just the opposite way about this situation." When she asked me how I felt, I told her, "I feel like I'm doing a lot of hard work for virtually nothing." Mrs. White didn’t say another word until she returned from the cash register with three and a half dollars in her hand and then she told me, "Lenard, we don't actually owe you but two dollars and a half but I know you’ll want to pay up your room rent before you leave town; so I’m overpaying you." 

I didn't pay my rent, as Mrs., White had anticipated I would; I stuck the three and a half dollars in my pocket and hitchhiked back to Athens. I hadn't been gone from there hardly a month but it seemed good to see my old friends again. I went in to see the Murrell’s and Mrs. Murrell was very friendly; she even said the town hadn't seemed the same while I was gone. I asked how business was… it was fine, even better than it had been before I quit working for them.

I had hoped the Murrell’s would want me to go back to work for them but I knew there wasn't much chance of this after I said, "I’ve sure missed being here," and Mrs. Murrell absently answered, "we’ve missed you too, Lenard." However I asked her anyway, "wonder if there would be any chance in me getting a job here again?" She shook her head and said, "no Lenard, I'm afraid not but you can talk to Clark about it." I had to bite my lip to keep from crying when Mrs. Murrell told me, "Lenard, we think a lot of you but we're doing better without you."

It seemed like old times when I walked in the B & B Café and discovered that Shorty, the rhyming waiter, was still there. Shorty said that he was the manager of the café now and would give me a job. He then told me, "Lenard, you're not a waiter but everybody seems to like you so I want you to go to work for me." When I told him, "maybe I'd better not take the job," he asked, "why not, do you have something else in mind?" "No I sure don’t,” I told him and commented, "I just can't work for other people like I use to work for Mr. Murrell. You'd fire me in no time at all; so I just as well not begin." 

Shorty kept his word; he didn't fire me but I wasn’t with him long before Mr. Barrow took the café back. After Mr. Barrow returned, Shorty put in another café and called it "The Athens Waffle House”. He let me work for him there too but he soon went out of business and started back to work for Mr. Barrow. I knew I was going to miss Athens but there was nothing for me to do there after Shorty went broke; so I went out to what we called "The Y" early the next morning and began thumbing a ride.

I hadn't stood beside the highway long before a truck pulled up and the driver asked, "where to, fellow?" I told him that I was going to Amarillo and he said, "get in, I’m going all the way." As he pulled the truck back on to the highway, his headlights flashed on a road sign which read "when in Athens eat at Murrell's Café, our motto is: 'just good food’". When I noticed the sign, I told the truck driver, "I used to work there," but after he replied, in a halfhearted tone of voice, "oh did you?" I realized that he either didn’t hear what I had said or he didn't care where I used to work; so I didn't explain further. 

The truck driver and I didn't talk very much. I suppose he could tell that I wasn't in a talkative mood. We hadn't spoken a word to each other for hours before we pulled into the town of Chllicoto, about two o'clock in the afternoon, and he asked, "what do you say we have a bite to eat here?" I had seen the sign, "Chilicoto City Limits," as we entered the small West Texas town and had hoped he would want to stop over there for a few minutes because I had heard a lot about this particular town. One of Papa’s older brothers, Uncle Ernest, and his brother-in-law killed each other in a duel in this town many years before this date. I imagined the drug store we parked in front of to be the same one that Uncle Ernest walked in after the duel and ordered a Coke before he slumped to the floor dead. When I got out of the truck, I told the driver, “I’ll be right in the café; I want to go in the drug store for a minute." 

I stood around up front in the drug stare for a few seconds before the middle aged man, who I assumed owned the place, asked, "what can I do for you, stranger?" I stammered, "it's kind of a silly question I'm going to ask," then continued, "did you by any chance know a man by the name of Ernest Smith?” The man undoubtedly didn't understand the question because he turned to another man standing at the counter and asked, "do you know Ernest Smith?" I didn’t wait for the man to answer before I interrupted, "he isn't still alive; he's been dead for nearly twenty-five years. He and his brother-in-law knifed each other to death in a duel." The man at the counter laughed and said, "well son I guess you could find him out at the cemetery, which is about a mile east of town," then they both laughed; so I hung my head and walked out.

Chapter 28 

I was homesick the first night I spent in Amarillo so I decided to drink a few beers. It seemed nice to walk into those taverns and order beer and sit there listening to good music. Naturally we had juke boxes back in Athens but there were no taverns, not since Mr. Murrell narrowly escaped going to the penitentiary. 

These men in the taverns were tough looking characters but nobody had bothered me up until some man, I guess he was a cowboy because he had on a big hat and cowboy boots, patted me on the shoulder and said, "stranger, if you won't play that record again, I’ll give you your money back and fifty cents besides." I was surprised when I stuck my hand out to accept the easy money and he told me, "I get sick and tired or hearing, 'be nobody's darling but mine love’, then he pushed me and asked, "why don't you go back to the farm?" I thought I would show him, even though I was a lot smaller, that I wasn't afraid; so I asked him the same question, "why don't you go back to the farm yourself?" 

If I hadn't been drunk and stunned I could have gotten away like the cowboy did after he struck me. But as it was I was still in the bar when the police got there. The owner or the bar told the police that I had been trying to start a fight all evening and that he didn't know whether I fell or somebody knocked me under the table I was under when the police arrived.

The other inmates or the Amarillo City Jail couldn’t wake me the next morning in time for breakfast. One of the policemen managed to rouse me in time to get ready for court. I went and washed up like he told me to, then I asked one of the prisoners, "what time do we eat breakfast?" I was shocked to discover how unfriendly he was because I had always heard these West Texas people were so hospitable. "We ate nearly an hour ago,” he stormed at me. I was hungry and thought perhaps the boys had set my breakfast aside, so I asked him, "what become of mine?" The man's face reddened and he answered, "I ate your breakfast," then he asked, "don't you like it?” I didn't want to have any more trouble, so I told him, "that's alright… I wasn't hungry anyway." 

After I got out of jail, I began looking for a place to stay. It was hard to find a room, even back in 1934, for less than fifty cents a night but I knew I had to and kept looking. Finally I met up with a bedraggled looking individual, who told me that I could get a room down at the cot house. Well it wasn't a room, it was a dormitory. I took fifteen cents of my dollar and ninety cents I had left and rented a cot. 

I must have applied for a job in every café in Amarillo during the next two days. Some of the managers and chefs took my phone number and promised to call me just as soon as they had an opening. My money was about to play out and I was getting desperate. I began to think I’d never get work but on the third day, after I had rented the cot for a week, I was awakened and told to answer the phone. I talked to a lady and she must have thought I was crazy when I asked, "could I work a few days barefooted?" She exclaimed, "certainly not! You’ll have to wear shoes." When I told her about somebody stealing the only pair of shoes that I owned the night before, she told me to buy another pair and come on to work. "Lady, I can't. I don't have enough money," I explained. "Well just forget it, I know where I can get another man," she told me and hung up. 

None of the fellows in the cot house would loan me a pair of shoes; so I went down to a nearby second hand store in my stocking feet. The man running the store gave me five dollars for one of my suits and I bought a pair of second hand shoes there for three dollars. The two extra dollars was a boon to me because I was tired of eating beans and that was about all I had been able to afford, a five cent bowl of beans, at the Okay Café each day. One of the waitresses there had commented just the day before this, "you sure like beans, don't you fellow?" I didn't say a word; I just shook my head, "yes," and walked out. 

Nearly a week passed before I heard any more concerning a job. I was sitting in the office of the hotel side of this establishment when the lady asked for me. She exclaimed, "so lucky you haven't gotten another job! I liked your appearance," then she said, "I believe you told me that you were an all around café man." I proudly told her, "yes Ma'am, I did." "Well we have a dishwashing job open that pays a dollar a day and meals. Would you care to take it until something better comes up?" she asked, When I told her I would be more than glad to take the job, she said, "let's be on our way then." 

When we reached the new Buick car the lady was driving, she told me, as she opened one of the back doors, "get right in… Butch won't hurt you, he's a big bluff.” I was afraid of the seventy-five pound bull dog and told her, “lady, I'm afraid he’ll bite me." Each time I’d put my foot on the running board and start to get in the car, the hair on Butch's back would stand on end and he’d growl, wrinkle his nose, and show his yellow teeth. Finally I told the lady, "just give me the directions and I’ll walk down,'' but she wouldn't hear of this and said, "ah well what difference does it make? Go ahead and get in the front seat with me." 

The lady parked the car in back of her café, got out and said, "now Lenard, I’m Mrs. McBride, the owner, and the chef's name is Mac. You walk right in that side door and tell him you are his new dishwasher." I did as Mrs. McBride had instructed, walked in the side door and said, "Mac, I’m your new dishwasher, my name is Lenard." Mac wasn't too friendly but I didn't really take offense when he said, "no time for introductions, just meet the sink over there and knock out those pots and pans, Bud." 

I was all rested up and didn't mind the hard work but after I had worked twelve hours I thought it was about quitting time and asked Mrs. McBride how many hours I was supposed to work for the dollar. She told me, "we work all kinds or hours around here, Lenard, sometimes we only work twelve hours but other days we have to stay on later." Mrs. McBride was very sensitive, I didn't mean to offend her when I asked, "do I get extra pay for the overtime?" I had no sooner asked the question than she turned around, took a dollar out of the cash register, handed it to me and said, "that's what I thought." I was surprised and asked, "don't you want me to come back in the morning?" "Nor the next morning either," she answered. I tried to apologize, "I wasn’t quitting and I’ll work longer hours if it’s necessary," but she wouldn't even talk to me, she said, "go on get out, you’re lazy." I didn't like for her to accuse me of being lazy and told her, "Mrs. McBride, you can ask the Chef, I worked hard all day." I looked at Mac and noticed that he seemed to be angry, too; he stood there with his hands on his hips and eyed me until I asked, "Chef, don’t you think I did a good day's work?" Then he threatened, "you’d better go on home before I lose my temper and do something I'd be sorry for later." When I started out, he muttered, "I don't know my strength, when I get mad." I wasn’t in such a good humor myself by this time and told him, "I’m pretty hot headed, too," and started to add, "and not too weak," but he grabbed my arm and with the aid of his foot pushed me out the side door. I heard Mrs. McBride exclaim, "I hope he starves!" I don't think they heard me because I was walking pretty fast, nearly running, when I said, "don't worry, I won’t starve so long as the Okay Café stays in business and sells beans for five cents a bowl." 

Chapter 29

I was in Amarillo about six months before I decided to leave there for California. It had been tough sledding at times, but I had also enjoyed a semblance of prosperity. I was quitting a good job but I couldn't resist the temptation when a man by the name of Howard Lear offered to let a friend and coworker of mine, Jess Delaho, and I ride from Amarillo to Los Angeles with him and his family for fifteen dollars each. Jess had been to this city before and from the way he talked money literally grew on trees. 

I wrote to Papa and told him that I was leaving for California and would no doubt be in the fabulous state within three or four days time, but it was well over a month before we crossed the California state line. Mr. Lear, or Howard, as Jess and I were soon to call him, had failed to tell us that his ’26 model Buick car virtually had no tires on it. 

Soon after we pulled into Albuquerque, New Mexico, Jess and I also learned that Howard was flat broke. He told us, "boys, I don't have another dime; now this is the end of the road, unless you advance me some more money." Jess wanted to forget the thirty dollars we had given Howard and hitchhike the rest of the way. He got angry when I wouldn’t consent to this. He said, "Lenard, I can't believe it but you've fallen in love with Carmella." She was Howard's sixteen-year-old daughter.

After Jess finally agreed to stay in Albuquerque a few days, Howard suggested, “you fellows rent you a cabin and we (meaning his wife and four children), Carmella, Howard jr., Bobbie and Joyce, will sleep in the car until I can work long enough to rent us a cabin." Jess and I didn't have the heart to do this, so we rented Howard's family a cabin and slept in the car ourselves for a couple of weeks. 

I thought Jess would never go to work; he laid around in Lear's cabin for days and slept while I worked before he got himself a job. "Jess, we are going to go broke if you don't stop borrowing money from me and go to work," I cautioned him one night. He laughed and told me, "you won't ever lose any money on me." Then he asked, "what do you think the watch I gave you would have cost, had you bought it?" "Nothing like you owe me," I answered. "Well give this to Carmella, it should help to square the debt," Jess said and handed me a beautiful turquoise bracelet. Then he went on to tell me that he’d have a job for me in a few days. "I have a job," I told him, "I just wish you’d get you one." "Oh I got a job right across the street from the store I was shoplifting in this afternoon," he informed me and added, "I also got Margaret a bracelet identical to the one I got for you to give Carmella." Margaret was Jess’s wife; she and their little son, Jimmy Wayne, were back in Amarillo. Jess hadn't legally deserted them; he had promised his wife that he'd send for her and the child if he ever got the money, otherwise they’d be better off without him. 

Jess had really gotten the job he boasted about and he got me the job he had promised. I was a little sorry for accepting the new job, after Old Man Smith, the owner of the café where I was presently employed, acted like he did. When I told Mr. Smith, "I have a chance to better myself; so if anybody comes in looking for a job let him have mine." He asked, "who got you a better job?" "Well Jess, the fellow who has been coming in here with me, did," I told him. "I knew you didn't get it by yourself," he commented. "That’s neither here nor there, Mr. Smith," I tried to reason, and explained, "now actually I’m not a dishwasher," he interrupted, "indeed you’re not" before I could tell him that I was a waiter by trade. "Oh yes you did tell me about working your way through high school waiting tables," he jeered. "I didn't say that I worked my way through high school waiting tables because I didn't finish high school," I corrected. "Now don’t you stand there and tell me I'm lying. I’ll slap…" I knew what he was about to say and changed the subject. "Getting back to dishwashing… I washed a lot of dishes around here," I reminded him. "Yeah and you broke a lot of them, too," he mumbled. Then he reached up and caught hold of my bib apron and stormed at me, "get out of here! I’ll get my ten year old grandson to take your place." I waited until I was a good distance down the street before I looked back and saw that Mr. Smith was standing in the doorway and not chasing me. He laughed when I called to him, "you'd better be glad you didn't tear my shirt." 

Chapter 30

The Lears and Jess and I stayed in Albuquerque nearly two months before we again headed for California. Howard had replaced the threadbare tires on his Buick; so we made record time from Albuquerque to Los Angeles. When we parked on Main Street near First Street, Howard again told us his sad story he was broke again. "No more money," Jess told him and after I agreed, Lear got angry and told me, "Lenard, Jess is no smarter than you, yet you let him boss… that’s why you won't loan me any more money, Jess tells you not to." 

It had been several hours since Jess and I had walked off and left Lear's family destitute and we were sitting in the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel, when Jess laughed and asked, "wonder what Howard’s folks are doing?" I felt sad and hoped that Jess was right when he went on to comment, "Howard will get by; he did before he met us." A well-dressed man, I guess he was the hotel detective, tapped me on the shoulder about this time and asked, "what suite do you fellows have?" "We just dropped by for a few minutes," I told him and nudged Jess. The man didn’t make any further inquires before he said, "you crummy bums see just how fast you can get out of here.” I had to wait at the front door of the Biltmore a couple of minutes for Jess because I ran every step of the way across the block wide lobby. 

Jess and I only spent three days in Los Angeles and Hollywood, before we went up to Salinas to see Jess’s sister and brother-in-law. His relations were apathetic to our problems; so we spent one night there and headed back towards Los Angeles. We stood on the highway for hours and just couldn't hitch a ride; so we decided to catch a freight train into Los Angeles. Jess and I had planned to meet in Oxnard if something happened to prevent us both catching the same train. Sure enough something did happen. I couldn't even keep up with the back end of the flat car we were trying to get on, let alone gain enough speed to grasp the rail rungs on the front end of it.

It was nearly four days before I saw Jess again. I gave up traveling by freight after I got out of the San Luis Obispo City Jail and was again traveling by car when I saw Jess standing on the other side of the highway thumbing his way. I asked the driver of the car I was riding in if he'd stop and pick Jess up. "What's wrong with you? That man’s going in the opposite direction," he exclaimed. I explained that Jess was my buddy and was on his way back to Salinas looking for me; so he blew his horn and I called to Jess, "here I am, come on get in." 

Jess was disgusted when I told him that I had just got out of jail after having spent three days there. "Lenard, I don't see how you ever got by without somebody watching over you and you tell me you have been away from home a number of years," he ribbed me. "Well Jess, I don’t know," I mumbled, then asked, "now what would you have done if some police had caught you riding a freight train and had told you to come with them?" Jess shook his head and said, “that’s not the point, they wouldn't have caught me in the first place, but if they had I could have talked them out of holding me in jail three days!"

I was a little sullen as we rode on into Los Angeles and Jess was quite indifferent, too. Jess knew his way around Los Angeles fairly well and told the driver to let us off somewhere in the neighborhood of Main and Fifth streets. We were making our exit out of a cheap eating place there on Main Street, when two men pulled up to the curb and called to me, "wait a minute, fellow, I want to talk to you." I called to Jess, "wait, these men want to see me about something." He kept walking at a brisk pace until one of the men overtook him, brought him back to the car where I was standing and told us, "get in that car!" I got in but Jess told him, "I'm not getting in until you tell me who you are." The well-dressed man looked at Jess for a minute then said, "I don't have to tell you anything and if you don't get in the car, I’ll put you in it." 

After Jess was seated in the back seat beside me, the men began to talk to us. One of them explained, "now boys, we're policemen wearing plain clothes," and showed his badge. Then he went on to tell us, "we’ll take you down to the holdover station on First Street and if we don't find anything against your records, we’ll turn you loose." "Say Mister," I interrupted, "why don't you call the San Luis Obispo police; they can tell you all about me." Jess frowned when I made this statement. "Well don't be silly!" I exclaimed, "I don't want to stay in jail three more days while somebody else checks my record." The police didn't make any comment; they just looked at each other and continued on their way.

When we got down to what the officers called "the holdover", one of them told the desk sergeant, "don't charge either of the men with anything yet." Then he beckoned for me to follow him. After the officer had asked me a few questions, he brought me back to what he had termed "The Bull Pen" and turned me loose with Jess and the other ten or more inmates. When the officer started to leave, I was curious to know if he had found anything against our records and asked, "did I answer some of the questions wrong, Sir?" "No, but you'll have to spend a couple of hours here before you’re transferred to Lincoln Heights Jail, pending further investigation," he smiled and told me. 

We had no sooner arrived out at Lincoln Heights Jail, just before midnight, than some neatly dressed man approached Jess and me and introduced himself as our lawyer. I felt relieved when he told us, "boys, you're only charged with the minor offense of vagrancy and roaming," because Jess had been doing quite a lot of shoplifting and I was afraid I might be considered an accomplice since I had been accepting stolen goods. The lawyer then told us that the State had employed him to defend us. "These services are costing you nothing," he went on to explain. "This is no time to get bitter," the lawyer warned me, when I told him, "well I’m grateful to you and the State, and I hope you’ll tell the Judge that I haven't ever done anything, other than try to make a living, all these twenty-six years of my life." 

When the lawyer had finished his eloquent plea in our defense, the lady judge asked, "are you ready for sentencing?" I started to say, "yes Ma’am,” but the lawyer motioned for me to keep quiet and answered, "yes, your honor." I got frightened when the judge uttered the words: "Lenard Smith and Jess Delaho, I find you guilty as charged and sentence you to thirty days in the Los Angeles County Jail," but I calmed down when she continued, "twenty-nine days of this sentence will be suspended, provided you leave for your home state of Texas not later than noon today." 

Jess cautioned me, as we walked out of the jail, "don't do any more talking, let me tend to everything." I didn’t answer him but I meant to talk some more if I saw fit and when we passed a policeman in the corridor, I asked him, "how far is it back to the main part of town?" I knew we had come quite a distance, of course I couldn't see out because the vehicle we had ridden out in was similar to a bakery truck, it didn't have any windows in it. The Policeman was friendly enough. He told me, "close to three miles, Sir." then said, "but you can catch a street car to any part of the city you want to go." Jess gritted his teeth and said, "come on," when I explained, "now we don’t have much money left and since you fellows brought us out here, I can't see why you don't take us back." "That’s fair enough," he said and motioned for us to follow him. 

The policeman didn't make any comment when I told him where we wanted to go but when we pulled up in front of the Main Street Five Cent All Night Theater, he asked, "are you boys going to a show this time of night?" I looked at Jess and mumbled, "yes, at least that’s what I’m going to do.” 

Chapter 31

I was glad that I had stayed in Los Angeles because I got a part time job on the second day after the midnight trial. I thought I had done good work that day during the noon rush but when I went back to report for work the next day, the lady owner paid me fifty cents for the two hours work and told me, "young man, you had better get a job at something else, you aren't a waiter." Then she went on to explain, "we cater to the best class of people here and they want good, fast, courteous service. I tried to reason with her, "I could do better work today because I know where everything is now." "I can’t use you," she replied and when I meekly asked her how she was fixed on dishwashers, she informed me that she was not operating a charity institution. "Go on, get out," she told me, when I assured her that I was looking for a job and not for charity. 

I was mentally exhausted when I left the café and strolled down First Street to Main. I was windowshopping on Main Street, when I walked up in front of a pawnshop. "Why not," I thought to myself as I entered, "I can get another suit or pay this one out after I go back to work." "How much could you loan me on a suit such as I have on?" I asked the pawnbroker. He glanced up and said, "I can’t loan or give you anything as long as you are wearing it." I explained, "I merely wanted an appraisal on it, then I’ll go home and change." "Well go home and change and I’ll talk to you then,” he curtly instructed.

I brought the suit back and handed it to the same man who was still standing in the “money to loan” window. He looked at it and shook his head and commented, "not much of a suit." I told him, "I don't see why not, it's tailor made and I haven't had it very long." Before I could finish my sales talk, he threw the suit over in a corner on the dirty floor and said, "well I’ll loan you two dollars on it if you’ll promise to pay it out." I didn't make any comment until he started scribbling on a pink slip of paper and mumbled, "I hope you don’t stick me with this threadbare thing." "Don't worry, I won't, just tear up that slip and hand me my suit back," I told him. "What are you? An Indian giver?" he asked. "No," I replied, and then muttered, "I’m not a Kike either."

 If I had taken the two dollars instead of losing my temper and calling the man a "Kike", I wouldn't have been limping when I left the pawnshop. When he struck me, I fell backwards and the instant I landed on the floor. I rolled over on my stomach. The man must have thought I was going to get up because he told me, as he grabbed one of my legs and twisted it, "Bud, you lay there until I tell you to get up." He then put one of his feet in the small of my back and asked, as he applied pressure, "who’s Papa?" When I answered, "you are," I was thinking to myself, "you don’t look like Papa but your sure act like him." After I told him who Papa was, he yelled at me, "now get up and get out of here before I break your leg!" I didn't say anything until I reached the door, then I mumbled, "I'm just happy that you didn't break my back, I think you did break my leg." 

As it turned out my leg wasn't broken as I had suspected; I only had some strained muscles in the calf and thigh of it. Nevertheless I decided against looking for a job until I could walk without limping so I returned to the hotel. Mrs. Porter, the landlady, and a middle aged man wearing a greasy uniform and a cap with a name plate bearing the words "Mr. Cook, Brakeman", were standing at the desk of the Porter Hotel, when I returned. "Just a minute," Mrs. Porter called to me, when I passed them on my way up to Lear's apartment. "Boy I know you've been practically living up there in Lear’s apartment," she told me as I limped towards the desk. But before she could scold me further, Mr. Cook interrupted, "what's the problem son? Are you in a bind?" "Well sort of," I told him, then explained, "I made fifty cents day before yesterday.'' "And that's all the money you have?" "No, I have a dollar bill in my billfold but I’m saving it," I replied, then I hung my head and mumbled, "see I’m trying to save enough money to rent me a room." 

Mr. Cook and Mrs. Porter, after a little bickering, let me move in with Mr. Cook for a dollar a week. I got to keep my dollar bill because Mr. Cook was more than happy to pay the extra amount until I could get on my feet again. It was as he said, he wasn't there much anyway because he spent his days off duty with his family, who lived in Indio. 

All went well for a while. Mr. Cook bought me a little portable radio, took me to some good burlesque shows and out to dinner at Clifton's Cafeteria a few times. Even though I was twenty-six years old, I was too naive to realize why Mr. Cook was being so generous with me. I hated to give up my little radio, free room rent and entertainment but I had to after the orgy he tried to put me through one night. 

I had already gotten me a job before Mr. Cook and I had the run in. Howard was the Chef in the Three Star Café down on Main Street, making fifteen dollars a week and he got me on as combination waiter and fry cook, at a salary of ten dollars a week. I was particularly anxious to get a steady job because I wanted to establish credit and buy me some new clothes. The suits I had were, as the Kike had stated, a little threadbare, and besides that I wanted one of those new fangled pinch backed sportcoats and some gabardine slacks. 

I worked at the Three Star Care for about three months before I went to work at Simon's Dairy Lunch on Seventh Street as a bus boy. This job paid twenty-five cents an hour and meals for a ten hour day, six days a week. I stayed on this job about five months and saved five dollars a week. "It’ll be nice to show my potential creditors that I have money in the bank," I thought to myself as I looked at my savings account bankbook, which had 20 five dollar entries in it.

I felt proud and confident that December day back in 1933 as I walked into Lee’s Fine Clothiers and inquired about credit. I didn't have any credit references but I did have some good personal references, Lear, Mrs. Porter, and Mr. Chun Chu, the owner of the Three Star Café. After the credit manager called these people, he then called my present employer and verified my employment. "No problem at all," the credit manager commented and then had his secretary type me an identification card and enter my name and account number in the books. 

I tried on several sport coats before I decided on a gold, brown, and green plaid, pinch back. It was like the salesman said, "it fit me like a glove and truly brought out the best in my personality." The salesman selected the slacks to go with the coat, a pair of silkish looking pale green gabardine with bell-bottoms. He suggested a pair of white and brown two-tone shoes, but I declined because they were actually out of season; so I settled for a pair of Florshiem cordovan brown shoes. 

I asked the salesman to wrap my old clothes and I wore the new outfit back to the hotel. On the way, I stopped at a studio and had my picture taken. The photographer didn't have to tell me to smile; I was already smiling from ear to ear when I entered the studio. I had two copies of the photograph made because I wanted to send Papa one and the other I planned to frame and keep for myself.

Chapter 32

I got a letter from Miss Ellen soon after the first of the year. Papa ordinarily wrote a short note but he didn't write this time. Miss Ellen thanked me for the nice presents I had sent her and Papa for Christmas. Then she made special mention of the photograph. I, according to her way of thinking, was the second best looking boy Papa had. L. M. was the best looking member of our family, not excepting the four girls. He was, at this time, eighteen years old, six foot one inches tall, and weighed 180 pounds. L. M. was a very neat dresser and had been, so Miss Ellen said, mistaken for Robert Taylor several times. I too was a neat dresser but my nose was too large for my small face and I was only five foot six inches tall and weighed a shy 130 pounds. And I certainly had never been mistaken for a movie star, not even Jimmy Durante. 

I felt sorry for Miss Ellen as I read the long letter. “Dick, you can’t imagine how lonely it gets around here," she wrote and then went on to tell me, "out of the ten children M and I had at home back in 1929, there’s only one at home now." Gaines, Amie, and Lois had gotten married; Avie, Abbie, and Marie had run away from home, and Clarence, L.M., and Herbert had joined the Army. Adron, the child still at home, was fifteen now, large for his age and exceptionally good behaved and handsome. Since Martin Springs School had consolidated with the Brownsboro School, he was riding the school bus and attending High School there. "Even if Adron just finished High School," Miss Ellen reminded me, "held be the only child on either side of the two families to accomplish this feat." 

I was happy to hear that the boys had gotten themselves a steady job and I immediately wrote to Papa and Miss Ellen telling them what an ideal place the Army would be for the three inexperienced farm boys. I had no idea that the next letter from them would bring bad news. The Military Police had been out to their house looking for Clarence. Papa cautioned me in the note he wrote to be sure and turn Clarence in to the authorities if he showed up in California. Clarence didn't come to California, as Papa had suspected he might, and the next word I got from his whereabouts, Clarence was in the brig. 

Clarence’s Company Commander eventually wrote a letter to Papa asking, "was Clarence mentally retarded or was it that he just resented authority?” Papa answered the letter, which read in part: "Clarence has always seemed perfectly normal in all respects, other than for having an impediment of speech, the boy stutters." Then Papa went on to tell him that Clarence did have a tendency to be stubborn but so far as him ever having been a problem child, he hadn't.

Clarence was in the Army for some six months before the military decided he was incorrigible. Two months of this time he spent in solitary confinement, living on bread and water. While Clarence was in solitary, he lost considerable weight and became totally mute. It wasn’t too long after Clarence returned home, having been awarded a Blue Medical Discharge, before he regained his speech. However, it was some time before he became strong again; Papa said the boy was so weak, he staggered when he walked.

No sooner had Clarence recovered all of his faculties than another tragedy struck our family. Amie's husband, Rudolph Parker, lost his mind. Amie knew that Rudolph had been acting a little strangely but she didn’t realize that he was actually insane until the day her small son, Ray, found his dad tied up in the barn. Amie said she didn’t believe it when Ray came running in the house and exclaimed, "mother, somebody has tied Daddy up in the barn." Rudolph readily admitted tying himself up and begged Amie not to loosen his hands and feet because he was afraid he might hurt somebody. 

Papa and Amie had Rudolph committed to the Terrell Insane Asylum, but fortunately he was only there for a few months. Amie was on one of her visits to the asylum when she decided to bring her husband home. She and Rudolph were having a picnic lunch there on the grounds, when Amie told him, "now if you think you are going to lay around here eating good grub, while me and your kids live on what I can earn taking in washing and picking cotton, you’re crazier than I think you are." Then she pointed to their car and told him, "get in there, I’m taking you home." 

I was real homesick for the first time since I'd been in California but I decided to wait until Christmas time before going home. This would give me a chance to save a little money and finish out my wardrobe, which included watch and a ring. I was making eighteen dollars a week at this time, so it was no problem establishing credit at Zales Jewelry Store on Broadway Street there in Los Angeles. I settled for a 17-jewel Elgin Deluxe watch and a medium sized Tiger Eye Cameo Ring. 

After what seemed to me a lifetime of days, weeks, and months passed, December of 1936 finally came I decided against hitchhiking because I had too much luggage. I wanted to arrive in Athens the night before Christmas eve, spend the night there and go out to Papa’s the next day; so I bought a round trip Greyhound Bus ticket on December 21st and boarded it for Texas early the following morning. 

It took very little reflection on my part before I realized how good California had been to me. I now owned two Gladstone bags and they were filled with nice suits, sport coats, jackets, and shirts, not to mention the cowboy boots I had bought in Mexico. I could just see myself walking in Murrell’s Café all dressed up in my new suede jacket, gabardine slacks, western style shirt and cowboy boots.

Mrs. Murrell recognized me as soon as I walked in the café but it took Mr. Murrell a few seconds to place me. "Lenard, you sure look prosperous," Mrs. Murrell allowed and then went on to say, "but I don’t believe you're as good looking as you use to be." I thought I looked much better. The fuzz that I sprouted while I was working for them was now a nice black beard. It was a bit patchy but easily detected, even after I had shaved real close.

I was almost give out when I reached Papa’s house because I had to walk about two miles from where the bus let me off out to Martin Springs. The closer I got to the little four room white bungalow house where L.M. was born the faster I walked with those two heavy suitcases. Papa, Miss Ellen and Adron were all glad to see me, especially Miss Ellen. She said there was hardly a day passed that she didn't think about me. Papa looked me over and remarked, "Son you must of had a good job back there in California.” When I told him, "yes, I sure did Papa," he shook his head and said, "well you should have stayed because people in these parts are virtually on starvation." 

I stayed at Papa’s four days and nights before I headed out for Athens. I planned to stay a couple of nights there and then return to Los Angeles. I had found out when the bus would be passing by Rock Hill and I left a little early so I could look over the little church and go by Mama’s grave before it ran. I chuckled half regretfully to myself as I trudged along the half frozen red clay road leading to the main highway. "It was just about sixteen years ago that Vera and I joined the Baptist Church at Rock Hill," I reminisced, then said aloud, "I was a nice little eleven year old boy then." I then thought of how Mama died of influenza just before my twentieth birthday. Papa said he had been through a trying ordeal and wanted to get it all behind him; so Mama was buried on the same day she died, January 12, 1929. 

When I got to Rock Hill, I set my suitcases under one of the scrub oak trees that Papa used to tie his horses to when we attended church there. I opened one of the double doors leading into the church and tiptoed in. It wasn’t necessary to lock the doors because this little church was too sacred for vandalism. Hardly, if any, of the farm families in any of the adjoining neighborhoods had escaped the memory of some loved one’s funeral being conducted in the Rock Hill Baptist Church. 

I felt old and a little remorseful as I stood there wondering if it would be silly for me to kneel down at the altar like I did the night I joined the church. Finally I knelt and as I stood there on my knees with my head bowed at the altar, I thought to myself, "I wish I could believe all this stuff about God and Heaven and Hell but if there is a God, why would he cast poor old Grandpa Allen into the bottomless pit of fire and brimstone to burn forever?” Surely God wouldn't do that to a little old farmer who accepted Christ but made the mistake of not getting baptized. And why would God, even though I did doubt his existence, vent his wrath on me? I had never done anything real bad.

“The eleven of us, Mama and Papa and us children, have sat on nearly every long bench in this church,” I was thinking as I walked down the isle to the front door touching each bench on either side with my hands. Since Mama’s grave was at the extreme western end of the cemetery near the dirt road running along the front side, I didn't bother to enter through the gate. I walked on by it and climbed through the three-strand barbed wire fence, which cleared her grave a mere two or three foot.

I remembered how Mama used to say, "I hope I never live long enough to see one of my children die." "Well you didn’t,” I mumbled to myself as I read the hand chiseled inscription: "Luetta Smith, the wife of Milton M. Smith, Born October 9, 1886; Died January 12, 1929. Then about six inches from the bottom of the simple gravestone was inscribed the words "Christ is my hope”. 

Murrell’s Café seemed more like home to me than home itself, so I headed for there as soon as I arrived back in Athens. Mrs. Murrell wouldn't let me pay for my lunch and she insisted I sit around in the café for the balance of the day. I felt good when she told me, "you made a lot of friends in Athens, Lenard; somebody’s always asking about you." 

Several customers that I knew came in the café during the three or so hours I sat around. I enjoyed talking old times with them but I could hardly resist the temptation of going over to Lane’s Drug Store and buying a pint of that 140 proof alcohol. I really needed a drink because I was blue over spending the more than a hundred dollars it was going to cost me by the time I got back to Los Angeles. Milton’s family and Vera’s family had Christmas dinner at Papa’s and they didn't seem overjoyed about seeing me and this made me real sad. 

Mrs. Murrell must have suspected that I was about in the mood to go over to Lane’s and buy a pint of my favorite spirit builder. Anyway she turned to me and said, "Lenard, I sure hope you don’t do any drinking while you’re here because you’re such a nice boy. “Oh I don’t drink any more!" I told her, then commented, "I wish I were a boy again. I’ll soon be twenty eight.” "And you’ve never been married," Mrs. Murrell shook her head and remarked. "Why Lenard?" she asked, "you had every opportunity." "I don’t know, Mrs. Murrell," I hung my head and told her, "I guess I just wanted too many nice things for myself." 

Chapter 33

I arrived back in Los Angeles from my trip to Texas late in the evening of January, 1931. I was happy to be back and very anxious to get me another job. I again rented a room at the Porter Hotel; then I went upstairs to see the Lears. I told them all about what a nice time I had had and how thrilled all my relations were to see me. Carmella was still fond of me but not as intensely as she had at one time been. I was a little relieved because I was too old to be going with a sixteen-year-old girl anyway.

It took hardly any time and effort to land another job. I went to work as a waiter out in Huntington Park in a café called "The Brown Mug. The starting pay was fourteen dollars a week for six ten hour days. This job paid four dollars a week less than the one I had just recently quit. But it did have some advancement potential; the bosses, Ogg and Jones, promised to pay me eighteen dollars a week as soon as I could qualify for the job of grill man. 

This was something to look forward to because I’d never done any cooking before. When I wrote to Papa and Miss Ellen, I boasted a little. I told them I went right to work just as soon as café operators learned I was back in town. Then I went on to tell them that I would soon be cooking and heaven knows where I’d go from there, probably a Chef’s job in some big hotel. I rode the J streetcar from Los Angeles to Buntington Park until I could make arrangements to move nearer my new job. As luck would have it, I met up with a nice young man by the name of Bill Adams, who was renting a rather swanky apartment. He was paying seven fifty a week, which was quite a burden because he was presently unemployed. After I agreed to pick up half or even all the tab until he went back to work, Bill was more than happy for me to move in with him.

I worked for Ogg and Jones for about nine months before getting fired. I had long since become a grill man. Bill had worked fairly steady and had kept up with his share of the rent for the most part. All and all everything was going very well until I inadvertently spoke out of turn one day. This getting fired came as a surprise to me because I had no idea that what I said about Ogg to the bread man the morning before would ever reach wrong ears. Ogg didn't seem to be angry with me when he handed me my final check. "I can't stand for people to talk about me to my back," was all he said. 

When I returned to the apartment and joined my roommate, who had just recently become unemployed again himself, he split his sides laughing. "I’m glad you got fired; now we can go out and have some good times," Bill told me. "Don't be too eager to go back to work and don't ever take another night job," he cautioned. Well it looked as if we were going to have some fun the next day. I was a little reluctant to go out and spend any money but Bill insisted that we could borrow one of our mutual friend’s car and thereby make the expenses practically nil.

Bill and I borrowed the car and were riding around all over Hollywood, having a very nice time, and we had drunk sparingly until we stopped in Brad's Five and Ten Bar. Bill pulled up to the curb in front of the bar and said, "we can get a large stein of beer and a good French dip sandwich all for a dime in this place." We had drunk a couple of steins of beer and eaten a French dip sandwich when Bill decided we should be on our way and if I hadn’t insisted that we stay longer, we would have never gotten into the trouble we did. 

I didn’t want to rush right out of the bar because we had met two nice girls there; well the bartender introduced us to them. "Sit down fellows and have a drink with us," the girls insisted. I ordered another stein of beer as soon as we were seated, but the girl I sat next to said, "ah don't drink that stuff, let’s have a drink this time." Bill was chatting with the girls and seemed not to notice the waiter when he brought us four Tom Collins; so I tossed a dollar bill on the service tray. The waiter gave me a dirty look and didn't pick the money up until one of the girls asked, "don't you have any change?" When I told her, “yes,” she scolded, "well give the waiter a tip." The waiter nodded and left after I placed a quarter in the little tray he was carrying.

 We sat there in Brad’s Bar and drank for several hours before we kissed the girls and promised them we’d be back within an hour or so. Bill and I explained that we had to go back and pick up our friend and owner of the car we were driving. The girls cautioned us, as we pushed our chairs back from the table, "don't forget the waiter, give him a nice tip, some folding money this time.”

Bill was trying to get the borrowed car back onto the driving area of the street and I was counting the folding money I had left, when a big burly man chided, "Bud, if you can't drive leave the car parked and catch a street car." After Bill cursed and told the man to mind his own business, he still didn’t seem to be very angry. "Come on get out of the car," the man told Bill in a soft tone of voice. But when Bill wouldn’t get out, the man become vicious. 

I told Bill on the way home, "God we sure messed up. It’ll cost us at least twenty-five dollars to have this car fixed and I’m bruised up so bad that I don’t know whether I’ll be able to go back to work right away or not." If I had minded my own business I wouldn’t have been in the fight and the car wouldn’t have been so badly damaged. The man did break the windguard on Bill’s side of the car while he was kicking him but he hadn’t damaged the top until I grabbed his leg. Another large man, who was watching the fight, yelled, "don’t you both jump on him!" Then he came around to my side of the car and I did the same thing Bill had done, reached for the bows that held up the canvas top on the roadster, when the man tried to pull me out. The bows were too weak to withstand the pressure and caved in after Bill and I both started swinging on them. 

Truman, our friend and the owner of the car, was still sitting in the café where he worked, when Bill and I walked in. He began to laugh and asked, "what happened to you guys?" Then he turned to Bill and joked, "I hardly recognized you with your head peeled." Bill didn't answer him but he hung his head and laughed when Truman ran towards the curb, after I had told him, "if you’ll step to the door and take a look at your car, you won’t recognize it, either." 

While Truman, Bill and I were standing out at the curb looking at the car, two men walked up and one of them said, "boys, luck was with you, its a wonder you hadn’t got killed." I thought at first he had witnessed the fight, but when the other man shook his head and commented, "that’s the very reason I wouldn't have a roadster, they are too dangerous; if you turn over, you’re darn lucky if you don’t get pinned under them or mashed to death." I knew then that the men thought we had turned the car over. 

Chapter 34

I had enough folding money left, after having splurged on Bill, the girls, and the waiter, to last me about a week. It seemed that none of the hundreds of restaurants in Los Angeles needed my services; so I decided to hock my watch and go to the Big Four Employment Agency and see if they had something out of town I could do. Plenty of jobs were advertised on the blackboard there in the agency and I'd been in a couple of times to ask about them, but the man, who the other fellows were calling "George," told me I wasn't the man for any of them. When I inquired concerning a fry cook job, "surely I could handle that job," I told him, "it only pays twelve dollars a week." "I don't think so," he said, "you can’t be much of a cook you say you don't even have your own tools." 

I was just about ready to give up when George stepped to the blackboard and scribbled, "counter man, country, forty-three dollars a month room and board, must be neat appearing and fast, go

good tips," I straightened my tie, ran my comb through my hair and stepped into the office once again. George and his partner sat there chatting; neither of them looked up as I approached their double desk. I tried to be a little bolder and use a little more initiative as I uttered in a weak, doubtful voice, "what do you think about the job you just wrote on the board?" George eyed me and said, "I think it’s a fine job and it’ll take a good fast waiter to fill it." "That’s what I mean, do you think I can fill it?" I told him. He gave me a sympathetic look and explained, "this is a large place down on the beach; they have a seating capacity of about a hundred and fifty." George then glanced at his partner, shook his head and remarked, "we’ve had considerable trouble supplying waiters for that place. They want the job but just can't seem to cut the mustard. See, this place isn’t privately owed, it's an interstate restaurant," he continued as he looked back at me. “Maybe you’d go down there and click off fine with the manager, Bill Bowers is a nice fellow,” he interposed, “but there are superintendents, supervisors and inspectors of all kinds by there every day and they are cold blooded business men." George began to laugh and said, "I sent a nice, neatly dressed young man down there not a week ago and he lasted two days. Mr. Bowers liked the boy but Mr. Spaulding, the superintendent, took one look at him and ordered Bowers to fire him.” 

I had almost forgotten that I was applying for a job and asked, "what did the boy do?” "Why he did the same thing you’d have done, gathered up his belongings and left," George replied. "No, I mean what did he do to get fired?" I explained. George looked solemn, when he told me, "I don’t know, if I did, I could tell you and then maybe it wouldn't happen." I was trembling when I half whispered, "I’ll take the job, if you’ll let me," then I mumbled to myself, "I know I can’t cut the mustard but I’ll go down there anyway." George undoubtedly didn't hear my last remark because he went ahead and filled out the employment slip and said, "that’ll be four dollars and a half." I paid the money and was about to leave when George cautioned, "if you come dragging in here two or three days from now wanting a refund, you won’t recognize the kind old grey haired man you have just chatted with." I didn't think George had been the personification of kindness even this day but I just told him, "I won’t be back," and let it go at that.

When I went to board the bus, the driver asked, "are you going down there to the Palisades Café to work?" I answered, "Yes," and he asked, "what's your line?" "I'm going to see if they can use me as a waiter and if not, I’ll try for dishwashing," I replied. '"You won’t have any trouble," the bus driver absently answered, as he punched my ticket.

We arrived at the Palisades Café in about two hours time and I thought to myself as the bus pulled in on the parking lot, "if I had any money to speak of I'd just tear this employment ticket up and go back to Los Angeles." George hadn’t exaggerated; it was a big place down on the beach. “Well, I’ll give it a try," I mumbled to myself, as I, along with the other passengers entered a side door leading into the café. I was a little hungry and I wanted to rehearse my sales talk, so I sat down at one of the long horseshoe counters and ordered a hot beef sandwich and a cup or coffee. 

After I finished my sandwich and coffee, I picked up my check and walked sprightly to the front to interview the cashier, who was a lady about thirty-five years old. On my way to the front, I thought of the dime I had so indifferently tossed under the platter. I needed it but George had said that this was a good tipping house; so it was just as well to make a good impression. I had an idea that the two cute waitresses on duty were watching me as I walked towards the front but when I glanced back, I discovered they were not. I wondered if they hadn’t noticed that I looked rather slick in the brown double-breasted suit which really belonged to "Lee’s Fine Clothiers" of Huntington Park, California. I was only the proud wearer of the twenty-six dollar all wool finely tailored fabric. 

"Are you Mrs. Powers?" I asked the cashier as I picked up my change. "Yes, that’s right," she smiled and replied. I handed her the employment slip and said, "well, the Big Four Employment Agency sent me in answer to your request for a waiter." Mrs. Bowers told me that her husband worked nights and was at that time sleeping, then she said, "I’ll take you back and introduce you to part of the crew. We have a fine bunch of boys and girls here and I’m glad you are joining us." When Mrs. Bowers made this statement, I told her, "I hope I don’t disappoint you folks, I never…" she interrupted, "that’s alright you won’t have any trouble catching on, most of these boys and girls didn't have any previous restaurant experience when they came here, either," "Oh I’ve had experience; I’ve been working in restaurants for some ten years. I just never did work in a place this large before," I explained. "Oh well," she said, "I’ll bet you don’t stay. We’ve had such a hard time keeping good help out here," she lamented, as we walked towards the other members or the crew. 

Mom, as some of the employees later told me to call Mrs. Bowers, introduced the two girls I had been admiring as Veneta and Minnie. They were in their early twenties and very pretty. She next introduced me to four men, all or them under thirty years of age; their personalities varied from inferiority to superiority. I could detect Carl, or Butch, as they called him, had a slight feeling of inferiority, even though he acted as though he felt superior. "This is Carl Lashley but we call him Butch," Mom told me then explained, "Butch is our Chef." Butch had a smirk on his face when he grasped my hand and said, "Lenard, I've revised the golden rule, 'do unto others as they do unto you’, is my motto."

A lazy walking, poorly clad and rather good looking fellow was working behind the fountain and Mom introduced him as Eddie Dace. Eddie had a ‘I don’t care if you like me or not because chances are I won't like you either’ attitude. Eddie Glyspie was the next crewmember I met; he was the bartender. Eddie was good looking, well educated and in general a personable kid.

Kenny, the last of the four men that Mon introduced me to, was washing dishes, when she called to him. “Kenny, come out and meet our new waiter." "I could have had a counter job too if I had wanted it," Kenny told me, as we shook hands. Then he eyed me for a second and said, "some people think they are better than me because I’m washing dishes and boy do I deal them misery when they come here with that attitude." 

“Here comes pop now," Mom half whispered, as she interrupted the conversation my new acquaintances and I were carrying on. The man all the employees and Mom called "Pop" said in a curt indifferent tone of voice, “I’ll show you up to your quarters as soon as these buses leave," in reply to Mom’s friendly greeting, “Pop, this is Lenard Smith, our new waiter." Pop then looked at his watch and commented, "it won’t be necessary for me to take you up the hill because Eddie and Butch are going up there in a few minutes.” I sat at the counter until I saw that Eddie and Butch were ready to leave and then picked up my suitcases. "Just leave your bags and I’ll bring them up later," Pop obliged. I had set my bags down and was following behind Eddie and Butch, when I happened to think, "nobody’s told me what shift I’m supposed to work." "By the way, what shift do you want me to work?" I wheeled around and asked. "Six a.m. to four p.m.,” Pop told me in an ‘ignoramus, it seems you’d know that much’ tone of voice. 

Chapter 35

I was at the Palisades Café about four months before I left and went back to Los Angeles. When I arrived in the city, I got a room then went down on East Fifth Street, or Skid Row, as we called this section back in those days, to have a few beers. I had no intention of picking up a girl, not a "B", at least. "Of course if I happened into some nice girl it would be different. I could afford to spend a little money on her," I thought to myself, as I sauntered down Skid Row Street. 

All the girls I encountered on Skid Row looked like "B" girls to me; so I ignored them when they asked, "handsome, do you want to buy me a drink?" However, when I went in a bar on Main Street, I noticed a girl sitting at the bar all alone and she looked like a very nice young lady. She was a bit hesitant when I asked her if she’d care to have a drink with me. ''I don't know whether I should or not…I don’t like to drink with strangers," she told me. After I insisted, she said, "alright, I’ll have one with you," then she commented, "you look like the decent sort of fellow." 

It was nearly midnight before I realized it, and this girl, who had introduced herself as "Tex" and I were getting quite chummy by now. Tex was from Dallas, Texas, hadn't been in Los Angeles long, and didn't care too much for "the big overgrown town," as she described it. I was getting a little inebriated by the time we made all the bars in that vicinity on Main Street but Tex wanted to go over to the Cave Bar down on Hill Street and have another drink. 

I had a couple or Tom Collins there in the Cave Bar before I decided to rest my eyes for a couple of minutes. I don’t know how long I slept after I laid my head over on the bar… anyway the bartender woke me up at two o’clock and told me, "come on now you have had a long nap, let’s go home." I asked him, "where is Tex?" He looked puzzled and said, "I don't know anything about Tex." Then he remarked, "Your wife took all your money, except a dollar, and said for you to catch a cab and come on home when you woke up." I didn't care to tell my troubles to the bartender; so I told him, "I’ll see you later,” and left. 

I didn't look for a job the next day. I wandered around in Pershing Square Gardens until I got tired and then took a seat on a bench near an elderly man, who was feeding some birds. The old gent didn't notice me for quite some time but finally he stopped feeding the birds and passed the time of day with me. He asked me where I was from and said if he was any judge of human nature he detected that I was blue over something. "Son, you’re lonesome, aren't you?" the old man commented. When I told him, "yes," and then mumbled, "broke, too," he handed me two dollars and asked, "will this help solve your problems?" I called to him, as he walked off, "give me your address and I’ll try to pay you back some day," he smiled and said, "I’ll get my reward in heaven." When he said this I told him, "well I sure hope so because you’ve been mighty nice to me." 

I sat around in Pershing Square Gardens a couple of days thinking of what I could possibly do to make a living, other than working in a café, when all of a sudden the words my grandmother Allen had spoken to me came into my mind. She had told me the last time I saw her, "Dick, you grew up to be a fine looking man, why a person would think you’re a salesman the way you dress." Grandma had just recently passed on; she died while I was working at the Palisades Café and this could be one of those spiritual messages from that old soul, is the way I felt. The more I thought about what she had said, the stronger I believed Grandma was conveying a message to me. "Buy you a paper and look over the want ads… you can sell, I know you can," I fancied Grandma was saying to me, as I ran towards a newsstand.

After looking all the want ads over in most of the Los Angeles papers, I reported in answer to an ad, which read: "Are you a live wire? Would you like to make two thousand dollars a year?" "Yeah, I sure would," I thought to myself, "it would be about eighteen hundred a year more than I have been making." The ad was rather lengthy but I wanted to read it all: "easy house to house canvassing; no experience necessary; we teach you while you earn; leads furnished; good door opener," and it concluded, "car desirable but not absolutely necessary." 

I canvassed, as they called it, for several hours that first day and didn't make a sale. All the housewives repeated practically the same story, "we have plenty of pots to cook in; what we are short of is food to cook in them." I tried in vain to show them where these aluminum alloyed, newly designed, heat absorbing, heat repelling (if you desired) and in every respect economical fashionable pots would save them time, money and even marital unhappiness but they didn't care to invest four dollars and fifty cents in the greatest selling sensation of the twentieth century. 

I don’t think I would have made a single sale during the week if a woman's dog hadn't bitten me. I hadn’t done anything to the dog and that's what I told the woman. "Lady, I didn't do anything to that dog and I'm going to turn him in to the police for biting me." She exclaimed, "gracious no… don’t ever do that because the first thing they would want to do would be to send his head in for a rabies test and I just couldn't bear to lose him.” After I noticed the dog was slobbering, I asked her, "do you suppose he does have rabies?” She replied, "don't be ridiculous, certainly not," as she petted the dog on his head and told him, "now go over and tell the nice man you’re sorry for biting him." She pushed the dog in my direction but when he walked up and snarled, I told her, "never mind having him apologize; I won't turn him in." 

I was still a little upset when the lady asked, "what did you want anyway, are you selling something?'' "Yes Ma’am," I told her, "I'm trying to sell some pots but I don't suppose you'd be interested in buying any… nobody else seems to be." It just so happens that the lady bought them, against her better judgment I think, because, she allowed, "you’re young and you’re trying to make a living and Christ knows it’s hard to do these days." 

I felt jubilant and confident after I left the Mistress of the biting dog but the next woman I visited was sarcastic. She asked, "why don't you get you a job and go to work? A young man like you out trying to play on people's sympathies, certainly I don't want to buy those worthless pots." The man I was selling or trying to sell the pots for had told me that I wasn't aggressive enough. He told me, "just because they say they don’t need the pots means nothing. People always buy things they don't need." Then he suggested I begin my sales pitch with what he called, "The Door Opener", which was a carving knife. I rehearsed the instructions the man had given me to myself trying to phrase it exactly as he had. Then I told the Lady, "I'd like to show you what we call," but she interrupted me before I could finish, and said, "I don't want to idle away my time with the likes of you, so you’d better go before I call the police." 

When I took the pots back to the hardware store and told the manager, "Mister, I can’t sell these pots; they are no good," he slammed them under the counter and said, "don't say the pots are no good! You are the one that’s no good," I didn't get angry. I thought of what the sarcastic old lady had asked me and told him, "well I'm going to get me a job and work for a living; that’s the only thing I know to do." When I made this statement, he turned to one of his employees and said, "this young man is going to have to work for a living," then he muttered, "ain't that too bad." 

I was about to leave when I happened to think of the message I thought I had gotten from my grandmother and said aloud to myself, "Grandma, God rest your soul, you were wrong about what you told me, that is a part of it anyway." The store manager eyed me for a moment and then asked, "what did your Grandma tell you?” and when I told him, "she said I was a nice looking young man and that I could sell," he laughed and said, "son, she was wrong on both counts." 

Chapter 36

After I gave up selling, I went back to the Big Four Employment Agency. I knew better how to talk to George this time; so when he asked, "do you have your own tools, such as French knives, spat, steel, roast forks and pastry bags and brushes?" I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "if I didn't have I wouldn't be asking about a Chef’s job." 

George cautioned me, while he was making out the employment slip, "now you know my reputation is at stake every time I send a man out, particularly so on these Chef jobs." So I was surprised at George’s understanding manner, when I told him, "I’ll do my dead level best and I think I can cut the mustard." He told me, "well if you can't come on back and I’ll send you out on something I know you can do." 

I caught a streetcar and went out to my new job on Western Avenue that same afternoon. I saw a sign, "The Whizbang Café", about a half block down the street from where I got off the streetcar. "That’s the place," I whispered to myself as I squared my shoulders and walked briskly forward. Just as I was about to enter the café, I noticed some fortune scales. I knew how much I weighed and I didn’t actually believe in this sort or fortunetelling but I said to myself, "it wouldn’t hurt to take one last look at yourself before the interview.” 

After I had finished admiring myself in the fortune scales' mirror, I stepped inside the café and approached the cashier. I handed her the employment slip and stated simply, "I'm Lenard Smith." "Oh are you a Chef?” she responded when she read the slip. "Well you certainly don't look like one," she commented, when I replied, "yes." Then she went on to say, "I had you tagged a salesman." I was sincere when I corrected, "no, not hardly." 

I was standing outside the Whizbang Café, dressed in white cook's coat and pants and holding a Chef's hat in my hand, when it opened for business the next morning. The two waitresses and the dishwasher, who preceded me into the café, didn't seem to doubt that I was a real Chef. One of the waitresses remarked, "I’m so happy we’ve at last got a young Chef." "Well I’m not so young; I'm crowding thirty," I told her. "That's young compared to the ones we’ve had here, none of them were under fifty, and the one that’s leaving is sixty if he’s a day," the other waitress explained. "And what a crab!" the dishwasher interposed. 

"What time does the fry man come in?" I asked the dishwasher, after I had surveyed the situation. "At two o'clock this afternoon," he replied. I had just recently bough myself a "Boston Cooking School" cookbook; so I didn’t have any problem fixing the hotcake batter. Then, thinking of how I’d seen cooks do what they called "line themselves up", I set ham, bacon, sausage and hash brown potatoes on the worktable. The waitresses tried to be patient with me but finally one of them told me, "Chef, you’re going to have to speed it up a little because nearly half the customers are walking out." Before the breakfast rush was over, they didn't need one full time waitress, let alone two, to put out the few orders I was messing up; so one of them came back and worked with me. I was doing as I promised George I would, "my dead level best," but it was a far cry from cutting the mustard. 

The waitress, who was working with me, and I managed to bring up a dinner of sorts. I chose to run, as my main entree, fricassee of chicken with drop dumplings. I didn't have my cookbook with me but I had memorized the recipe the night before. I couldn’t find a large frying pan to braise off the chicken in before stewing it, so I boiled the chicken. The dumplings didn’t turn out light and fluffy like the recipe said they would; they were a bit gummy but chewable.

I knew I was going to get fired so I didn’t feel too much worse than I already did, when some smart-aleck customer called to me, "Chef, I wish you hadn't dropped the dumplings, the boiled chicken would have been a little more savory perhaps with dumplings but as it was…  well it was very vapid." "If it's anybody's fault, it’s Fannie Farmer’s," I called back, "she’s the one who wrote the recipe." "Don’t you get cute with me, I’ll drag you out of that kitchen and stomp you," the man told me then muttered to himself, "it’s bad enough that I have to go back to work without lunch." 

The boss, Mr. Wendell, came in soon after this incident. I hadn't met him, as yet, and I wasn’t exactly yearning to meet him either. The cashier, who I learned was the boss’s wife, had taken it on herself to hire me without his approval. Mr. Wendell was fit to be tied, "just look at those pans!" he exclaimed, as he picked up the three egg pans and threw them in the trash basket. "I think I could…" I said, before he interrupted, "goddamn you I don't want you to think… it might overtax your feeble brain." 

Mr. Wendell had ranted until he was hoarse before he told me, "get the three dollars and a hall that I don't owe you and get out before I lose my temper!" "I still have an hour to go before the other cook comes in," I reminded him. When I made this statement, Mr. Wendell reached for me but he didn't strike me as I had feared he would. He just took hold of my arm and led me to the cash register and told his wife, "give this nut three and a half dollars and if you ever see him in this vicinity again call the police." 

Chapter 37

I dreaded going back and telling George that I’d gotten fired. "Well I won't have to tell him all,” I thought to myself, as the street car jogged along carrying me back to downtown. After I told George that the man said he'd rather have somebody with a little more experience, he stormed at me, "yes, I know, he’s already called in!" "Be prepared for a long wait," George then told me, "because it’s going to take awhile to line up something you can do." 

A few jobs came in that afternoon but George told me like he had the first time I was in there, "I don't think you're the man for the job," when I'd inquire about them. I was about to leave when another out of town job came in. It was similar to the job I had held at the Palisades Café; so I immediately applied for it. "Okay, I’ll write you down as an applicant," George grudgingly muttered. Then he commented, "I don't have any idea you’ll get it because the owner is going to do the interviewing." 

I, along with two other young men, was sitting in the waiting room of the Big Four Employment Agency when the owner of the out of town café arrived the next morning. After I'd listened to the other fellows discuss their previous experiences, I was like George, had no idea I’d get the job. These guys had worked in some swanky restaurants such as The Florentine Gardens, The Derby House, and The Biltmore Hotel Dining Room.

I was sitting over to one side of the building, away from all the other applicants, when the Lady, Mrs. Wheeler, began her interviewing. "These are two fine young men with more than ample experience," George introduced the two real waiters. Then he pointed to me and half heartedly said, as he gave me a dirty look, "now this young man insisted I list him too, so you have three applicants to choose from." 

The two waiters stood and introduced themselves when Mrs. Wheeler approached them. "Very interesting," was the only comment she made, when they began telling her about all the banquets and seven course dinners they had served. "Where's the other fellow?" Mrs. Wheeler abruptly asked George. "Over there," he shook his head and pointed to me. 

I was sitting with my head hung, when George and Mrs. Wheeler stepped in front of me. I didn't stand, as had the other fellows, until she asked me, "do you think you’d like to work for me, young man?" "Yes Ma’am" I exclaimed and sprung to my feet. “Well let's load your suitcases in the car and head out," Mrs. Wheeler told me then turned to George and remarked, "just the man I was looking for."

"You must have a lot of clothes!" Mrs. Wheeler exclaimed, as we walked down the street on our way to her car. "Ah now, I wouldn’t think of it," I told her when she offered to carry one of the suitcases; then I joked, "I'm stronger than I look." When we reached her car, Mrs. Wheeler asked, "Lenard, do you drive?" “Well yea," I told her, then explained, "but I don’t like to drive in heavy traffic." "Maybe I’d better drive then," she told me and went on to say, "this is a frightful trip, mountains all the way; it’s what they call the Ridge Route." 

Vivian, as Mrs. Wheeler soon told me to call her, was an attractive woman in her early twenties. And she was quite a talker; she had told me all about the place she and her husband owned before we reached it. The combination café and bar, the garage, the cabins and the post office had all been there since the time of the first road leading from Los Angeles to Bakersfield. This privately owned community, thirty-two miles east of Bakersfield and a hundred miles west of Los Angeles, had been handed down from father to son since back in the middle eighties. 

We arrived at my place of new employment, Wheeler Ridge, before dark. This suited me fine because I now had a chance to get acquainted with the other employees and the other owner before beginning my new job. There was only one female employee and she was working the afternoon shift as a waitress. This girl, Virginia, was a few years older than the other café employees, somewhere close to my age. She was married to the Chef, Lou, who was twenty-six; Earl, the afternoon cook, was twenty-four; Belmont, the relief man, was twenty-three, and the two dishwashers, Pancho and Teddie, were each a few months shy of twenty-one. There was only one bartender, Jerry, a man in his early forties. He opened the bar at two p.m. and closed it at the same time we did the café, 10 p.m. 

Mr. Wheeler, Vivian's husband, was a man in his late fifties; he, with the aid of one employee, ran the garage and left the café management to his wife. Mr. Wheeler even paid for his meals in the café and oftentimes tipped the waiter or the bartender who served him. I was surprised to learn that Vivian was married to what I considered, at that time, an elderly man. I also wondered why she didn't tell me his first name but I was informed later that everybody, other than Vivian, called him "Mr. Wheeler. 

There were scattered farmhouses spaced a mile or so apart further down highway 99 but only one dwelling in the immediate vicinity of Wheeler Ridge. The Wheelers and Lou and his wife lived in this rather modern home. The entire population of this roadside inn and surroundings must have been less than fifty persons. Overnight stayers kept five of the ten cabins rented and we single employees bunked in the other five. 

I was employed as morning waiter on this job; Lou, Pancho, and I opened the café at 6 a.m. and got off at 2 p.m. This was a better job than the one I had had at the Palisades. It paid seven dollars a month more and the hours were shorter; also there were fringe benefits that I didn’t have at the Palisades, Here we could eat any time we chose for free, whether on duty or not. At the Palisades we were allowed two meals a day, one before our ten-hour shift began and another after finishing it. 

Of all the jobs I ever held, before or since, the Wheeler Ridge job was one of the most enjoyable. Christmas and birthday presents were a must with the Wheelers. And parties were not rarities but events we employees looked forward to. Notwithstanding the appreciation for a job well done and the good wages (for back then), I left Wheeler Ridge after eleven months. It wasn't that I could better myself by making a move. I knew this because nearly every time I changed jobs I came out the loser.

I thought to myself, as I rode the Greyhound Bus back to Los Angeles, "here I am nearly thirty-one years old and all I have to show for my years is a hundred dollars in cash, two Gladstone bags filled with nice clothes, a 17 jewel Elgin watch and a sculptured tiger eye ring." I had to conclude that I was actually more of a failure than three of my brothers, who were back on the farm. L.M., my youngest brother, was much better off than me; he was a Corporal in the Army at this time. 

It made me sick to think of all the opportunities I’d let pass me by. Four and a half months more school and I could have had a High School Diploma. Finishing High School in Athens would have been no problem at all because I was already established there. I could have done like Tillman McGuien did then, worked my way through Baylor University. None of my brothers, excepting L.M., ever finished grammar school. Gaines went to the fifth grade, Milton and Clarence finished the seventh grade, and L.M. went a few weeks to High School. 

The teachers I had gone to school with, Uncle Bertie, Ralph Yarborough, Miss Rowell, and Audrey Boyd all had faith in my ability to accomplish something worthwhile. I’d let these renowned people down because I hadn't done this; for the most part I'd barely survived. Uncle Bertie served two terms as County Superintendent and had been Principal of Athens High School for nearly twenty years at this time. He was a self-educated man, who mastered High School and College textbooks in his father’s barn at Leagueville, Texas on rainy days, for the most part. Uncle Bertie did, in later years, attend summer normals and teacher's academies but so far as having received a High School diploma or College Degree, he didn't. 

Mr. Yarborough, who grew up in the little town of Chandler, Texas, four miles from Martin Springs, had opportunities of a sort. His father was a self-educated country lawyer and the highest office he ever held was that of Justice of the Peace. Still Mr. Yarborough, in later years, became a nationally known figure. He was a U.S. Senator from Texas and twice ran for Governor of that State. Mr. Boyd, also from Chandler, became a lawyer and a few years later was elected County Attorney of Henderson County. And Miss Rowell, who taught her first term of school at Martin Springs, was teaching in a Dallas High School the last I heard or her. 

"Well I'm as free as a bird," I rationalized, as I walked down East Fifth Street carrying two Gladstone bags. "I don't have to answer to nobody but myself.” But that was the depressing part of it. I did have to answer to myself and I knew I wasn't a failure due to circumstances but by choice.

Chapter 38

I walked about a block and a half down East Fifth Street before I saw a sign at a crummy looking hotel, "rooms for rent three dollars a week." "You can't beat that, not even at the Porter Hotel," I was thinking, as I walked into the lobby. "Do you have a vacancy?" I asked the lady who answered the desk buzzer. "Yea, but I’m surprised that a person like you would consider staying in this section of town,” she told me. When I handed her three dollar bills and said, "well I’ll take it," she asked, "what’s your line?" and before I could answer, she said, "let me guess… I’d say you're either a minister or a salesman." This was the first time I had been mistaken for a minister but I thought to myself, "it’s strange that people think I'm a salesman,” when I explained, "no lady, I'm just a café worker." 

This was an ideal time of the year. It was only a few days until Christmas and I planned to take it easy and enjoy myself until after the first of the year. Then I wouldn't go to an employment agency for a job; I'd make applications on my own and save the seven or so dollars it would cost to buy a job. There was all kinds of recreation, an all night theater, burlesque shows, hula dancers and B Girls who were anxiously waiting to be picked up, just steps away from my room. For once in my life I planned to live it up and I guess I did because in sight of a week I was broke. 

As I sat in the office of Franks Café, which was out on North Broadway, I thought of how foolish I had been, going out and paying for jobs when they were so easy to come by for free. The owner, Frank Lomax, at first talked very nice to me, he said, "you have a very good appearance and you are just the age I want to hire." I thought this meant that I had the job, so I lit up a cigarette and asked, "Mr. Lomax, what shift would it be?" He shook his head and replied, "I thought at first I could use you but I see now that I can't." I was about to ask him why he changed his mind so suddenly when he asked, "do you know what you did to displease me?" "No I certainly don’t!" I exclaimed. Mr. Lomax shrugged his shoulders and said, "well I’m going to put you wise so maybe it won’t happen to you again… you sat there talking as if you were interested in the job but undoubtedly you weren't." He hesitated then told me, "young man, I don't like to be suffocated with cigarette smoke while I'm interviewing someone." After I tried to apologize, Lomax shook his head and remarked, “I use to smoke myself.” I felt discouraged after having the interview with Mr. Lomax. People had repeatedly told me that I wasn’t a waiter; now they were telling me that I wasn’t a cook and that I had bad manners. And I knew from experience that I wasn't a salesman; so I decided to get me a job either washing dishes or busing. As luck would have it, I got a job that same day at Simon’s Dairy Lunch busing dishes. I didn’t anticipate holding this job long; I planned to study my cookbook some more and again apply for a cook’s job. 

I wasn't the confident person I had been before the interview with Mr. Lomax; so I asked Mr. Cotton, the manager of Simon's Dairy Lunch, at the end of the first day, "do you like my work so far?" Then I went on to tell him, "now if it hasn't been as good as you had expected it would be, I'd appreciate it if you’d give me another chance… this was my first day and I’ll improve as I go along." He patted me on the back and said, "you did fine and you can depend on a job." When I turned to walk away, Mr. Cotton told me, "you are one or the best mop boys I ever had around here." 

I didn’t get a cook's job right away, as I had planned, but I did get a good waiter’s job. This job was at the California Hotel Coffee Shop out on Sixth Street. It paid eighteen dollars for an eight hour shift six days a week. A man by the name of Hicks ran the Coffee Shop and his brother ran the adjoining cocktail bar. This proved to be a very pleasant and lucrative job, as far as the customers were concerned. Tips were good because the clientele was made up, almost entirely, of wealthy people. 

I didn’t realize that I would, at long last, do a job too efficiently for my own well-being. Since I did have a good waiter’s job, I went to a bookstore and bought myself three books: a waiters’ manual, a book on etiquette by Emily Post, and a book on how to win friends and influence people by Dale Carnegie. I was soon to learn that the old axiom: "Experience is the best teacher," wasn’t entirely correct. I learned more in a few days about waiting tables than I had in the six years of actual experience. And I learned more about etiquette and how to get along with people than I had in the previous thirty-one years of living. 

My coworker, Willie Phillips, was a good waiter but a slovenly type of person, who felt self-conscious wearing good clothes. I felt completely at ease and somewhat exhilarated when I dressed up. It made Willie jealous for me to wear my gabardine slacks, French cuff shirts, and nice ties to work. I had no fear of overdressing but Willie did; I felt that I had as much right, even though they weren’t all paid for, to wear nice clothes as my wealthy customers did. 

Willie didn't like the way I catered to guests either; he said he'd rather lose a tip than to degrade himself. I didn't think it degrading to seat the ladies, light the men’s cigars, and hang up their hats but Willie did. Although Willie accused me of being obsequious, he was actually more so than I. He was lavish on the "Sirs and Ma'ams" whereas I avoided these terms and called guests Mr. and Mrs. so and so, after learning their names. 

And Willie thought it distasteful for me to joke with these upper class people but I knew it was complimentary to them because I always took the brunt of the joke. When I'd make a good tip, sometimes I’d joke, "if I keep making money like this, I’m going to try to buy your Cadillac when you decide to buy yourself a new one!" I played down my achievements and talked about life back on the farm and the one- and two-teacher schools I attended. I'd invariably get a nice chuckle out of some pompous lady when I’d tell how the boys in my family use to take their Saturday afternoon baths in the barn. 

I learned fairly early in life that big people were basically the same as us little people. For the most part, they liked to joke and to some degree associate with poor, less fortunate human beings. I've always realized that I had superiors and respected them as such. A great philosopher, by the name of Carlyle, once said, "A great man shows his greatness by the way he treats little men." And I think it works both ways, a little man may not show his greatness but he shows his intelligence by the way he treats big men. 

I could never stand working with someone I didn't like and I was defenseless, so far as fighting back was concerned, so I finally gave up my job at the California Hotel. I acquired this trait of not fighting back early in life because my older brother and the one just younger than me were both larger than I; so they taught me the futility of fighting back. Willie would have no doubt liked me if I had dressed and performed my duties in the manner he did. The employee who holds a job longest is not the one who excels, but the one who just does enough to get by. Jealously is ten times more vicious, so far as holding a job is concerned, than inefficiency. 

I didn't take a vacation after quitting my job this time, because it was now late in the summer and I planned to take another trip back to Texas in the fall. I went back to the Big Four Employment Agency again and George sent me out to Ptomaine Tommie’s Café. George explained to me that it would be a dishwasher's position to begin with. Then be penned, at the bottom of the application, “this man's a waiter but will wash dishes until a waiter's position becomes available." 

This job turned out to be the hardest I'd ever held during my then, thirty-one and a half years of life. Ptomaine Tommie's Café had three cooks and four waiters plus the manager and his wife but only one dishwasher. There were two women cooks on the morning shift and one on the afternoon and I washed all the dishes for both shifts. I’d come on at ten o’clock in the morning and when I was lucky I’d get off at ten at night. It was an every day ritual for Minnie, the Chef, to tell me, "son, hurry and eat your breakfast because we're just about out of pots and dishes." 

The last day I worked at Ptomaine Tommie’s Café was in late September of 1940. I remember when the weather news came over the radio that day the weatherman stated, "this is the hottest day ever recorded in Los Angeles history." The Boss's wife, Clara, came back in the kitchen about middle of the afternoon, eyed me for a minute and said, Lenard, I’m afraid you’d better step outside and take a break… you don’t look too good." I felt a little faint so I was weaving slightly as she led me to the back door. Just as Clara and I stepped outside, she spied about ten dirty garbage cans and told me, "get there in the shade of the building and wash those cans while you’re taking your break." Then she cautioned, "take your time, the dishes will be there when you get back." 

I’d been back in the kitchen about an hour before I began feeling dizzy. I didn’t think much about it and continued rinsing glasses until I blacked out and fell there beside the sink. When I fell I landed on one of the glasses I had in my left hand. "Come quick Clara," the afternoon cook called, "the dishwasher’s had a fit or something. He’s laying here on the floor." When I came to, Clara was putting cold towels on my forehead. I suspected, when she asked me, "Lenard, do you have spells like this very often?" that she too thought I was epileptic.

I had no sooner gotten back on my feet before I noticed that my wrist was cut but I didn’t say anything about it because it wasn’t bleeding. It was way along about midnight, when my roommate, Flaud Finley, woke me up and exclaimed, "man, what's wrong with you? You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!" Then he contacted the landlady, who called the police, and they rushed me to I guess it was the County Hospital. I know they didn’t charge me anything. 

Flaud rode along to the hospital with me and on the way out I told him, "I'm not going back to my job; so since you’ve been unemployed for some time, why don’t you take it?" He was a little reluctant but agreed to give it a try. I was curious to know why my wrist didn’t start bleeding just as soon as I cut it, so I asked the doctor. He couldn’t understand it either until I told him that Tommie had us rinse the glasses in ice water so they would shine. From the way the doctor explained it, this icy water had caused the blood to withdraw from my hand and arm. 

The Doctor insisted I stay in the hospital a couple of days so they could take some tests. He was shocked when he discovered I was suffering from exhaustion and malnutrition. "Of all things," he reasoned, "a person working in a café shouldn't have any nutritional problems.” But after I told him that I usually ate a stack of hot cakes before going to work and a bowl or chili or stew at the end of the twelve-hour shift, when time permitted, he got angry. However, it was like he said, "you don’t seem to be mentally retarded and you’re nearly thirty two years old; so there’s nothing I can do about it." 

Flaud went out to Ptomaine Tommie’s Café the next day but he didn’t get the job. Clara told him, "you couldn't commence to do the work Lenard did around here." After Flaud wanted to know why, she explained, "you’d make a good floor bouncer in a bar but you’d be a flop as a dishwasher." Then Clara commented, "it takes a little guy to wash dishes, they’re just like ants, never seem to tire." 

Chapter 39

I realized that a sudden change in my lifestyle might be in the immediate offing that second day of October back in 1940, as I boarded the Greyhound Bus headed for Athens, Texas. I was in the right age bracket and would have to register for military service. There was slight chance of me escaping military service, if they drew my number in the lottery, because I was healthy, single, mentally competent, and didn't have a job which would be of any benefit to our nation in time of war. 

Of all the occupations I had ever aspired for, being a soldier wasn't one of them. It made me shudder to think of being in a situation where I couldn't do just as I pleased. I had been able to make my own decisions for fourteen years; even though most of them were wrong, I still enjoyed making them. "Maybe I'd be better off if I went ahead and enlisted," I interrupted my reverie several times during the bus trip from Los Angeles to Athens. If I did this, my worry would be over and I could concentrate on how to best survive the ordeal. 

I didn’t stay out at Papa’s but three days and nights before I decided to rent me a room in Athens. It seemed lonesome there at home with all the children gone. L.M. was still in the Army, had been in nearly four years. Papa and Miss Ellen said L.M. was still a fine looking young man; I hadn’t seen him in six years. I rather enjoyed hearing Papa talk about L.M.; I wasn’t jealous, even though I knew Papa thought more of him than he did of me. Why shouldn’t Papa think more of L.M. than he did the others of us? After all, L.M. was the baby in the family. 

The baby in the family had been lucky, for the most part, being born at the time he was because his childhood was spent in luxury. We older boys bought the little boys, as we called Clarence and L.M., presents and gave them money, and Papa was in a better position to be a Santa Claus to the younger children. Clarence and L.M. never knew, not during their childhood, what it was like to stand around in town Saturday evenings wishing they had a nickel to buy themselves an ice cream cone. 

I eventually got to talk about the subject that interested me most at this time, the pending war. "Do you think we’re going to be involved in a war, Papa?” I asked him. "Well it sure looks like it," was his reply. Then he reminded me, "son, you know you’ll have to register for the service October 16^th." "Ah I don’t know Papa, I might just go ahead and enlist when I get back to California," I told him. "Dick, I wouldn't do that," he told me, "you might be like Clarence was, and not like the Army." 

I hadn't thought of Clarence’s Army career until Papa mentioned it but after he did, I asked, "wonder if they will draft Clarence back in the service?” “You knew that Clarence got a medical discharge, didn't you?" Papa asked. And after I told him, "no I didn’t know that the discharge he got was a medical one," he explained, “Maybe it wasn't in the strict sense of the word but it certainly wasn’t a dishonorable one." Then Papa went on to tell me, "the discharge was a blue one and it just stated across the top, 'discharged without honor’, it didn't say anything about dishonor." Papa thought for a minute and said, "I don’t believe they'll draft him because there was a clause at the bottom of the discharge which read: This man is not recommended for reinduction." 

L.M. had heard that I was at home and had gotten a three-day pass from the Army and as luck would have it, I was still in Athens when he arrived from San Antonio. When I first saw L.M., I said to him about the same words Grandma had said to me, "why you look more like a salesman than you do a soldier." I immediately asked him, "how do you like the Army?" "Wonderful," was his answer. "Papa told you about me making Corporal, didn't he?" L.M. asked, and when I answered, "yes, I believe he did say some thing about that," and asked, "what does a Corporal do?" he laughed and told me, "you'll find out if you ever get in the Army… he's the boy that tells the P.F.C.s and Privates what to do." 

Before I realized it, L.M. had talked me into going back to California via the way of San Antonio and we were on a bus headed for what he called "The Soldiers Paradise". We were nearing San Antonio when L.M. told me, "you’re going to like it here and jobs are plentiful in your line, if I can talk you into staying. You’re a Chef? Aren't you?" he then asked. I didn't tell him right away whether I was or not a Chef, instead I asked, "who told you I was a Chef?" and when he answered, "Vera," I thought to myself, "I must have convinced her." I remembered what Vera had said a few years before this, "Dick, I don't see how you keep your hands so nice. I know if I kept my hands in dishwater all day like you do they'd be a sight to behold." When I angrily corrected Vera, "you know I'm not a dishwasher; I’m a Chef," she laughed and said, "I always thought you were a dishwasher."  

I didn't want to be too boastful but I finally lied to L.M., like I later learned he had lied to me, and told him that I was indeed a Chef and had worked at some of the best hotels in Los Angeles. L.M. was a little curious to know what a Chef's duties were and when I told him, "a Chef is about the same thing to a good hotel that a Corporal is to the Army," he exclaimed, "you’re going to get you a job at the Biltmore Hotel!” “Well that depends," I told him, and then asked, "what do they feature there?" When he replied, "all kinds of foods," I told him, "I’m more of a gourmet Chef, you know, fricassees, fondues, and ragouts are more in my line." 

L.M. had a wonderful time that first night I spent with him in San Antonio. All the girls in the different bars we visited literally went wild over "Smitty", as they called him. He had been trying to get me a girlfriend all evening before we went in a junky looking tavern out on the west side. "We can get you a partner here," L.M. told me as we entered. Sure enough, he did introduce me to a very nice little chick and she seemed to kind of go for me until L.M. told her, "I’ll bet you’d never suspect that this guy is nearly ten years older than me." "Heavens not" she exclaimed and turned to me and commented, "you must be close to thirty." I hung my head and told her, "yes." I meant to let her think that I was twenty-eight or nine and if L.M. hadn't spoke up, "I’ll say he is, he’s thirty one," I think she would have believed it. I’d been holding the girl's hand until L.M. made this statement and I was astounded when she told L.M., "will you please tell your brother not to paw around on me." "Why honey," I exclaimed and was about to tell her that I didn’t mean to get fresh, when she interrupted, "all you old guys are just alike, sex is all you think about.”

I didn’t tell L.M. that I planned to join the Army the next day, when he told me in his room that night, "I won't see you before I leave for camp tomorrow but be sure you go down and see about the job I was telling you about." "Yeah, I will," I assured him. I was sitting in the Biltmore Café the next evening when L.M. came into town from camp. "Did you get the job?" he asked, and when I told him, "no, I joined the Army," he slumped down on a stool beside me and lamented, "don't you know that the Chef in a place like this makes as much money in a week as an Army Private makes in two months?" "Well maybe I won’t be…" I was fixing to say, "a Private long," when he interrupted, "no you probably won't be because you’ll get a section eight, like Clarence did." 

Chapter 40

"Papa was right, I’ll bet I'm going to be like Clarence, not care for the Army," I thought to myself as I sat in a large room with twenty-five or so other bona fide applicants. The neatly dressed gent who swore us in looked right at me when he said, "men, you are about to become Privates in the United States Army. Do any of you for any reason whatsoever want to withdraw your application?" He paused for a minute, as if he expected me to back down, then he added, the Army is not all work and it’s not all play either, men, but my advice to you is if you don’t like the service, grin and bear it; then don't ever enlist again when your enlistment is up." I timidly raised my hand at this point and the neatly dressed gent, who I later learned was a Lieutenant, asked, “did you want to say something?" I told him, "yeah,” then asked, "if we don't like it we can buy out, can't we?" In answer he said, "if you feel that way about it, I'd advise you not to be sworn in.” After I told the Lieutenant, "I’ve made mistakes before," he went ahead and swore us in. 

I was sitting in this same large room with the other new Privates of the U.S. Army when some important looking character walked in and asked me, "have you fellows been sworn in yet?" I told him, "yes,” and he said, "well get the broom and sweep this place out then." I started after the broom but before I even reached the closet where they kept the brooms and mops, he allowed, "I think it could stand a little mopping, too." This kind of irked me and I did a bit of allowing, "well I’ll sweep but I guess some of these other new Privates can mop," I told him. I didn't think about him getting angry but he must have because he exclaimed, "just for that you can sweep and mop and if they don't call your name by the time you have finished, you can tidy up the spittoons." I thought I’d let him know what I had been instructed to do, so I told him, "that guy, who swore us in, told me to wait in here until a truck came from Dodd Field after us, he didn't say anything about sweeping, mopping and tidying up the spittoons but I’ll go ahead and do it " "I’ll say you will… and like it, too," an elderly man with a lot of stripes on his coat sleeves stormed at me. I didn't say anything but I resented the old man butting in because I was talking to the well dressed man, who didn't have any stripes on his coat sleeves at all. 

“I’ll do like the Lieutenant said, grin and bear it," I thought to myself, as I gathered up the spittoons. I had washed the spittoons and was shining them when this same little refined gent walked in and asked, "who told you to sit down, Bud?" I didn't sass him, I just answered, "nobody," but I got riled up when he yelled at me, "well get off of it then!" I told him, "I’m going to shine these spittoons and I’ll do it standing up but I do want you to know that I don’t appreciate the way you people have been abusing me." The Lieutenant looked at me and said, "that's the last straw… now you stand at attention and tell the Lieutenant you are sorry for talking back to him, before I have you court-martialed.” I didn't get angry but it kind of hurt my feelings when the Lieutenant commented, "the Army shouldn’t ever have accepted a man your age." Even though I tried to talk nice, the Lieutenant was sarcastic all during the conversation. When I told him, "I’ll bet you make Sergeant one of these days because you’re a natural born boss," he shook his head and said, "I’d hate to be a Sergeant and have to try to train you." 

I told the man I heard some of the other fellows calling "Sergeant," "I can’t go out to Dodd Field tonight," when he called my name. The Sergeant looked at me and said, "you get on that truck like I told you to," but I hadn't much more than got on the truck before he again called my name and told me to get off. Some of the other new Privates whispered to me, "you'd better not talk back… that man’s a Sergeant." I whispered back, "I'll say not! I’m just afraid I have already said too much to him as it is." The Sergeant wasn't angry though, he wanted to know why I preferred to postpone the trip out to Dodd Field. After I explained, "Sergeant, I have all my clothes downtown in a hotel and I’d like to dispose of them and besides I haven't given up my room as yet," he told me, "go inside and see if the Colonel will give you a pass." 

I walked in a rather small room, which they were using as an office and addressed a man who I assumed was a Colonel because he was better dressed than the other men. When I asked, "are you the Colonel?" he didn't answer but turned in his chair and told another man, "Sergeant, see what this man wants." After the Sergeant explained to me, "you can't walk up to a Colonel and talk to him without first getting permission from the First Sergeant or from the enlisted man who's in charge.” He then told me to asked the Sergeant, who was sitting at another desk a short distance from the Colonel's, if I could speak to the Colonel. After the Sergeant gave me permission to speak to the Colonel, I asked him, "what am I supposed to do?" He told me, "you are suppose to stand at attention, salute and say: Sir, Private Smith has permission to speak to the Colonel, and then state your business and after you have finished the conversation, salute again, about face and leave." Then the Sergeant told me, "you don't have to go through all this formality this time because the Colonel understands," "No,” I told the Sergeant, "I'd better do the correct thing because the Colonel might not understand if I don’t." I was sorry I had tried to do the correct thing after the old Colonel commented, "I don’t think you'll be a Private long." I at first felt flattered and asked, "do you really think Ill be promoted?" I didn’t feel so good though when he answered, "that wasn’t what I said."

Chapter 41

When I arrived out at Dodd Field, some of the other Privates told me that the officers and non-coms would be more tolerant towards me because this was a training camp. It didn't take me long to find that these Privates were mistaken. The Sergeant that fell us out got angry with me while we were taking some kind of shadow boxing exercise. He asked me, "why didn't you do this exercise like you were instructed to do it?" I didn't know what to say because I thought I had followed instructions. He told us to thrust out our left arm and left foot and then he said to do the same with the right arm and right foot. I guess I would have passed right on by the Sergeant if he hadn't halted us when he did because I was standing directly alongside of him when he called out, "rest." He, Sergeant Wilson, allowed, "I thought to myself when I saw you walking up here, I’m going to do some real boxing with that guy when he gets in reach of me but I'm not going to do that… now you join your squad." When I walked back the fifteen or so paces and joined the squad again, Sergeant Wilson told the other Privates, "men, we’ll have to do this exercise over for the benefit of one man and if he doesn’t do it right this time… God have mercy on his soul." 

I must not have done the exercise right the second time either because I was standing alongside of the Sergeant again when he asked, "what's your name?" I told him, Lenard Smith," and I didn’t mean to be sassy but I thought I’d explain to him why I thought my name was Lenard Smith when he told me in a gruff tone of voice, "your name’s not Lenard Smith… it’s Private Smith." “Well all I know, Sergeant, is Papa told me it was… so if anybody lied it was him," I looked down at the ground and mumbled. Sergeant Wilson didn't make any comment, he just gave me a dirty look and said, "you report to the First Sergeant." I asked, “what do you want me to tell him?" "Just tell him that I said there’s something wrong with you,” he stormed out. 

I walked in the orderly room and told the First Sergeant, "Sergeant Marshbanks, Sergeant Wilson told me to tell you that there’s something wrong with me.'' Sergeant Marshbanks smiled and said, "now lets be a little more specific, what seems to be wrong?'' I explained, "I didn’t know there was anything until we began to box with our shadows and Sergeant Wilson got angry." Sergeant Marshbanks said, "that explains it, now I know where to send you for treatment," then he told me to report to the Mess Sergeant. 

It was way along in the afternoon when I asked the Mess Sergeant, "what time do us kitchen policeman eat?" he growled, "if you hadn't drug around here all day, you could have already eaten, but as it is you'll have to wait until you catch up. " I don't know whether the other K.P.s ate or not because the Mess Sergeant put me to unloading ice and I didn't get to see them any more for the rest of the day but I didn't eat because I never did catch up. 

Sergeant Marshbanks made a speech to us that first payday, he said, "men, this is the day we all look forward to. Now I’m letting you off a little early today so you can go to town and spend your money, but I want every one of you back here sober at six o'clock in the morning." Then he cautioned, "and I want you to be ready to do a good day's drill, too." The old Sergeant was looking right straight at me when he continued, "I’m just paying some of you because I have to, you haven't earned a dime of it; if I ever saw anybody that couldn't soldier… wake that man up!" he interrupted himself. I looked up when the private standing next to me nudged me and the Sergeant asked, "am I boring you?" "No, certainly not!" I exclaimed. "Well you hold your head up then, don’t you stand there looking down at your feet while your First Sergeant is talking." Then he added, "you are one of the men I wouldn’t pay if I didn't have to." 

As the weeks passed, I wondered if I'd ever be able to do anything worthwhile for my country. It seemed that I wouldn't because every time Major Seaback, the battalion commander, inspected us recruits preparatory to sending us to duty, he'd sentence me to two more weeks of recruit training. Even though Papa had numerous times inferred that I was mentally retarded, I never could believe it because I was a straight "A" student in school. 

I think the Major kind of got peeved at me the first time he interviewed me. He asked what that insignia he wore on his shoulders represented and I told him, "oak leaves, Sir." He just smiled and asked, “does that look like an oak leaf?" as he pointed to one of the insignias. I knew it didn't but I thought that's what I was supposed to say it looked like so I told him, "yes Sir, it sure does." "Didn't your Sergeant tell you that this insignia represents the rank of Major?" he asked. "Yes Sir, come to think of it, I believe he did," I told him.

I never did understand what the old Major was driving at; it seemed to me that he contradicted himself because he asked me practically the same question again, "now what are these insignias I'm wearing on my shoulders?" I just knew I had the correct answer for him, when I replied, "they are Major buttons, Sir." "For Christ's sake no, they are oak leaves,” he exclaimed. Major Seaback then looked at Sergeant Wilson and asked, "where has this man been? He doesn’t seem to have had any training at all?" I didn't wait for Sergeant Wilson to answer before I told the Major, "I’ve been in the kitchen most of the time." 

I got a week’s K.P. for losing my campaign hat; I remembered pulling it off when we had an hour lunch break that day we were taking our first long hike. I didn't think about forgetting it and didn’t know that I had, until the Sergeant stormed out at me, "put that hat on, John!" I hadn’t any sooner touched my head than I discovered I didn't even have a hat with me; so I told the Sergeant, "I must have left it back there where we bivouacked at noon." Sergeant Wilson shook his head and corrected, "we didn't bivouac back there; that was just a rest stop." Then he told me, "I should double time you back there to get it." I asked, "it’s too far, isn't it, Sergeant?" and added, "it must be five miles." That’s exactly how far it is; this is our second down since noon," he told me.

When I went to the orderly room the next morning to see about getting another hat, the First Sergeant told me, "you can report to the mess hall for a week's K.P. after I've talked to you." Then he began to abuse me, he asked, "how did you ever get in the Army?" I explained, “it wasn't a bit or trouble; I Just went up to the post office and walked into the room where the sign over the door read: Army recruiting office, and told the Sergeant what I wanted and he gave me two sheets of paper..." The old Sergeant interrupted, "yes, I know, and that's what puzzles me, how you ever answered enough of those questions to get in." He jumped up and ran over to a bureau of drawers and said, "I'm going to see what that Sergeant told you," when I told him, "the recruiting Sergeant insisted that I enlist for three years Instead of one, he said I was officer material." 

Sergeant Marshbanks was laughing when he came back to his desk, he said, "I’ll read to you what the Sergeant said, listen to this." Then he began to read: "this man has no skills and is recommended for an Army field soldier only." All of a sudden Sergeant Marshbanks got up, walked into the Captain’s office, and said, "Sir, I’d just like to asked you, how did this man get in the service? Do you now what his IQ is? Well, it's forty two." I looked down at my feet and said to myself, Papa was right about me after all; I am mentally retarded." I looked the old Sergeant squarely in the face and began to laugh when the Captain looked at the papers and said, "you’re wrong Sergeant, that's not a period, that’s a one, the man's IQ is a hundred and forty-two." After Sergeant Marshbanks sat down at his desk, he said, "you answered enough or them to get in.” "That's what I thought," I sarcastically replied, and was about to asked him how many of the questions he answered, when the Captain called to me, "don't talk back to your First Sergeant!" 

Chapter 42

I was nearing the end of my eighth week out at Dodd Field and all of us Privates were tidying up for the coming review when Sergeant Wilson told me, "Smith, I hope you get turned to duty this time." I was afraid I wouldn't but I didn't want the Sergeant to feel like he was to blame, so I told him, "Sergeant, you have done all you can but I just can't seem to learn this dismounted drill."

Sergeant Wilson explained the parade we were going to be in that day as best he could to me; it was like he said, "I’d started through a half dozen times before but I never did get to the platform where the Major was standing before some officer pulled me out." "I’ll place you as the last man on the last platoon, all you’ll have to do is just follow," the Sergeant told me. “Now Smith, we won't be doing any flanking movements, all that's required of you is to do eyes right and you won't have to do that until we near the reviewing stand," Sergeant Wilson coached me. I thanked him and started back to shining my shoes after he cautioned, "now listen for my voice because, as you already know, I relay all the commands.” 

These instructions sounded simple enough and I was almost certain that I'd at last graduate but I got mixed up again. I knew I’d never be able to hear the Sergeant’s commands because he was way up middle ways of the company; so I decided to play safe and do eyes right the entire distance. I was walking along with my head turned to the right when some Lieutenant walked along side of me for a minute, then asked, "what's wrong with you soldier? Do you have a crick in your neck?" I knew I wasn't supposed to talk in ranks, so I shook my head "no." Some Corporal was drilling a squad nearby and at the same instant the Lieutenant distracted me he gave the command, “to the rear march." The Corporal's voice sounded identical to Sergeant Wilson’s, so I took one more step, pivoted on my right foot and marched off to the rear. The Lieutenant didn’t stop me as soon as I turned, he let me take about ten paces before he called to me, "come on back, John… you’re going the wrong direction!" 

It made me angry to think that the brass had been talking about me to my back but I knew they had, when the Lieutenant asked, "you’re not by any chance Smith are you? Lenard Smith, is that your name?" I told him, “not any more, my name’s Private Smith now, the Sergeant told me to drop the Lenard and add Private."

I tried to tell the Lieutenant that I wouldn't mess up again if he’d let me double time and catch up with the company before they reached the reviewing stand but he said, "no, I’d better not let you join your company because if you messed up in front of that reviewing stand, you’d certainly embarrass the Major. See, the Colonel is with him today, so you’d better report back to your company area." The Lieutenant seemed like a likeable sort of fellow until I, well he said I tried to bribe him. All I said was, "Lieutenant, if I’ll go on to my company area and not embarrass you further, will you chalk me up as having gone through this parade so I can finally get turned to duty?" "Of all the nerve!" he exclaimed, then asked me, "do you for one minute think I have to grant you any concessions to get you to go to your company area as I ordered you to do?" The Lieutenant didn’t give me a chance to answer, he yelled, "come to high port and double time every step of the way and make your arrangements to stay out here in these tents another two weeks." 

I was surprised that evening, when my company came back to camp, to find that Sergeant Wilson wasn't angry with me. He came in my tent while the rest of the company was eating supper, and all he said was, ''don’t feel so blue, kid, you’ll snap out of it one of these days." I noticed that the Sergeant was looking at my clock. I knew he liked it… well it was a nice little clock, a baby Ben illuminated dial with soft and loud alarm arrangement on it. I didn't want to bribe anybody else but I took a chance and commented, "I'd give that little clock, as well as I like it, if I hadn't messed up this afternoon and could go with the other men to a regular company." I was afraid he hadn't caught the hint when he shook his head and allowed, "you’d like to get out of this mud hole and get in some of those nice barracks, wouldn't you Smith?" "I sure would but I suppose I’ll be here another two weeks and maybe longer," I told him. 

The Sergeant asked me if I had donated my appreciation fee yet, that's what we called it, each platoon took up a collection and bought their Sergeant a present at the end of their training period. I told him, "no Sergeant, I decided to wait this time until I saw whether I was going to graduate or not.” He walked over and began to inspect my clock and I gave him a little sales talk. I said, "Sergeant, here’s the best feature about the clock, the alarm. If you haven't lost much sleep, you can turn the alarm on soft and it’ll wake you without disturbing anyone else and if you have been drunk and have lost a lot of sleep, you can turn it on loud and I mean if you aren't dead, it's going to wake you." Sergeant Wilson laughed and commented, "pretty cute." Then he told me, "find Private Rich and give him a dollar on my present and let me keep this little clock and you’ll sleep in those nice clean barracks tonight." 

Chapter 43

The Privates over in the regular company were congenial and even the Corporal, who took me down to the supply room to draw my equipment and clothing, was friendly. The old Supply Sergeant, Sergeant Price, wasn't so cordial though. He filled out some kind of a form and told me to sign it. I signed the form but I was a little curious to know what I had signed for and he told me, "you signed for your equipment and clothing, then he warned, "now if you want to get along in the Army, don't be too inquisitive from here on out." I apologized to Sergeant Price, told him that this read before you sign business was a habit I acquired during my thirty-one years of un-regimentation. 

After the Sergeant had accepted my apologies, he handed me a... well it looked like a short strand of plow line with a nozzle on it. Some of the Privates told me later that it was a decoration France had bestowed on the Second Division of the Twenty-third Infantry back in World War One. The Sergeant got kind of nasty when I thoughtlessly muttered, "all this signing for a short piece of rope." He looked at me and said, "I should take that decoration back if that’s how much you appreciate what the Second Division did for you during the Great War." Then the Sergeant shook his head and allowed, "no, I won’t take it back, maybe you'll hang yourself with it." 

The same old Sergeant, who had advised me not to be too inquisitive, asked me why I hadn't read the form before I signed it, when I reported back to him and inquired about my gas mask several days later. I tried to explain to him that a Lieutenant sent me up there to see if he had any gas masks available yet. Sergeant Price informed me that he had always had plenty of gas masks and then asked, "why didn't you get it when you signed for it?" 

The Sergeant handed me another slip of paper to sign but I told him, "no you don’t, give me the gas masked first." I was expecting him to get nasty again but he didn't, he laughed and told one of the Privates who was helping him in the supply room, "now the man's acting like a real soldier." I didn't know what the Sergeant was talking about when he called to me, as I walked out the door with my new gas mask, "that’s the way to do it, John... sign for it now and pay later." I still didn't want to be too inquisitive and said to myself, "I’ll ask one of the other Privates what he meant." 

I neglected to ask what the Supply Sergeant had meant but the First Sergeant, Sergeant Ross, clarified the statement the last day of that month. Even Sergeant Ross was a bit reluctant to tell me, he didn't explain until way up in the afternoon. After I had told the First Sergeant, "I'm not going to leave my fourteen dollars and fifty cents here with you, not after I have signed for it," he told me, "report to the kitchen and I’ll be over later to explain it to you."

If the Old Sergeant had just been patient, I wouldn't have had to work K.P. that Saturday until way up in the afternoon. I didn't think I had said anything out of the way to him, all I said was: "Sergeant, I thought I was getting twenty dollars a month. What's the four and a half deduction for?" He seemed to be irked when he answered, "that's exactly what you are getting and you’ll probably be getting the same amount three years from now." I didn’t sass the Sergeant, I just told him, "no I won't because I only have two years and nine months to go, see I have already served three months of my time." "You haven't been in this company three months but leave your money here and I’ll explain the shortage later," he told me. Even though I didn't like his attitude, I replied in a calm tone of voice, "I have only been here one month but I was out at Dodd Field two months." Sergeant Ross looked at me and stormed out, "I don’t give a damn how long you spent out at Dodd Field. Put that money down and report to the kitchen." 

It was way up in the evening when Sergeant Ross came by the kitchen. He walked up to the sink and said, "now I’ll explain where your four dollars and a half went." I interrupted, "you don't have to, Sergeant, I’ve already figured it out. You fellows don't pay us when we have to work extra duty but you still cheated me a little because I haven’t worked but three days extra duty this month." Then I commented, "of course I guess I’ll be on again tomorrow, I’ve been on K.P. every Sunday since I've been in this company." Sergeant Ross shook his head and smiled when he told me, "no you won't, you’re off of K.P. now." Then he told me, “I’ve had to charge you for that gas masked you lost." 

The First Sergeant didn't give me any more extra duty for nearly a month, then he didn't send me to the kitchen, he sent me to the latrine. He told me that day, "I'm not angry with you, Smith, I know you didn't stick that bayonet in the Corporal’s back intentionally." This accident wouldn't have ever happened if those Big Wigs from England hadn't come out to Fort Sam Houston because other times we passed in review we just wore our combat packs and carried our rifles without the bayonets fixed on them. 

I guess I would have hurt the Corporal pretty bad when I stumbled if he hadn’t had on that combat pack, but as it was the pack took up most of the force and the bayonet only penetrated about an inch of his flesh. I asked the Sergeant, after he sent the Corporal to the dispensary, "did you want me to report to the kitchen, Sergeant?" He laughed and said, "no Smith, you go back to the barracks and kind of tidy up the latrines, we’re going to have an inspection after the parade." 

I think I made a good impression on the First Sergeant and the Battalion Commander, Colonel Knudsen, that day in the latrine. The Colonel didn't say anything when I saluted him and said, "Sir, Private Smith in charge of the latrines reporting," but the First Sergeant did. He told me, "now you know you don't have to stand there with that mop in your hand and report to the Colonel," then he turned to the Colonel and said, "Smith acts odd at times but actually he has a high IQ." Colonel Knudsen didn't make any comment. He walked up to me and said, "soldier, have you had any trouble with the plumbing; have any or the toilets been plugged lately?” Sergeant Ross began to laugh, when I answered, "yes Sir, one of them was plugged this morning but the trouble has now been arrested.” The Colonel didn't crack a smile, he just eyed me for a moment then asked, "how did you arrest it?" But he laughed too, when I showed him that stick with the inverted rubber funnel attached to the end of it and said, "with this, Sir." 

Chapter 44

The following Monday, after I had stabbed the Corporal and arrested the trouble in the latrine, the First Sergeant decided to form an awkward squad. Five of us Privates were, as the Sergeant termed it, "a disgrace to Company A of the 23rd Infantry." Privates Logue, Adams, Bailey, Scott, and myself just couldn't seem to catch on to this dismounted drill. So we Privates in the, well I guess you could call it, The Military Retarded Squad, had to do dismounted drill under the supervision of a Sergeant, who was assisted by a Corporal, weekends and after regular drill hours. 

It was only a matter of days before Adams, Bailey, and Scott graduated. However the days passed into weeks before Logue and I became proficient enough to soldier properly with the Company. We managed to master the manual of arms in a very short time, but when the Sergeant and Corporal would try to teach us to march, Logue and I just couldn't seem to stay in step with each other. They, Sergeant Elgin and Corporal Thedford, finally discovered that this difficulty was due to the disparity in our sizes. Private Logue stood six foot five inches his stocking feet, whereas I was only five foot six inches tall with my shoes on. Naturally I was out of step half of the time because I had to, in order to stay up, take two steps every time Private Logue took one. After this Sergeant Elgin instructed Private Logue to take half steps and told me to continue on with my normal stride. Well the Sergeant said, the day we graduated, that we two could march better than most of the non-coms in the company.

This statement that the Sergeant made bolstered up my spirits and I said to myself, "I’m going to literally memorize that soldier's handbook and prove to these people that I’m a real soldier." I guess I hadn’t come to the marksmanship section of the handbook when Sergeant Castro began training us in this military function. The Sergeant had an 03 rifle mounted on a cartridge case and then some twenty-five yards distance he had another case set up with a sheet of paper attached to it. The idea was to aim at this sheet of paper three times in such a manner that you would have a perfect triangle after the private had dotted where you supposedly aimed. When you had gone through this procedure correctly, the triangle could be covered with a dime. 

A Lieutenant, who I assumed was from another company since I knew I hadn't ever seen him before, was standing nearby observing the training. He seemed to be paying special attention to my performance and I was kind of keeping an eye on the Lieutenant, too. Sergeant Castro had just stormed out at me, "Smith, you couldn't cover that triangle with your hat, let alone a dime," when the Lieutenant beckoned for me to come over to him. "I guess every officer in this battalion has heard about me and if this smart aleck starts any chewing, I'm going to see if I can get me a blue medical discharge like Clarence got," I thought to myself as I got up from the prone position. 

I walked the ten or fifteen steps at a brisk pace and halted about five paces in front of the Lieutenant and said, "Sir, Private Smith," as I raised my hand up to my campaign hat. "At ease," he told me and then asked, "how long have you been in the Army, Smith?" I told him, "I've been with this company some three months and I was out at Dodd Field two months before I came here." "How would you like to have a better rating… say Corporal?" the Lt. asked and then added, "I assume you’re a P.F.C. by this time," and when I answered, "no, I'm still a Private, Sir," he said, "well if you'd like to transfer to Headquarters Company I'm sure we could give you a P.F.C. rating. I was standing there dumbfounded when the Lieutenant asked, "shall I write you down as having asked for a transfer?" "Yes Sir," I told him, saluted, did an about face and returned to my platoon. 

When Sergeant Castro asked me what the Lieutenant wanted, I told him, "it was of a personal nature and the Lieutenant  asked me not to discuss it." "Alright then," the Sergeant mumbled, then threatened, "get behind that rifle and make me a triangle that I can at least cover with a half dollar or I’ll see if I can't get you some more kitchen duty for the weekend." I think the Private that was making the dots cheated because after I had aimed the rifle three times and the Sergeant had checked the dots, he smiled and commented, "you can do it when your weekends are at stake.'' Then he showed me, "look you can cover this triangle with a quarter." 

It was about a week later and I had forgotten about the Lieutenant talking to me when Sergeant Ross called over the intercom system, "Private Lenard Smith report to the orderly room." Sergeant Ross was looking at some papers when I entered the orderly room. "Oh so you don't like this company," he commented, as I walked up in front of his desk. When I told him, "I’ve never said anything about disliking it, Sergeant," he asked, "well why did you go over to Headquarters Company and request a transfer?" I knew then what the Sergeant was speaking of and hedged, "I don’t even know where Headquarters Company is." Sergeant Ross showed me the transfer papers and asked, "how do you account for this? Lt. Laycock of that company states that you requested a transfer to his company." I was expecting the old Sergeant to give me some extra duty when I told him, "well Sergeant, a Lieutenant did talk to me a week or so ago and said he could get me a Corporal rating in his company if I’d transfer." Sergeant Ross looked puzzled and said, "that’s all for now Smith." 

Sergeant Castro’s platoon was doing dismounted drill that next afternoon when Sergeant Ross halted the platoon and called me over to one side. "Now Smith, I’ve been observing you and I don't believe you are qualified for a Corporal's rating, not at this particular time at least." Then he went on to tell me that if I wanted to stay on with his company that I'd get a Corporal rating as soon as he considered me mature enough in the service. I felt a little relieved but still it was discouraging too, not to get anything out of the trouble the Lieutenant had been through, so I decided I'd see if the Sergeant would be interested in giving me a P.F.C. rating and asked him, "what about the P.F.C. rating? I wonder if you’d consider that?" "Oh I thought you understood," the old Sergeant patted me on the back and said, "the Captain and I gave you a Private First Class rating this morning." 

I had my P.F.C. chevrons sewed on by the next morning; so I walked to the head of the squad I had been in. The Private, who had been leading our squad, asked, "Sergeant Castro, did you want me to lead this squad, or is Smith the pivot man now?" "Well since we don't, as yet, have a Corporal for this squad, I guess Smith will have to be the pivot man because he outranks you, Adams," the Sergeant told him and then added, "just stumble along the best you can there behind him." I started to tell the Sergeant that I could do the pivot movements because I had learned them while I was in the awkward squad but he called attention about that time and marched us off to the drill field.

“Now wouldn't that just frost you!" Sergeant Castro exclaimed, after he had called, "column left march," a half dozen or so times and I had taken one more stop, pivoted on my right foot and headed off to the left taking half steps until the rest of the platoon caught up with me. "Well Smith, there might be something to what you said last night," the Sergeant told me during our first break. "Ah I guess I got a little carried away with myself last night," I told him. Then I explained to the Sergeant that I was more or less kidding about not wanting to sew P.F.C. chevrons on all or my shirts because I might make Corporal and have to take them off right away. 

I had often wished that I could get out of Sergeant Castro's platoon and the opportunity came one morning soon after I had made P.F.C. When the company fell out for drill on this particular morning, The First Sergeant told us, "men our company is organizing a heavy weapons platoon and Sergeant Frye is going to be the platoon leader." All of the Corporals and Privates were nudging each other whispering to themselves, as Sergeant Ross spoke, "I don't want to be in it." "We'd like to get as many volunteers as possible,” Sergeant Ross told us and then turned to Sergeant Frye and said, "take over Sergeant." After Sergeant Frye had explained as best he could the pros and cons of the new platoon, he said, “now all you men that would like to soldier in my heavy weapons platoon please step out of ranks." Sergeant Frye had no sooner uttered these words than I stepped out of ranks. After nobody else stepped out of ranks, Sergeant Ross drafted the other needed Corporals and Privates to make up the new platoon.

I had begun to wonder if Sergeant Frye appreciated the bold move I had made a week or so before because he never showed any signs of gratitude until the next Saturday morning when we fell out for inspection. I came to inspection pistol, when the Battalion Commander, Captain Knopp, Sergeant Ross, and Sergeant Frye stepped in front of me. "Return arms," the Battalion Commander told me and then turned to Sergeant Ross and remarked, "this is the man you were telling me about." "Yes Sir," Sergeant Ross replied and was about to say more when Sergeant Frye interrupted, "this is one of the best men for non-com material I've ever encountered during my some twenty-five years in the service." I was gasping for breath when I replied, "I’ll certainly do my best, Sir," to the Colonel's inquiry, "do you think you can…" I thought he was going to say, "cut the mustard," when he paused and then continued, "hold the rank of Corporal, Private Smith?" 

Some of the Privates and P.F.C.s were complaining and swearing when one P.F.C. turned to me and asked, "how long have you been in the Army, John?" I was about to tell him, "nearly six months," but I didn't answer after Sergeant Frye cautioned him, "you’d better be careful, you’re speaking to a noncommissioned officer, Scott." "He’s not a Corporal yet," Scott replied and then asked, "how long have you been in the Army, Corporal?" when Sergeant Frye informed him that the Colonel had approved my new rating and was at that very minute having the Corporal warrant drawn up I still didn't answer Scott’s question because Sergeant Frye told him, "that's none of your business." 

Chapter 45

Miss Ellen, as we Smith children called Papa’s second wife, had a long spell of sickness which death terminated on April 25, 1942. Some of Miss Ellen's children were not there the night she passed on but all of us Smith Children were present excepting Abbie and Avie. They said death hadn't changed their feelings. Miss Ellen was still an old cruel snuff-dipping hag and they were glad she had to suffer before she died. 

Gaines and Amie were willing to donate their share of money towards a wreath of flowers for our deceased stepmother, but they protested when Papa suggested burying her one grave's space from where Mama was buried. The reason for the one grave space was that Papa wanted to be buried between my mother and stepmother when he died. Gaines and Amie again objected to the wording we finally had affixed to Miss Ellen's wreath, "To Our Other Mother," the card read. 

I received a letter from Vera a few days after Miss Ellen's death. She said that Papa was bearing up under the grief exceptionally well… he had even bought himself some new clothes. When I answered the letter I didn't make any remarks about Papa's new clothes but I did tell Vera in the letter, "let me know just as soon as Papa gets married again and I’ll get a furlough and meet our new stepmother." 

Vera didn't write to me again for about two months but when she did, she began the letter, "Dick, the most ridiculous thing happened. You remember Trudy McDonald? Well she introduced Papa to a widow woman about his same age and they got married three days later." Then Vera went on to tell me, "the woman's name was Leona McCluris. Everybody says she's a real fine person. I do hope Papa will be happy but I'm afraid he won't be because he knows nothing at all about this woman." 

I did as I promised I would, got a furlough and visited Papa and my new Stepmother. The newlyweds had pooled their savings and insurance monies and had bought them a nice home in Frankston, Texas. However, they didn't occupy their new home for some eighteen months. The reason for Papa and Miss Leona, as I called my second stepmother, not moving in their new home right away was because Papa got himself a good wartime job in Beaumont, Texas, and had to go there. He began working for the Burns Detective Agency and advanced to the rank of Sergeant in less than three months. Papa’s size, experience, aggressive bearing, and pretended education, I suppose, was what qualified him to be supervisor over ten other security guards in the agency. 

Papa was still a brawny man back in the year of 1942; most of his two hundred ten pounds was firm muscle. As for experience, Papa had taught school, preached, sold insurance, worked for the Sheriff’s Department as a deputy, and for many years had unprofitably farmed. Aggressive… my father was the personification or this trait. When there was any trouble smoldering, Papa fanned it into a flame and then got right in the big middle of it. Education-wise, he must have been a genius because he only finished the seventh grade in school and held a permanent first grade teacher’s certificate. 

Papa was getting along fine on his security job until some English Sailors landed at Beaumont. Two of them were belligerent and besides that, they had been drinking. Papa told them, in a soft tone of voice, "now you fellows can't come ashore until you’ve sobered up and have changed your attitude." "Why, goddamn America," the larger of the two sailors exclaimed. Papa turned to his subordinate and told him, "Price, let’s go to the office… them are fighting words." The two sailors followed along and when they all reached the guard office, Papa and Mr. Price put their guns in a locker. Seeing that Papa meant what he said, the robust sailor said to the slim one, “you take the lean one and I’ll take the fat one." After the fight was over, the sailor who had chosen Papa was crying and told some of his shipmates, "look what that big old son of a bitch did to my face.” Papa laughed and told him, "I’ll bet you take the lean one next time." 

Chapter 46

I was separated from the Armed Services October 3, 1945, eleven more days and I would have had in five years. Other than holding the rank of Sergeant, I had pretty much the same qualifications I had when I entered the Army, October 14, 1940. "This man has no specific skills," the P.F.C. who was my job counselor, wrote on the form. Then he turned to me and remarked, 'I just don't know what to advise you to do, you don't seem to have enough experience and drive for most of the jobs open to civilians." "What I had in mind was to open ms a small café of my own, you see…" I was about to explain to him that I had had considerable experience along this line but he interrupted, "Sergeant you’re not aggressive enough to operate a business of your own!” 

I was getting a little irked and finally told the P.F.C, "let's not waste any more of your time; I’ll figure out something; I was getting by before I went in to the Army and I’ll bet I make it after I'm discharged." I was about to leave when I happened to think, "wonder what he’s going to do when he gets out," so I asked him, "what are your plans after you’re separated from the  Service?" "I’ll go back to law practice," he smiled and told me.

"Maybe I’m not aggressive enough," I thought to myself the next day after I became a civilian and was strolling down a street in Tacoma, Washington. I quickened my pace, glanced in a store window, and muttered, "I’ll show them that I'm not timid." I had hardly finished uttering the words before some bedraggled looking man hollered at me, "you don't have to watch yourself in them store windows; pay more attention to where you’re going!" "Oh I'm sorry,” I apologized, before I thought of my new resolution and hollered back to him, "what about you paying a little more attention to where you're going?" 

"You have a lot of nerve," the unkempt man said when he walked up to me and grabbed the lapels of my brand new topcoat. Then he asked, "what are you doing wearing that?" as he pointed to the Army Discharge Emblem. Before I could explain why I was wearing the emblem, he scoffed, "I’ll bet that damn coat you’re wearing cost fifty dollars." When I corrected, "no you’re wrong; it cost eighty-two dollars, you see…" The man interrupted and asked, "is that right?" before I could explain, "it's an English imported pile camel hair." Then he commented, as he let go of my coat lapels, "I don't give a damn how much you paid for your clothes." I didn't make any reply and was already walking away, when he called, "you wouldn’t be wearing clothes like that if you had been in the service." I started to turn around and go back, when he threatened, "if you ever stagger into me again, I’ll bash your head in… you no good draft dodger!"

I did glance in the store windows, as I again walked sprightly down the streets of Tacoma on the second day of my new civilian life, but I didn't stagger into anybody. I felt rather proud of myself when I walked into Don Morry's Grill on Twelfth Street. I was attired in a sixty dollar brown suit, white shirt with French cuffs, a two and a half dollar necktie, a powder blue silk scarf, and the eighty-two dollar pile camel hair topcoat. The hat I donned was, I imagined, what gave me an impressive look; it was a cream colored John B. Stetson with a red and black colored feather under the band and I wore the hat on the right side with the crimp brim just clearing my right eye.

"How are you fixed for cooks?" I asked a young looking man standing behind the cash register. In answer to my question, he explained that I’d have to see the Chef, who was his partner in the business. "When could I have an interview with the Chef?" I asked and when he informed me, "at two thirty this afternoon," I thanked him and walked over to a table, pulled off my scarf, hat, topcoat and gloves, hung them on a nearby coat tree and sat down. I had hardly seated myself before one of the six or seven waitresses came over, handed me an elaborate menu and asked, "what’s it going to be this morning, Sir?" "I’ll have a cup of coffee now and order later," I told her, as I opened the menu. 

I sat there at the table some ten minutes before I signaled to the waitress that I was ready to order. "Have you made up your mind, Sir?" she asked, as she held her checkbook ready. "Yes, I’ll have a glass of tomato juice, a sliced orange and eggs benedict with Canadian bacon," I told her. I didn’t see any of the kitchen crew when she turned in the order over the intercom system but I suppose it was the fry cook that asked, "who in the hell is out there now?" The waitress laughed but didn't make any comment until somebody, I guess it was the Chef, said, "there’s one in every crowd,” then she glanced at me and asked, "can you fix the order, Ben?" "Why certainly,” Ben answered and then mumbled, "a nut like that wouldn't know the difference anyway," before the waitress could cut off the intercom. 

I felt that I had made a pretty good impression. The eggs and Canadian bacon were a little expensive; however I didn't worry about the two dollars and a quarter they cost plus a fifty cent tip because I had saved better than two thousand dollars while I was in the Army. "Oh I see you have just recently been separated from the service," Don, the first man that I had contacted, commented, when I handed him a ten dollar bill and the guest check. After I answered, "yes," he absently asked, "officer?" I felt a little guilty when I again answered, "yes," but after all, he didn't asked whether I was commissioned or noncommissioned, so I hadn’t actually lied to him. 

"Are you a Chef?" Don's partner, Morry, asked me that afternoon, after we were seated at one ofr the tables, "Well you are not the man that I’m looking for… we only have and need one chef here and I happen to be he," Morry explained. I saw that I had again boasted too much and told him, "well I can cook, too, you know." "Yes, I assumed you could because most chefs can," Morry smiled and told me. I was about to tell him that I was sorry he couldn't use a good man when he turned to me and asked, "where did you get your chef’s training?" When I told him, "just here and there," Morry studied for a minute and said, "I think I can use you. Now this job that I have in mind is a combination deal," he went on to tell me and was about to explain further, when I interrupted, "combination Chef and Cook?" "No, it's a combination pantry and pot washer and pays nine dollars a shift," he told me and before I could tell him whether I'd take the job or not he said, "see you tomorrow at two o’clock." 

I was sorry that I had taken the job after my twenty-year-old girl friend, Juanita, came in one night and caught me washing pots. She exclaimed, "I thought you were cooking here!" "I am," I told her and went on to explain, "you see the pot washer didn't show up tonight; so I'm washing pots too just to help out."  

Chapter 47

I worked at Don Morry's Grill about six weeks before I decided to visit with my relations in Texas. I didn't go by to give the Chef any notice… the fact is I was on a bus headed for Frankston, Texas, when it came time for me to go to work the next day. Papa had just recently moved into his new home in this small East Texas town and had opened a grocery store and lunch counter combination.

I hadn't been around Frankston much since I was a small boy, so all the folks were eyeing me as I strolled up and down the streets. Nobody had quizzed me concerning my whereabouts or identity until I took one of my new suits into a tailor shop to have it cleaned. "I’ll bet you’re our new Methodist Preacher," the lady, whose name I later learned was Mrs. Bristow, told me when I handed her the suit. "No, you’re wrong lady," I corrected and started to leave. She smiled and asked, "well who are you then?" 

After I had told Mrs. Bristow that my father was M Smith, one of the local grocery men there, she exclaimed, "I remember you now; they call you Dick!" Then she told me, "well I didn't miss it much; I know you had planned to become a preacher when you grew up. Why didn't you carry through?" she then asked, I thought of what the P.F.C. had told me a few weeks before and told her, "I wasn't aggressive enough; you know, just didn't have the drive." 

Since Papa had never had any previous experience in the restaurant business, I was surprised that he was doing so well with it. He just ran short orders for the most part, beer stew, chili, hamburgers, and canned soups. Naturally he had cold lunches in the grocery part of the store if anybody called for them. Papa was especially proud of his beer stew and a lot of the local farmers bragged on it, too. I never did get the exact recipe. I wish I had, but from what I could piece together, it consisted of a few scanty chunks of beef, onions, celery, tomatoes, carrots, cabbage, turnips, string beans, June peas, and potatoes; he had been adding squash, too, but I talked him into leaving this vegetable out,

Papa had been closing the store and walking the short distance home for lunch each day after his noon rush but he insisted that he and I eat some of the stew for lunch on this day. The stew was very tasty; in fact I went for seconds and would have possibly eaten another small ration if Papa hadn’t put the delicacy aside and commented, "I have some late customers occasionally." 

Son, it's about stew time again," Papa allowed the next day after the noon rush and he was surprised when I declined. "I don't believe I’ll have any stew today; I guess I ate too much of it yesterday," I told him, "Well Dick, I told Leona not to fix us any lunch because I had no idea that you wouldn't want stew again today," he told me, as he dished himself a bowl of the tasty dish. After I had sat there for a couple of minutes without Papa suggesting that I eat one of his other specials, I almost gave in and ate another bowl of stew but I couldn’t because I kept thinking of what Papa had said about putting the cat out the night before. Since he didn't have any refrigeration in the store, Papa stacked his leftovers from the lunch counter on the bar and then reheated them the next day. Papa was all set to go home that night when I noticed that he hadn’t covered up the stew and told him, "Papa, you’d better cover that stew or else put the cat out." "Ah what she eats won't amount to anything," Papa replied, as he looked back at the cat and continued on his way home. 

I stayed around Frankston about ten days before Papa suggested, "Dick, you'd better do like L.M., try to draw that fifty-two twenty, or whatever they call it." I realized then that I had better end my visit and head for my favorite state, California. I bought a bus ticket to Los Angeles but as it so happened, the ticket agent routed me through Colton, California. I knew my old time employer, Bill Bowers, was still in California but I had no idea that the bus I was riding would stop at the Colton Coffee Shop where Bowers and another man, Johnny Fallen, owned the café. "Well if it isn't Smith," Bowers said to Fallen, when I seated myself at the counter. 

"Smith, do you think you could hold the night fry job here?" Bowers asked, after I had finished my sandwich. I started to tell him that I could run away with it when I thought to myself, "now take it easy, don't boast," and replied, ''I don't see why not." I held the job that Bowers referred to for some two yeas before the Colton Coffee Shop changed hands.  

After Bowers and Fallen sold out in Colton, they bought another café in Indio, California. I went to this city with them and was what you could call "The Second Cook” at their new place, "Top’s Café". Lonnie White, a man three months younger than me and like myself, a veteran of World War Two, was the Chef. He was a large, aggressive, don’t do as I do but do as I tell you to, type of person. However Lonnie and I got along exceptionally well. He was a heavy drinker and so was I at this time. Lonnie was like most large men, belligerent when he drank. I was like most small men, meek and apologetic when I drank.

At the beginning of my tour of duty at Top's Café, the waitresses paid very little attention to me. One reason for this lack of interest was the jeep that I at that time owned. Tillie, one of the waitresses, remarked, after I had traded my Willy’s Jeep in on a new Manhattan Frazer car, "Lenard is a little more appealing to me now since he got himself a car." Cars were hard for low income people, such as I, to come by at this time, back in 1946. I was the only employee out of some twenty working at Top’s Café who owned a car of any kind, let alone a new one. 

Even though Tillie was showing considerable interest in me and my new car, I managed to hold my own with her until I moved my house trailer, which I had recently bought, in back of a dwelling house next to her apartment. I had only been living at my new location a few days before Tillie invited me over to her apartment one night. I noticed that she was dressed a bit flimsily when I entered her apartment but I didn't make any comment until Tillie apologized, "I hope you don't mind me dressing comfortably while I'm at home." "Not at all," I assured her, as I glanced at the silk kimono she was wearing. 

I saw Tillie in the silk kimono and other sexy garments, including her birthday suit, dozens of times during the next eight months, but we fought more than we ever made love. I almost lost my mind and my Frazer car before we finally parted. I had been to San Bernardino on this day Tillie and I separated for good and didn't get back to Indio until late in the night. When I checked Tillie’s apartment and found that she was gone, I decided to go to the 538 Club, a nearby tavern, and see if she was there. 

I had no sooner walked in the door of the 538 Club than I saw Tillie sitting at the bar with another man. The next I remembered the bartender stormed out at me, "what's wrong with you Lenard?" Tillie was getting up off of the floor, when Peggy, her roommate, told the man that Tillie was with, "you just mind your own business. Lenard and Tillie fight all the time and they are not going to hurt each other." After Peggy made this statement, I more or less regained my senses and tried to calm Tillie. "Why honey, I didn’t mean to push you of that stool," I told her but the bartender corrected, "you didn't Lenard, you knocked her off it." 

Tillie and I never made up after this bout and Diana, my present wife, and I were married a few weeks later. "You’ll beg me to come back to you some day," Tillie warned me the day I went by Top's Café and told her that I was leaving with Dianah. Tillie was wrong about me begging her to come back to me but she was correct in saying that it would take me years to forget her. 

I was wondering if my getting married would hurt Tillie very much that April day back in 1949, when the minister in Yuma, Arizona, pronounced Dianah and me man and wife. Dianah must have sensed my feelings because she turned to me and asked, "what do you suppose that Mexican is going to say when she learns that I have the pink slip on you?" "Ah I wouldn't call her a Mexican. Tillie probably knows more about her nationality than you do and she says she’s Spanish," I scolded. I didn't make any further comment when Dianah remarked, "sometimes I wish I had killed that pepper belly that night in the 538 Club.” 

Dianah and Tillie contended that they were not fighting over me that night but nearly everybody else, including me, thought they were. I was in my trailer house ironing, when Tillie, Peggy, and Dianah all met there. "I’m not going to have any more trouble with that slut, but you get her out of that trailer," Tillie called to me, as Dianah opened the door and made a lunge for her. I immediately locked Dianah up in the trailer and took Tillie and Peggy to the Doctor. He gave Peggy, the most seriously injured of the two, a tetanus shot, splintered and otherwise treated the badly mangled thumb. Dianah chewed one of Peggy's thumbs nearly off when she joined in the fight. Tillie’s condition wasn't too serious; the doctor did give her a tranquilizer but he couldn't do much for the bruises on her body and face. 

It was a week or so later before I saw Dianah again. "Why did you have to knock out all the windows in my trailer?" I asked her. Then I reasoned, "if you couldn’t get out the first one, you should have known you couldn't get out of the others either, because they are all the same size." Dianah laughed and told me, "it was easy enough to get out; I knocked all the windows out after I had walked out the door." 

Chapter 48

Our acquaintances and friends forecasted a gloomy future for Dianah and me, but I believe we have enjoyed more happiness during the twenty-eight years we’ve been married than most couples. It seems that the hardships we have encountered during this interval have tended to draw us closer together. We have continually tried to improve our mode of living, which was very primitive at the beginning. For the first thirteen months Dianah and I were together, our living room, kitchen, and bedroom were all housed in an eight by twelve foot trailer house. And we didn't better ourselves much when we bought a small flat top house and moved into it. Neighbors and friends had a big laugh when they learned of our elaborate furniture: a broken down divan, two folding camp chairs complete with table, and an old fashion oil cook stove. 

The first furniture or appliance we bought after having lived in our new home for more than four months was a Crosley Shelvador Refrigerator. One of our neighbors, June Cox, used to tell Dianah, "it amuses me to watch Mr. Smith work in the yard because every time he takes a break he walks around that little old house and looks at it." June would have been amused if she had known that there was hardly a night passed that I didn’t get out or bed and go in the kitchen to look at our new refrigerator. 

One afternoon in 1951, Dianah and I, being interested in nice furniture, even though we had no idea we could buy it, walked into Frank's Furniture Store in Colton. Roz, as we later called the owner, Mrs. Dayton, took a liking to us I guess; otherwise she wouldn’t have done what she did. She was showing us the beautiful furniture when I told her, “Lady, we’re sure coming back here when we get enough money to buy some nice things." "That’s not the way to do it," Roz told me then asked, "what's your name?" After I told her "Lenard Smith," she said, "Mr. Smith, I’ll sell you all the furniture you want without a dime down and if you buy three hundred dollars worth or more, I’ll give you a set of dishes as a bonus." 

Roz was drawing up the contract which was for over seven hundred dollars, when I told her, "Mrs. Dayton you’re just wasting your time; they won't give us credit." "What do you mean they won't give you credit?" she asked. I explained, "I don’t have any credit… l don't even have insurance on my car." "I’m going to run this through S.I.C. Finance Company and if they turn you down I’ll finance it myself," she told me, then added, "I have credit." "I know it will take a few days to verify the credit but it's just as well because we’ll have to dispose of the old furniture," I remarked. "How much do you want for it?" she asked. "Oh forty or fifty dollars," I told her and added, "but I'd like to keep my little typing desk and typewriter." "See you didn't tell me you had a trade in, so I’ll have to write up this contract again," Roz scolded. 

When Dianah and I signed the contract, I noticed Roz had allowed us one hundred dollars on our old furniture. I told her, "Mrs. Dayton, we don’t have but one piece of furniture, other than our refrigerator, and of course we want to keep it, that’s worth hardly anything. We do have a record player that we paid eighty-nine dollars for, a cheap bookcase, a divan, two folding camp chairs with matching table and an old fashion oil stove," I explained. Roz didn't make any comment, she turned to Dianah and asked, "Mrs. Smith, are you going from here home?" After Dianah told her, "yes," Roz said, "take your dishes with you and I’ll have my son deliver this furniture within the hour.'' 

Mrs. Dayton’s son was laughing when he turned to the man he had helping him and said, "I don't know where we’re going to put this furniture.'' Our little thirty-one hundred dollar house consisted of one large room, a kitchen, and a bathroom at this time. "Just unload it; I’ll arrange it," Dianah told him. We couldn’t get our eight chair, two-leaf dining room set in the kitchen; so we set it up in the combination bedroom and living room. I hate to think of how that expensive furniture looked stacked on that rough surfaced cement floor to other people but it looked lovely to Dianah and me.

Chapter 49

I got a Chef’s job at The Owl Café in Fontana soon after Dianah and I bough our new furniture. This job paid twelve dollars a day and I worked six days a week. I went to work at six a.m., got off at one p.m., came back at five and worked until ten p.m.; so the wage was actually only a dollar an hour. I had been working at the Barbecue Hut in San Bernardino, which paid eight dollars a shift; so I was happy to pick up the extra four dollars a day. 

It wasn't any time at all before we had saved enough money out of our extra earnings to have a chain link fence put around our property. And before the end of the year, we had two porches added to our little house. Then we painted the outside a section house yellow and trimmed it in a dark green. It was nearing the end of the year before we could afford to buy our porch furniture. Our place really looked up after I got the porch furniture and set out two fir trees, a Chinese elm and six rose bushes. 

Mr. Bradshaw, the owner of The Owl Café, had always had a dishwasher before I began working for him. But since business was so slow, when I first took the job, he decided I could cook and wash the dishes, too. I did just fine with the two jobs until business started to picking up and then I suggested he hire a dishwasher. Well he couldn’t afford to do this at present and insisted I bring my wife along with me until he could see his way clear to hire more help, at which time Dianah could receive pay for dishwashing. I wasn’t too happy with the job, even though I was making twelve dollars a day, because when it came down to it, Dianah and I were only making fifty cents an hour each. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw were younger than Dianah and me; so I decided it would be just as well if we called them by their first names, they called us by our first names. "Bob," I said to him one morning, before he interrupted, "you mean Mr. Bradshaw, don’t you?" "Well I don't know, I’m an older man than you, so I thought it would be alright to call you by your first name," I reasoned. "Yes," he said, "but remember if I wasn't your superior I wouldn’t own this property lock stock and barrel and you wouldn’t be working for me." Then he asked, "what do you own," and before I could answer, he said, "a little tackle house and a wore out car.” I went back in to see the Bradshaws soon after I quit working for them in January of 1952. They had a real Chef now and business had increased over thirty-three percent. Of course they had to pay the Chef more money, sixteen dollars for an eight-hour shift and he wouldn’t do any dishes, but it was well worth it. Mrs. Bradshaw just could not believe what a difference a Chef could make in both the atmosphere and the business. They had a different class of customers now, mostly local business and professional men. Mr. Bradshaw could wear his white French cuff shirts and expensive ties with pride now because he didn't have the trash that was coming in when I worked there. The Owl Café didn't have any colored trade at all now… well he lost most of it before I ever left. Mr. Bradshaw had insisted, for some time, on his black customers occupying the back counter and booths and not mingling with the white customers. 

The new Chef had only been working at The Owl Café about two weeks when Mr. Bradshaw called me one morning. "Hello, is this Lenard?" he greeted me when I answered the phone. “I’m sorry Mr. Bradshaw, but we both have other jobs now," I told him when he asked if Dianah and I would come back to work for him. Then I explained, "I'm making ten fifty a shift at Stater Brother’s Coffee Shop and Dianah is making five twenty a day plus tips at Annibil’s Drug Lunch counter; so we couldn't work for what you pay." I didn’t quiz Mr. Bradshaw when he said, "I can give you more money this time if you want to come back," but I did ask, "what happened to the Chef?" "Well you know how Chefs are?" and before he could tell me how they were I interrupted, "I, not being one, wouldn't know, Mr. Bradshaw," and hung up. 

I only worked for Stater’s Coffee Shop about three months the first time and took another Chef’s job at the Highway Café, some twenty miles north of Colton. This job paid me twelve dollars a day net and Dianah quit Annibil’s and went to work with me at a net wage of eight dollars a day. Dianah and I began putting fifty dollars a week in our savings account, which was no problem because our income had almost doubled. 

Since Dianah and I had established credit and had a good income, we traded our Frazer car in on a new Henry J. This was our first car to own jointly; the Frazer had been in my name. Two neighbor women, not knowing that I was nearby, were discussing me and my new car the next day after we bought it. I didn't catch what the first lady said but the other lady replied, "I guess it’s natural to get a big head when you buy your first new car." I Interrupted, "Ladies, this is not my first new car; I have owned two before this and paid cash for both of them." I didn't make any comment, when one of them sneered, "and you paid cash for this one too, I suppose." 

Mr. Dumphy, the owner of the Highway Café, was a cantankerous old gent so this new prosperity didn't last long. Each morning Mr. Dumphy would have me fix him three strips of crisp bacon, two poached eggs, and one slice of dry whole wheat toast. He seldom ever touched his breakfast; he’d step over to the garbage can, toss the food in it and comment, "I’ll do without breakfast this morning; I can't eat that slop." 

Dianah, me, and one waitress were all the employees Mr. Dumphy had at this time. And the waitress was riding the twenty or so miles back and forth to work with us. Dianah and I, over a few drinks, vowed the night before if Mr. Dumphy threw his breakfast in the garbage the next morning we’d walk off the job. I didn't take special pains with Mr. Dumphy's breakfast this day; I fixed it like I would have for a customer. The old man was so upset he threw the plate and all in the garbage this time. "You folks decide to take a little break?” Mr. Dumphy asked us, when we pulled off our aprons and walked through the front. "No, we’re going home," I told him. "I don’t know what ever for!" he exclaimed. Mr. Dumphy didn't seem much upset until the waitress told him she’d have to leave too because she had no means of transportation other than with us. When he started to pleading with us not to leave, I thought of what Papa had told the English Sailor and told him, "I’ll bet you wish you had eaten your breakfast this morning." 

Chapter 50

I had just recently completed a course in salesmanship when I quit the Junction Café and received my diploma March 26, 1952. Since I had made strait "A’s" on this ten-assignment course, I decided to give up restaurant work and again try selling. Dianah went back to work at Annibil's Drug Lunch Counter so with her income we could get by until I began producing, was the way I reasoned. I did sell a few pairs of shoes but I soon realized it took more to be a salesman than just completing a salesmanship course with LaSalle Extension University and gave it up. 

After I gave up selling, I started back to work for Stater Brother's Coffee Shops as a fry cook. The wage hadn't changed; it was still ten fifty a shift. However it wasn't long before Mr. Clark, the store manager, noticed that I was, in his words, "doing exceptionally good work" and raised my wages a dollar a day. Gus Stauffer, the original manager of Stater’s Coffee Shop 2nd Street Store, resigned about this time and Marvin Stockham and Bob Shearer took over the management. Marvin had the title of manager and Bob that of assistant manager. My two superiors, Marvin and Bob, gave me the Chef's job under Bob’s immediate supervision and raised my wages to thirteen dollars a shift. Bob had taken a course in cooking and was a Chef of sorts and I did learn a lot from him. 

This arrangement continued on up until the late fall of 1952, at which time Bob resigned. I acquired the title of Assistant Manager and a two dollar a day raise when Bob left. I soon gave up my title, as bad as I hated to, because I found that I was actually having to do three jobs: Chef, Fry Cook, and Assistant to the Manager. I would have been happy to have gone back on my ten fifty a day job but Mr. Clark, the store Manager, said that he had never seen a demoted man do good work. 

I had hardly applied for my unemployment insurance before Ben Taylor, owner of Annibil's Drug Store Lunch Counter, asked me to come to work for him as a fry cook. Joe Austin, a husky, young, aggressive man and a very good cook, was the Chef there at this time. Joe and I got along exceptionally well together but it wasn't long before he and Ben had a run in. At this time Joe, even though he could have stayed on, recommended me for the Chef's job. He told Ben, "no I'd better not stay, you’re more comfortable with little timid people like Lenard working for you." 

I held the Chef’s job at Annibil's Lunch Counter several months and Ben seemed very pleased with my work. I gave the Chef’s job up though when Bob Shearer took the afternoon fry job. "Why that's ridiculous,” Ben exclaimed the morning I told him to give Bob the fifteen dollar a day job and let me have back my ten fifty job. Ben shook his head and commented, "there'll never be another person like you," when I told him, "I can work under Bob's supervision but he can’t work under mine." 

All was going well until Joe wanted to come back. A cook of Joe's caliber didn't want to take a fry job; so Ben suggested that Bob take the job he had originally held, the afternoon fry, and I could take the pantry job. Bob reluctantly relinquished the Chef’s job and I took the nine dollar a shift pantry job. I felt pretty much as Papa had the time Gaines got demoted from the sixth grade back into the little room, "well, son, the first thing you know you’ll be back in the primer; so you turn in your books tomorrow," Papa told him. I knew my next step down was back to the bottom, that or dishwashing. 

I tried to be a cheerful worker and had begun to rather enjoy the new job, because it was way below my abilities. However I become depressed and disgusted when Jerry, the union agent, came in one day and asked me where my union button was. When I told Jerry I had misplaced it, he handed me a miscellaneous button instead of a cook's button. I never, at any time, during all the years I worked in cafés, felt that I was any better than a dishwasher. It did embarrass me though to be mistaken for a dishwasher after having worked in cafés twenty-six years; so I turned in my time the following morning. 

I dreaded going back to Stater Brothers personnel office and applying for a job again but I did. The personnel manager, Mr. Morris, sent me out to Stater's South Fontana Coffee Shop. A nice looking man in his early thirties, Bud Carey, interviewed me. Bud told me that he was the coffee shop Manager and would give me every consideration. Then he said he had already heard some of the pros and cons concerning me from the higher ups in the organization. They liked my work and appearance but they disliked my independent attitude. "I don't know how they could have formed that opinion of me because I’m one or the timidest persons in the world," I told him. Bud’s only comment was, "if I believed that I wouldn't consider hiring you." 

A week or so passed by after I’d had the interview with Bud before he hired me. I worked my first shift with a man in his late fifties by the name of George. Bud told me when he hired me that George was too old for the job and that I was going to be his replacement. So it amused me when I heard about George telling the cook, who relieved him that first day I worked, "the new cook is so slow and clumsy, I'm worn out from walking around him," George little suspected that old clumsy me would take over the job he was making every effort not to train me on before the week ended. 

I seemed to be pleasing Bud but the Chef, Earl, was talking to me like the Lieutenant in the Army did. I complained to Bud about this and he told me, "don't worry about him, Lenard because I'm going to replace him with a younger man, too.'' Then he added, "I don't like these old crabs; I want young men." I was hoping that Bud would recognize my ability and give me the Chef's job when he let Earl go but he didn't. Instead of Bud elevating any of his present cooks, he hired an outsider for the Chef's job.

I worked under the new Chef, Paul Mann, several weeks before another Chef's job became available. My hopes of becoming a Chef at one of Stater's Coffee Shops seemed remote. But one night just before I got off duty, Bud asked me if I could attend an executive meeting they were having at the new north Fontana Store the next morning. I made no comment, other than to say, "yes," but Bud went on to tell me that Stater’s now had five coffee shops, two in San Bernardino, one in Colton and two in Fontana. He said if all went well, he’d become supervisor of the five Coffee Shops and would need one more Chef Manager.

Bud’s plans proved to be premature because the two San Bernardino Chef Managers, Harold Fine and Slim Boatwright, refused to be supervised by what seemed to them, at most, one of their peers. So Bud got the job of supervising three Coffee Shops instead of five. The executives were happy with the two Fontana Coffee Shop Chefs, Lee Taylor and Paul Mann, but they weren't happy with the Chef in Colton. So the only changes necessary was to fire him and make Lee, Paul, and me Chef Managers instead of just Chefs. 

For some reason Bud insisted on Lee going to the Colton Coffee Shop and me taking over the North Fontana operation. Lee wanted to stay at North Fontana and I would have preferred Colton because this was where I lived. We three Chef Managers would each have a head waitress. Bud must have suspected that I would be the weakest member of the newly appointed Chef Managers so he insisted on Alma, his wife, being my head waitress. At first, I thought I had two stool pigeons to contend with because Bud's son, Warren, was already working there as a dishwasher. My fears were unfounded; Alma proved to be an asset to me and Warren was fairly cooperative. On a few occasions, Warren did let me know that his dad was the real boss, but I ignored this because most of my school years were under similar circumstances, I was the teacher's son. 

Chapter 51

I was transferred to Stater’s new store in Rialto in January of 1954. I thought I was going to be the Chef Manager there, too, but the Store Manager, Mr. Jones, informed me that I would just be the Chef. He said he was capable of managing the store and the restaurant without any assistance. I hadn't done much of the managing at the North Fontana Store; Bud had done most of it, so I was happy to give up the manager part of the title. Now I wouldn’t have to work overtime without pay as I had done numerous times while I was Chef Manager. 

It was hard for Dianah and me both to work without a second car; so we bought a ‘51 Austin car early in the year of 1954. Soon after this, Dianah got a job some twenty miles from where we lived at a restaurant called Tinti’s Italian Restaurant. Dianah was drawing the union scale on her new job and tips were exceptionally good but it wasn’t long before she had a run in with Mrs.Tinti, the owner, and walked out. This move didn’t put us in a bind but it was a blow to our finances because the next job Dianah went on was non-union and the tips were almost unheard of.

I quit my Chef’s job at Stater’s Coffee Shop in Rialto and went into a business venture with my erstwhile friend and ex-supervisor, Lonnie White, in June of this year. This was Dianah’s and my first experience of being part owners of a café. As it turned out, it was a bad experience because Dianah and I had nothing to do with the operation. Lonnie and his wife, Daisy, took care of everything. Dianah and I stayed at Linko’s Café, the café Lonnie and I were supposed to be partners in, for four miserable months. We wanted out from the beginning but Lonnie asked two thousand dollars for his initial investment of five hundred dollars. Of course Lonnie could only give Dianah and me our initial investment of five hundred dollars back if we insisted on getting out because he wanted us to stay. Finally we accepted the five hundred dollars we had originally invested and Lonnie paid nothing for the thousand dollars or so inventory which was half ours.

Since we didn't intend to go into the restaurant business again, not soon anyway, we decided to trade our little old tinny Henry J in on a larger car. Before we had a chance to trade it in, our neighbor, John Cox, asked us to sell the Henry J to him. He said he’d give us a hundred dollars over the blue book listing. Anyway Cox gave us twelve hundred dollars cash for our Henry J. I took the check Cox gave me to his bank and asked for hundred dollar bills. The cashier only had five she could spare; so I had to go to two more banks before getting the other seven. When I drew our savings and checking accounts, a total of eight hundred dollars, out of our bank, I requested hundred dollar bills then, too. This bank didn't have them, without going to a lot of trouble, so I accepted sixteen fifty-dollar bills.

Dianah and I had decided we wanted a Plymouth or a Dodge. When I got off shift at two p.m., on August 30, 1954, Dianah had gotten off of her job at Hunters Sweet Shop in Colton, where she'd been working since leaving Linko’s, and was waiting for me. We didn't have a trade in; so we left the Austin parked and took the short walk from Annibil's Drug, where I was working, over to the Dodge Dealer's place of business.

We were both dressed in our work clothes and walking, so I guess we did make a poor impression; however we weren’t nearly as poor as we looked because Dianah had two thousand dollars in her purse. When we approached the Dodge Dealer’s salesman, he asked, "what kind of trade in do you have?" "None, I proudly told him. "Well there are the new cars," he told me in a disgusted tone of voice, as he pointed to a dozen or so Plymouths and Dodges. Then he added, "we have some nice used cars on the other side of the building if you’d be interested in looking at them, too." "We wanted a new car," Dianah told him. "A lot of people do," he commented and walked back into the office and sat down. 

After the Dodge Salesman had talked to us like he did, Dianah suggested we go over to Hayden and Jordan’s and take a look at the Desoto Cars. The Desoto salesman didn't seem too enthusiastic until I explained to him, "now the Dodge salesman wouldn’t even talk to us because he undoubtedly didn't believe we could afford a new car. Then I boasted, "we have the money and we’re going to buy a new car if we have to go to Detroit after it." 

The Desoto salesman had no sooner introduced himself, than he too asked, "what do you have in the way of a trade in?" He laughed when I told him, "twelve one hundred dollar bills, and sixteen fifties." His only other comment was, "well that will put you in a brand spanking new Firedome V-8 Desoto." When Larry, the salesman, made this statement, I turned to Dianah and said, "look them over and if you see something you like we’ll buy it." 

Dianah picked a pale yellow car with a black vinyl top and it took my eye too; so I told Larry, "write up the contract." He kind or faltered when I asked him, "how much would the payments be if I paid fifteen hundred down?" "I thought you were going to pay two thousand down," he shook his head in a disgusted fashion and commented. “Ah, just forget the whole deal," Dianah told him, then added, "I’d prefer a Cadillac anyway." Larry apologized profusely but he didn't write up the contract until Dianah reached in her purse and counted out fifteen hundred dollars. 

I had intended to pay two thousand down but I got to thinking how nice it would be to take a trip back to Texas in our new Desoto. We didn't leave for Texas right away though because I wanted to wait until the weather cooled down so I could wear some of my nice clothes. Dianah and I slept in the car two of the three nights in route, when we took the trip in November. But when we pulled into Dallas, which was less than a hundred miles from where Papa lived, we got a motel. The next morning I put on my botany cloth Harris Frank grey suit, a white shirt with French cuffs, pale green tie and kid skin gloves and headed for Frankston. 

"Lord Son, don't tell me you got another new car!" Papa exclaimed while he was hugging us. "Why it hasn't been two years since you were here in a nice little new car," he told me. "Yeah, I know Papa,” I mumbled and then told him, "we still have it but these little cars are just too tinny; so we decided to get us a large car for our trips and pleasure driving." I didn’t explain to Papa that we had another little car and not the same one he’d seen.

I was afraid Papa and Miss Leona hadn't noticed how we were dressed but they had. Miss Leona hadn't any sooner asked the blessings that night at supper than she turned to me and commented, "you and your wife sure dress nice. I’ll bet that outfit you have on cost over a hundred dollars, and I’d hate to think what Dianah’s coat cost." I didn’t tell Miss Leona that Dianah had the fur coat when we got married, I just responded, "well I guess we can afford them. They’re paid for." 

I knew Papa would get around to telling me how well the other boys were doing. Milton sold eighteen hundred dollars worth of tomatoes that year, Gaines was a brick layer, Clarence was a carpenter and L.M., well he was kind of like me, spending all his money on good clothes and cars. Milton owned his little farm and Gaines built his own brick home on a lot he purchased in Tyler. Clarence had at one time owned a home, too, but when he and his wife divorced, she took the home. 

After Papa had stressed how well his other sons were doing, he turned to me and said, "Dick, that’s what you should do, buy you a little farm or a little home of some kind. Papa just gave me a kind of, "yeah I’ll bet," grin when I told him, "I don't know what I need with two homes, I already have one." As an afterthought I commented, "Dianah does like the snow; so I guess I could buy another homestay in Colorado and then we could have a winter home and a summer home." 

Papa wasn't worried about Milton, Gaines, and Clarence but he was concerned about L.M. and me. He said L.M. was a pimp and a bootlegger. "Why I thought L.M. had a bellhop job in Enid, Oklahoma!” I exclaimed. "Well he does but that's what a bellhop is," Papa explained. Then he went on to tell me about L.M.’s last trip home. It was back in the summer when L.M. and what Papa took to be a Gypsy girl wheeled up to Papa’s house in a large slinky looking automobile. L.M. and the girl, who he introduced as his wife, were literally reeking with the odor of booze, Miss Leona said.

Everything went off pretty smoothly, except for L.M. and the Gypsy girl running to their car every few minutes and getting themselves another drink, until bed time. Miss Leona had made L.M. a pallet on the floor and when he insisted that he wanted to sleep with his wife, Papa explained to him, "Son, I know you two aren't married and I won’t tolerate you committing adultery in my home." When Papa made this statement, the girl giggled and suggested, "L.M., you sleep with your stepmother and I’ll sleep with your dad. I think that would be real fun." Papa had had all he could take by this time; so he told his baby son to get that drunken Gypsy in his car and pull out. 

Papa didn't doubt that Dianah and I were married but he did suspect that I was a bellhop, too. He couldn't seem to understand how a waiter could afford the luxuries Dianah and I were displaying. I explained to Papa that I was no longer a waiter but a Chef now. Finally Papa came right out and asked me, "Now tell me the truth Son, are you a bellhop, too?" "No Papa, I told him, "a pimp and bootlegger has to be tall and handsome and I’m neither one, so you don’t have anything to worry about.” 

Chapter 52

Dianah and I each held several different jobs during the years between 1954 and 1959. Even though I was better qualified, I was only a fry cook on all these jobs I held, excepting for one, Sam's Chili Shop, in Colton. I enjoyed this job more than any I had ever had. The little café had a seating capacity of thirty-six and was laid out in such a manner that you were almost in the midst of the customers while working in the kitchen. I had been at Sam's Chili Shop only a short time before I was getting nice compliments. And by this time I knew most of the customers well enough to call them by their first names. 

Sam's Chili Shop was the last place I worked before Dianah and I put us in a small café of our own. We had traded our little Austin car in on a four-door Rambler Deluxe car and we still had the Desoto at this time. We sold our little house, we had worked so hard and spent so much money on, for about half its worth. This was our only means of raising enough money to put in a little café of our own. When we sold our house in December of 1958, it consisted of two bedrooms, a storage room, and two porches. Wall to wall carpeting had been installed in every area of the house, and in one corner of the living room we had us a bright red brick fireplace built.

After the house we’d sold cleared escrow and we got our money; Dianah and I leased a lot with two buildings on it for one hundred and ten dollars a month. The smaller building was meant to be used as a café and the other one served as living quarters. The vacated café building still had a twelve stool counter and hood fan in it. Dianah and I would have to furnish all the other needed equipment. Before we bought any equipment, we thoroughly cleaned and painted the inside of the café building. Then we had an artist paint a dessert scene on the west wall and a mountain scene on the east wall of the dining area.

The living quarters were in fair condition so we moved our furniture in without doing any excessive cleaning. We stored most of our furniture in the kitchen part of the house and only set up the TV, divan and two overstuffed chairs in the living room. All the furniture we set up in the bedroom was the bed and two end tables. Dianah and I carried on through, bought our restaurant equipment, and set it up in the café before we started to work on the lot, which was in terrible condition. Weeds and grass were grown up waist high all around the buildings.

We had a sign painter make us a large window sign with the words: SMITH’S CAFÉ, OPENING SOON, and taped it in the front window of the café a couple of weeks before we opened. Then we contacted the Zeon Sign Company and had them make us an outside sign. This sign was five feet by three and had two panels, one on either side and had a fluorescent light inside. On these panels were large raised blue letters spelling out: SMITH’S CAFÉ. Directly above this was another double panel about twelve inches wide across the length of the large sign with the same type letters as above and spelling out: TIME TO EAT. And on top of these panels was a large electric clock with sweeping second hand. 

I felt proud and optimistic as I watched Dianah hand the rather expensive menus to customers that first day of April back in 1959. We had quite an elaborate menu and we planned to compete with the large cafés in the vicinity, not just the other small ones. Our first day's sales were forty-seven dollars and fifty cents. We didn't get much business from the Yucaipa area opening day; most of it came from Colton. Roz Dayton, our first creditor, came out with a party of five customers. Roz was optimistic about our future. "There's no reason why you can't make it," she told us and turned to some more customers and commented, "I'd bet my last dollar on these two." I felt like Roz did, otherwise I wouldn't have bet my last dollar on us two. 

Dianah and I didn't take a day off that first month; we worked from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. and sometimes on until midnight, seven days a week. Business was slower than I had expected it would be the first two weeks. It was all coming from the Yucaipa area, though, and this was encouraging. The porterhouse steaks, which we served on sizzling platters, and the pan fried chicken we cooked to order were the talk of the town. Since Dianah and I were both heavy drinkers at this time, we traded at all the taverns and got most of our business from that source to begin with.

Before the end of the second month, business had increased enough for us to hire a full-time waitress and a part-time dishwasher. We were getting business from places other than taverns, too, now. Most of the employees from Stater Brother's, Mayfair's, and Davis's Markets were driving the mile and a half down the hill to have lunch with us. The Doctors and Nurses from Yucaipa Hospital were trading with us some but for the most part they went to the only large café in Yucaipa, The Yucaipa Café. There were three other small cafés in and around Yucaipa but the only way they hurt our business was by serving what they called: "home style food." This not too tasty food dissuaded people from ever stopping in another small café again. 

We had a little bad along with the good at Smith’s Café but Dianah always took over because she wasn't afraid of anybody and I was afraid of everybody. One night three husky construction workers came in. "Chef, could we get three of those sizzling steaks?" one of them asked "Certainly you can,'' I cheerfully replied. When Dianah gave them a check for seven fifty, Roper, the man who had ordered the steaks, wanted to sign the check and pay later. He said he understood me to say they could have the steaks on the credit. 

Dianah surprised me, she didn't say much that night; she did tell Roper, "somebody's going to pay for this check sometime in the near future." It was about three weeks before Dianah collected the overdue bill. We were in a tavern that night when Roper came in, ordered a six-pack of beer, and gave the barmaid a twenty-dollar bill. Dianah took the twenty-dollar bill out of Lila’s, the barmaid, hand and gave Roper twelve dollars and fifty cents in change. I didn't know whether we'd get out of this or not because I felt like Roper did, that Dianah had highjacked him. Two Sheriff's cars arrived on the scene after Roper called them and reported a robbery. As it so happens, the Sheriffs didn't classify the incident as a robbery. They told Roper, "you admit you owed the lady seven-fifty and she gave you twelve-fifty change out of a twenty dollar bill; so that's all there is to it so far as we're concerned." Roper's only comment to the Sheriffs was, “I’m going to help these folks completely out of business if I can.” 

We had one customer, who was good for from five to seven dollars a day, depending on how much money she could take in selling eggs. Lela, the super customer, was just semi-retarded; she could read and write, make change and in most respects live a normal life. Lela was fifty years old at this time, and was living with and running a chicken ranch for her parents. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lamont, were both in their late eighties. Mrs. Lamont was still active but Mr. Lamont had been bedridden for some time. Just to be sympathetic, I inquired of Lela about him frequently. So one morning, while Lela was having her double order of ham and eggs, I asked, "how's your dad today?" she literally split her sides laughing and then told me, "you're just a little late; we buried him yesterday."

One of Lela's brothers came in our café one day and after he introduced himself, he jested, "my poor retarded sister is getting so fat you can't hardly see her eyes.” Mr. Lamont, who admitted he'd never been in our place before, wanted us to refuse service to his sister. I didn't think this would be fair to tell our very best customer, "you can't eat with us anymore." After I told Mr. Lamont Lela's eating habits, we made a compromise. "Mr. Lamont, Lela invariably orders two complete orders of whatever she selects off of the menu," I explained. Then I told him about the morning she came in and ordered a pound of ham to go with her four eggs and double order of hash brown potatoes. 

Mr. Lamont and I had quite a discussion that morning because I just couldn't see losing Lela’s business. Finally Mr. Lamont asked if I'd cut Lela down to just one serving of whatever she ordered. "I’ll trade with you enough to make up for the difference," he promised. "Yes, I’ll do that," I told him and commented, "I don’t know how Lela's going to react, though." The little bit Mr. Lamont spent with us didn't nearly make up for the complete loss of Lela's business. 

Lela came in, as usual, the next morning after Mr. Lamont and I had had the talk." "You know what I want,” she greeted me. "Yeah, a double order of ham and eggs,” I halfheartedly replied and was going to tell her we'd have to cut it down to a single order when she interrupted, "no I want a pound of ham again this morning. “Lela, we don't have a pound of ham to spare," I hedged. "Well just make it a pound of sausage,” she laughed and told me.         

After I told Lela what her brother had said, she mostly berated him but she did threaten me, "I’ll just take my business elsewhere, then." A lady, by the name of Smith, ran a small market just a few yards down the street from us. When Lela left our place she headed in that direction; I had an idea she planned to buy her chow there and this was fine with me. 

When Lela returned from the market and knocked on our café window, she was laughing. Dianah had no sooner remarked, “Lela bought herself some groceries down at Smith's Market," than Lela held up a large can of salmon, a big chunk of longhorn cheese and a box of crackers. “That's good," I called to her and Dianah and I just laughed when she made a face and continued on her way. 

Lela passed by our place twice daily for several weeks with her plate and knife and fork on her way down to Smith's Market. Mr. Smith, I learned later, had set up a table in the store for Lela so she didn't have to take the groceries home. Lela hadn’t caused us any trouble, other than occasionally making a face at us, until the morning she began calling us names and spitting on the windows.           

Before I realized what was happening, Dianah had dashed out the door and taken hold of Lela. I ran out and by this time they were both on the ground. I saw that I couldn't separate them and called Randy, our part time dishwasher. I had a hard time holding Dianah and Randy couldn't hold Lela. I noticed that the Manager and the attendants of the Mobil Station across the street were watching and called, "would some of you please come over and help us?" Mr. Hallowren, the manager, who was an elderly man, called back, “I don't want anything to do with a family squabble.” 

I finally turned Dianah lose because I didn't feel it was fair for me to hold her while Lela beat her up. After I thought Dianah had fully recovered from her handicap, I told Randy to quit trying to hold Lela. Dianah was ferocious, so by the time I went to a nearby pay phone and called the Sheriff, Lela had given up and was on her way back to the chicken ranch. 

At my insistence, the Sheriff called Mr. Lamont, Lela's brother, and he came down. Mr. Lamont admitted he was to blame for the whole affair and agreed to having Lela put under a restraining order. Then he told us and the Sheriff he'd hire a housekeeper for his elderly mother and retarded sister. Lela wouldn’t have any duties to perform then, other than feeding the chickens and her German shepherd dog. Mr. Lamont knew that Lela had gained considerable weight recently, even though she wasn’t trading with us, but he didn't know she’d been dining at Smiths Market.    

Mr. Lamont continued trading with us some and to be courteous, I frequently inquired concerning Lela. He said, even though the housekeeper had Lela on a reducing diet, she was still gaining weight. Lela kept gaining weight until her dog died from malnutrition and then she suddenly began to lose weight.

Roper was wrong; he didn't help us completely out of business because we operated Smith’s Café thirty-eight months. Dianah and I stayed two months longer than our lease called for trying to negotiate another lease. After Mrs. Weinstein insisted on raising our rent from one hundred and ten dollars a month to a hundred and sixty, we moved back to Colton and stored our café equipment in the garage which came with the house we rented. 

Chapter 53

Dianah and I took a trip to Texas after we got moved back to Colton. Papa and Miss Leona didn't seem too thrilled to see us and my other relations were even more indifferent. It hurt me to think none of them would mention the café we supposedly owned back in California. I had told them about the café in my letters. Papa noticed that I was driving a Rambler this time and asked, "what happened son? Did you lose the big car?” I didn't tell him that we had sold the De Soto while we were in Yucaipa, I just mumbled, "no I decided to drive the little car this time." 

We hadn't been at Papa's but a few minutes before he wanted me to go over and see Avie's new home. Avie and her husband, Jerry, had left the little farm at Pine Forest they had been renting for the past twenty years and bought a house in Frankston. Jerry was running a produce stand on the outskirts of the little town of some two hundred inhabitants. Avie was working in Tyler as a seamstress, making close to two dollars an hour. Vera and her husband, Jack, had left the farm, too. They were now living in Tyler and Jack had a good job at a filling station; he was making a dollar and a half an hour. 

I could tell Dianah was ill at ease and bored so I tried to change the subject but Miss Leona had to tell me about Milton. He had died of a heart attack about a year before this. I asked Miss Leona if Mrs. Rash bought the five dollars worth of flowers I had asked her to buy when she called and told me of Milton's death. "Yes Dick, she would have bought the flowers but I asked her not to.” Then she went on to tell me, “I just waited until you sent the five dollars to Mrs. Rash and applied the money on Milton's gravestone because it wouldn't have been enough to buy flowers with anyway.”

Papa and I went over to see Avie's new home soon after supper. Avie did have a nice little two-bedroom frame house with modern conveniences. I was proud for Avie and Jerry and their grown retarded daughter, Peggy, because the house was a mansion compared to the little three-room shack they had previously lived in. I hardly had time to see Avie's new house before Papa began telling me about the other members of our family. Gaines and Clarence were still in the construction business. Of course Gaines was still a brick mason but he was also a carpenter; Clarence was just a carpenter, L. M. was the head bellhop in a swanky hotel in Enid, Oklahoma. Vera's oldest son, Mason, married a banker's daughter. Now he owned a nice brick home and drove a new Cadillac. 

Dianah wanted to leave Frankston and visit somewhere else but Papa insisted we stay over another day because he wanted to do a little visiting too before we left. He didn't have a car and none of the other kids ever took him any place, he said. We went by Rock Hill Cemetery on our way over to Leagueville the following morning. This was where my mother and first stepmother were buried. They were buried one grave space apart and had the words: "Christ is my hope," inscribed on their identical grave stones. As I stated earlier in this story, Papa would some day be buried in this grave space between Mama and Miss Ellen.

When we arrived at Leagueville, we visited with Aunt Una and her husband, Uncle Wes. At first I didn't think Aunt Una recognized me because she just spoke to Papa and Miss Leona and didn’t say anything to Dianah and me. After we were seated on some improvised chairs in the little two-room shanty, Aunt Una stared at me for a minute and then remarked, "I’ll declare Dick you look just like Egbert." I said, "that's quite a compliment, thank you Aunt Una," and asked "you remember Dianah, don't you?" After she said she did, Dianah asked her, "Aunt Una, where is your rest room?" "Honey, we don't have such things around these parts," Aunt Una laughed and replied, then told Dianah, "we have a two holer in the back yard there if you want to use it." 

The surroundings were different over at Uncle Sell’s and Aunt Ella's house, where we visited next. Uncle Sell was one of the wealthiest farmers in Henderson County and had very modern conveniences. Uncle Wes and Aunt Una hadn't always lived like they were living now, either. The old homestead house, where they had lived for years, had just recently burned to the ground. Three rooms of the old house had been built from hewn logs and Grandpa Smith, during his lifetime, had added on to it twice. At the time the house burned down, it was rather large, three master bedrooms, a parlor, a large kitchen, and a wide hallway which separated the kitchen and one bedroom from the other two bedrooms. 

I didn't feel like I had been to Leagueville until I visited the cemetery there. None of the others wanted to go but Papa finally did go with me. I enjoyed reading the dates on the tombstones. We went immediately to Papa's parents’ and brothers’ and sisters’ graves. Grandpa and Grandma were buried side by side. The dates were barely legible, after so many years, but I finally made them out. Grandpa was born September 12, 1848, and died November 4, 1903. Grandma was born July 18, 1850, and died August 2, 1905. Next to Grandma's grave was that of Uncle Ernest. He was born June 11, 1882 and was killed in a duel which he had with his brother-in-law, Harold Robbins, on December 2, 1908. I remembered how I had loved my two old maid Aunts, Ambler and Beulah, when I was a boy, as I paused briefly at their inexpensive gravestones. Aunt Ambler was born July 14, 1870, and died February 16, 1923. Aunt Beulah was born June 4, 1873, and died August 3, 1944.

Papa was getting tired and a bit bored by now but I wanted to visit one more grave, that of my Grandpa Allen. As I stood reading the inscription on the Woodman of The World Tombstone: "Ed Allen, born March 7, 1862, died February 3, 1919, I thought of that cold winter day some forty-two years before. Grandpa had many friends so there must have been twenty covered wagons in the funeral caravan. It intermittently rained, sleeted, and snowed during the eight-mile trek from Pine Hill to Leagueville. Grandma and her two oldest children at home, Ola, sixteen, and Bud, fourteen years old, along with the Pastor of Pine Hill's Methodist Church, Brother Simms, transported Grandpa's body in the front wagon. Papa's wagon was next in line with our immediate family and two of Grandma's younger children, Ted, ten, and Lena Mae eight years old.

I listened to Brother Simms depict Grandpa as having been honest, upright, respected by all and a good provider for his family. "Mr. Allen wasn't a professed Christian," Brother Simms continued on with his eulogy, then commented, "but from what his son-in-law, Brother Smith, tells me, I think Mr. Allen did like the thief on the cross and accepted Christ right at the last hour." I thought to myself, "I sure hope so.” Grandpa had supposedly told Papa the night he died, "M, I'm a little worried; I wish I had joined the Baptist Church and been baptized and if I live I'm going to do it.” Papa was a little surprised that Grandpa would want to join the Baptist Church and not the Methodist. Grandpa went on to tell Papa that night that he didn't know for sure but he believed he had accepted Christ during a Baptist protracted meeting at Martin Springs the summer before.       

Our family was dressed nice on this day, Papa had on his blue serge suit, flared necktie, and wide brimmed Stetson hat. Mama had on a blue serge coat suit, and Vera had on a nice little Sunday dress and her school coat. Milton, Gaines, and I had on our knee pants suits, homemade shirts and neckties, corduroy caps with earflaps and our badly scuffed button winter shoes. The little girls, Amie, Avie, and Abbie, and the little boys, Clarence and L. M., were dressed in their little neatly homemade outfits. 

All of Grandpa's close relatives sat in the choir section of the church and we were the last to view his body. I couldn't believe my eyes; the body laying there in the coffin didn't look like Grandpa at all. I had never seen Grandpa with a suit on before, but on this day he was dressed in a black suit. Grandpa's sparse mustache was always long, straggly and tobacco stained, but now it was neatly trimmed and free from stains. I felt sadder than ever when I noticed the brown spots on his small chapped hands. Papa had told us children some time before this that our Grandpa Allen had pellagra and I had seen these spots before but they were not so conspicuous when he was living. 

When Dianah and I left Papa's the next morning after the Leagueville trip, we went to Houston. Houston proved to be much more interesting and exciting than Frankston and Leagueville had been. I didn't browse around in any cemeteries but I did visit some very hospitable people in Houston. Dianah had worked as a waitress in Houston back in the thirties and forties and knew a lot of the old timers there, particularly the law enforcement officers. K.D. Wright, the assistant District Attorney, took us out to dinner and nightclubbing. He wanted us to stay in his guesthouse while we were in Houston but Dianah wanted to stay the three nights we there with her Aunt Georgia. 

On our way back to California, Dianah and I splurged a little. We didn’t plan to open another café, not soon anyway, so it didn't matter too much if we arrived back in California broke, we rationalized. Employment had never been a serious problem, not since the depression years, with either of us so we went to some places I'd never been before. Dianah had been to some of them, Juarez Mexico, Carlsbad Caverns, Petrified Forest, Grand Canyon, and Las Vegas. 

Dianah and I had enjoyed our trip for the most part, but I don't think I ever felt as sad as I did on the last lap of it. I was in a daydream all the way from Las Vegas to California. I couldn't help but think of the nice home, the Colton Cocker Spaniel Dog, Riley, and the little café we had left less than two weeks before. We still had our restaurant equipment but the little home and Riley were gone. Riley was buried under a walnut tree on our dirt parking lot in of the café we used to own in Yucaipa. “If we'd kept our little house Riley would no doubt still be living," I thought to myself, "because he certainly wouldn't have gotten run over by a car." 

“Oh just about the nice trip we've had," I told Dianah when she interrupted my reverie by commenting, "a penny for your thoughts.” I thought to myself, "Honey, I'd give a thousand dollars, if I had it, if I could relive some of the events I'm thinking about.” At that moment, I would have given all the money I had left if I could have stood in Riley's new dog pen and patted him on his head. The chain link fence company had just completed a fence twenty five by twenty-five feet, six feet high in our back yard, which was already fenced, that day. I was standing inside of the pen patting Riley on his head, when the fence man remarked, "that dog will stay in there," as he stepped back and took a final look at the odd looking fence within a fence.

I didn't look for a job the next day after returning to the house we'd rented in Colton. We got back to Colton at about eight o'clock in the evening but drank at Linko's Bar until nearly midnight before going to the place we'd have to consider as home. I was feeling blue on this morning and told Dianah I'd like to go out and see the Cox Family. I didn't wait for an answer and I was talking to myself when I said, "Colonel and Vicki are nearly grown by now. “Yes," Dianah replied, "Colonel's seventeen and Vicki’s about twelve years old." Colonel had been five years old when we moved out on Orange Avenue next door to the Cox's in 1950 and Vicki wasn't born until the next year.

I was standing in Cox's front yard looking over the section house yellow, trimmed in dark green, which used to belong to me, when June, Cox's wife, remarked, "it doesn't look like it did when you had it, does it, Mr. Smith?" Indeed it didn't; the rose bushes and fir trees were gone from the front yard; Riley's pen had been taken down and two mangy looking dogs were lounging on our once nice front porch. "Just take a look at that front door, Mr. Smith!" June exclaimed. I had already noticed the solid core hardwood door Dianah had spent days varnishing and hand buffing. The brass doorknob was tarnished and the dogs had almost destroyed the bottom half of the door. June explained that the dogs clawed the door hours on end trying to get into the house. 

June and Dianah had already gone into the house and were peeping out a window, when I strolled out of Cox's yard over to the next door mailbox. I, for a moment, relived the morning I had painted the mailbox yellow and the post green. I could hardly wait for the paint to dry so I could put the plastic green letters: “Smith” across the top half of the mail box and the green numerals and letters: 245 Orange Avenue on the bottom half. When I had finished the mailbox lettering, I put the yellow letters: Lenard & Dianah, horizontally on the post.

Dianah told me on the way back to our house we no longer had a home, that June had commented, as she watched me inspect the mail box, "Mr. Smith sure loved that little house, didn't he?" The letters on the mailbox had been replaced with new ones but the yellow letters: Lenard & Dianah, were still on the green post.

Chapter 54

Dianah and I had been back in Colton two weeks, after having made our trip back to Texas, when Mrs. Linko called and said she wanted to see me. We were both working; Dianah at Joe's Café in Colton and I at Sage's Coffee Shop in San Bernardino. I asked Mrs. Linko what she wanted to see me about and she said, Lenard, I don't want to discuss it over the phone; so I made an appointment with her.      

Lonnie and Daisy had long since left Linko's at this time and one of their ex-employees, Millie, was operating the café. Millie, Mrs. Linko explained, was doing a good job and had two more years to go on her lease. Then she went on to tell me that Millie and her husband had separated and that Millie wanted out of the café. If I'd buy the inventory and take over the lease, Mrs. Linko said she'd let me take over the café. 

"This is a deal of a lifetime and if I hadn't taken that trip back to Texas I'd sure take it," I was thinking to myself while Dianah, Millie, and I sat in Mrs. Linko's apartment discussing it with her. The slowest month they had ever had at Linko's Café, during the eight years operation, was seven thousand dollars. The busiest month I'd ever had at Smith's Café in Yucaipa was a little over two thousand dollars. 

It embarrassed me to have to tell Mrs. Linko that I didn't, after having been in business for myself thirty eight months, have the money to take over the café. "Well why don't you take the place over on a percentage basis?" she asked and commented, "then all you'll have to do is buy Millie's inventory." I thought of the good credit rating I had with S.I.C. Finance Company and told Mrs. Linko to let me think it over for a week. I didn't tell her that I didn't even have the money to buy Millie's inventory. 

S.I.C. was reluctant to loan me another five hundred dollars on the ‘58 Rambler car I still owed them eighteen hundred dollars on. "Mr. Smith, we just bought the contract on that some nine months ago," Mr. Owens, the manager told me, then asked, "do you by any chance have any other collateral?" “Yes, I have the furniture I bought from Mrs. Dayton back in 1951, which you financed," I told him. "Well we'll see if we can do it that way," Mr. Owens suggested, as he walked over to the file cabinet. “I knew there was a way," Mr. Owens sighed when he laid the two contracts, the furniture and the car on his desk. I'm sure happy you can loan me five hundred on the furniture," I commented, and added, "because I'd like to make two payments instead of one." "That isn't our policy," Mr. Owens curtly told me; so I borrowed twenty-three hundred dollars and took home five hundred. 

Dianah and I immediately turned in our notices at Joe's Café and Sages and took over Linko's. The first week's operation netted us seventeen dollars. "Don't get discouraged Lenard... there's money to be made here," Mrs. Linko consoled me. "Lonnie White made enough money here to buy out a nice little café down the street," she went on to tell me. Lonnie had bought out Sam's Chili Shop, the café I had at one time been Chef in. Before Mrs. Linko ended her tour of the kitchen and visit with me, she remarked, "You’re the guy we wanted in here to begin with." I didn't make any comment but I wondered why she had insisted that Lonnie be the manager and me the assistant back in 1954 if she had so much confidence in me. 

Linko's Café didn't prove to be "the deal of a life time," but Dianah and I did make a living there for some eight months; however we could have made much more money working for somebody else. I’ll have to concede though that it was our fault for not making money at Linko's because everybody else who'd ever had the café, did. Seldom can a person make money when he's broke or scared and I was both when we took over Linko's Café. 

I knew I wouldn't have any problem getting a job because I, at this time, had a good reputation. I could go back to work in one of four cafés, Sages, Stater's, Annibil’s, or Joe's. Since Sages was the last place I'd worked before taking over Linko's, I decided to apply there first. I hadn't any sooner sat down at one of the eight horseshoe counters than the waitress asked me where I was working. 'Well do you want to work?" she asked when I told her, "no where at present." After I joked, "no I don't want to, but I guess I’ll have to because I like to eat," she motioned for the manager to come over. 

Mr. Brice, the manager, talked to me for a minute and then took me back into the kitchen to meet the Chef. They had changed Chefs during my absence. On the way back to the kitchen, Mr. Brice told me, "you're not going to like the new Chef... few people do, but he does a good job and we have to keep him." "This is Lenard Smith," Mr. Brice introduced me, as we approached Bill, the Chef, "I'm busy as hell and don't give a damn who he is; all I want to know is: can he cook," was Bill's response. Then he asked, "Where have you worked?" “well actually all around," and I was about to say, "this vicinity," when he interrupted, "all around the world, nation, or state?" I thought it was about time for me to get sarcastic too, so I told him, "I've worked in three states during my thirty-five years of restaurant experience." Then I explained, "but since World War Two, I've worked in this immediate vicinity... the fact is I've worked here before." 

We only had one car at this time, so Dianah didn't go back to work. I, being the only breadwinner in the family, didn't want to be too independent; otherwise I wouldn't have lasted out that first day at Sages. Bill was upset because I didn’t get to work an hour early that first morning. "It takes an hour to get your hot cake mixes, bacon, and sausage blanched off and hash browns ready,” he cursed and told me. “So I work nine hours," I remarked. "Yes but you don't punch the clock until you're ready to start putting orders in the window," Bill mumbled. 

A young man by the name of Johnny came in at eleven o'clock, introduced himself, and told me to fix my breakfast and eat. "Take twenty minutes Bud, that's all you'll have time for," Bill called to me as I walked towards the back of the kitchen. I didn't eat breakfast; I decided I'd rather spend my twenty minutes smoking. I had just lit my first cigarette when I heard Johnny say to Bill, that old man sure got this kitchen in a mess. "Yeah I know," Bill said and then commented, I don't know why Brice insisted on hiring a man his age." I resented their classifying me as an old man because I thought I looked rather young for fifty-three years but I didn't say anything. 

Johnny and I made out fairly well through the noon rush and when two o’clock came Bill called to me to "punch out and then come back and make up the hour you lost this morning.” I didn't have to make up the full hour because after I helped Johnny clean up the kitchen, he told me to go ahead and leave. “See you at five in the morning," Bill called to me, as I walked out the back door.

Why didn't you eat at Sages?'" Dianah asked when I told her, fix me some breakfast, I'm starved." Then when I told her what an ordeal I’d been through, she asked, “why didn’t you come on home?” I told Dianah that it would probably be easier the next day because I was going in at five to line myself up, she told me, "you're going in at six just like you did today.” Then she threatened, “and if you don't gather up your tools and come home I’ll be over there after you." “The Chef will go berserk if I do that," I cautioned. "If he does, knock him in the head with your cleaver," was her only comment. 

Sure enough Bill started in on me when I walked in the back door the next morning, "goddamn we're in the same mess we were yesterday," he told me. "I'm not working today; I just came to pick up my tools," I hung my head and mumbled. I didn't knock him in the head with my cleaver like Dianah had suggested I do, but the Chef did go completely berserk at this time. He was still ranting during the time it took me to gather up my tools but I didn't answer him until I reached the back door, then I reminded him, "I don't know why Brice insisted on hiring a man my age." 

Chapter 55

Soon after I left Sages, I went back to work as a fry cook at Stater Brother's Coffee Shop in Rialto. Seemed nice to be back... some of the same waitresses, Marie, Lou, and Jo Ann were still there. I hadn't been at Stater’s but about three months before I again decided to go back into business for myself. I followed through with pretty much the same pattern I had in Yucaipa: leased a café with living quarters. The little octant shaped café building, some two miles west of Fontana, faced out on Foothill Blvd. It had blacktopping completely around the building, which provided ample parking for a café, even one much larger than this one. The little gunbarrel house we would live in was in back and apart from the café building. It comprised two rooms of equal dimensions, a small bathroom, and a utility room. 

William W. Blair, the owner of the property, and I drew up a lease and had it notarized, which stipulated that I would pay one hundred dollars a month for three years for the two buildings. My problem was money this time too; I had about five hundred dollars cash, most of my café equipment and my road sign, but this wouldn't be nearly enough to do what I had planned. 

The café building did have a hood with fan over the area where my stove would be but it had no counter and stools. The eight windows in the building needed to be draped but I could postpone this because it would be winter before I was ready to open so the sun wouldn't shine in too bad for awhile. I could get by without any kind of cooling system for a few months but I'd have to devise some means of heating the poorly insulated open beam building. Dianah and I were both determined we'd get a beer license and sell tap and bottle beer. The license alone would cost three hundred dollars and no telling what the cabinet with spigot to dispense tap beer would cost. Then there was the sales tax, which would be at least a hundred and twenty dollars because that was the minimum. Mr. Arky, the name Mr. Blair went by, had long since given up getting his first and last month’s rent in advance because I'd occupied his two buildings two months at this time and hadn't paid him any rent.

Dianah and I were drinking in a Fontana tavern one of these sleepless nights when the bartender, not knowing who we were, began discussing my dilemma with me and the other customers. “I see we're going to have a new tavern down the street,” he reminded us. In response, one of the customers replied, "it's sure taking him a long time to get that place open." I was sitting with my head hung and didn't join the discussion until a drunk nudged me in the side and asked, "what do you think about it Mister... do you believe that ignorant bastard will ever open that joint?" "Yes, I believe he will," I told him. When I made this statement, the drunk threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and said, "if you have so much confidence in him... cover that." I looked in my billfold and saw that I had thirty-five dollars left out of my last Stater's check and told him, "I’ll cover that and raise you five." 

The bartender confirmed the wager by putting the money in an envelope and writing on it: Bob bets tavern won't open; Lenard bets tavern will open. When the bartender returned after depositing the envelope containing the fifty dollars in a small safe in the back room, I turned to the drunk and introduced myself, "I'm the ignorant bastard who's going to open that joint and I’ll do it before Christmas," I boasted. Then I explained to him, "it's not going to be a tavern at all; it's going to be a restaurant with beer merely as a sideline." Bob wanted to bet me another twenty-five that I wouldn't be open by Christmas. I refused to bet because I wasn't sure of but one thing and that was that I would open before my lease expired. 

I didn't see the man I had made the bet with in November until after the first of December. On this night he kidded me about the sign: "Smith's Café- Opening Soon Under New Management,” I had in the window of my café. I had learned by this time that most people in Fontana called this man “Karate”. They called him this because he professed to be an expert in this sport. Karate didn't believe I was about to open the café until I tossed a fifty dollar bill on the bar and told him: “I’ll bet this that I do as I told you I would, open before Christmas.” This must have made a believer out of him because he wouldn't bet. 

On the day President Kennedy was assassinated, November 22, 1963, I was negotiating a loan for thirty-three hundred dollars at S.I.C. Finance Company. I netted a thousand red dollars out of this loan after I paid off the twenty-three hundred dollars l owed on the Rambler and furniture. This was the last loan I'd be able to make for some time because everything I had in my possession was mortgaged now- including my restaurant equipment. 

I finished painting the counter, which Randy's father had built for me on the credit, and helped Dianah hang the homemade drapes she'd made for the windows in the café on December 10th. On the 11th, one of Olsen's Brewery men came out and converted one of my refrigerators into a tap beer cabinet and left me two kegs of Schlitz beer and one case each of Olympia and Hamms. On the 12th, I went to Duffy's Market on Foothill Blvd in Fontana and bought a hundred and twenty-six dollars worth of meat and groceries on credit and promised to pay within ten days. The 13th was my last day at Stater's and it was a busy one because I wanted to open the next day. I worked from 6 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. in my café before reporting to Stater's for my eight hour tour of duty there. When I got off duty at Stater's that night, I came straight home, had several drinks, and worked another three hours in my café before trying to sleep a few fretful drunken hours. 

Even though I was tired and had a hangover, I never felt so much pride in myself as I did this December 14th day back in 1963 as I placed three revolving signs: "Open", one on either side of SMITH'S CAFÉ and the other one, directly in front. Dianah had tears in her eyes when she turned to me and half whispered, "we made it, Pappy," that morning just before I put up the signs. 

Traffic was heavy on the Blvd; so Dianah, me, and two waitresses, Muriel and Lou, stood by anticipating a kill. As the day wore on, I got a bit discouraged but all of a sudden a carload of people pilled into the parking lot. Muriel and Lou hastily pulled two tables together and I spoke in a soft tone of voice when I cautioned, “be real nice to them." "What a quaint little place!” one of the ladies at in the party exclaimed as she got seated at the two tables. No sooner had our first guest been seated than Dianah and I introduced ourselves as the proud owners of the quaint little place and Lou and Muriel passed out menus. My spirits were soaring but they wilted when another one of the ladies shook her head apologetically and said, “we’ll just have coffee, since we didn’t know you were opening today, we ate at another café down the street.”

 We had quite a nice visit with these people before one of the men in the party companied about the unpleasant odor he smelled. I too had been smelling this acrid odor but had no idea where it was coming from until one of the men suggested it might be sewer gas. After a couple of the ladies became nauseated, I assured the others in the party that I didn’t blame them for leaving without finishing their coffee and voided their check. We did eventually take in a little cash that first day, even though most of the customers complained about the obnoxious odor... well we took in close to twenty dollars.

 I let Lou go at the end of the first shift. Muriel, who had worked for us at Linko's, stayed on through the Christmas holidays. As for me, I went back to Stater's and re-applied for my old job back, which was forthcoming within the week. "You sure didn’t stay in business long," Paul, the Chef, commented, when I asked him if he could make a place for me. "Oh I'm still in business," I assured Paul, then went on to explain, "I'm so far in debt I have to make more money than I can presently earn there; so I'm going to let my wife and one waitress run the café for awhile."

Mr. Arky and I tried every trick at our disposal to squelch the foul odor in the café before I turned myself in to the Health Department. We'd had the septic tank pumped; had dug a new leech line and had even left the doors and windows open in the café but the place still stunk. The man from the Health Department knew what was causing the odor right away. He didn't know that the café was already closed when he suggested I close down for a week or ten days while they tried to correct the trouble. Dianah and Muriel couldn't take any more of it and had quit before I ever called the Health Department. The Health Inspector gave me some powder, which he called enzymes, and told me to put a tablespoonful in each drain twice daily. After the Health Inspector gave me the okay to open again, Dianah came back but I lost Muriel and all my first customers. They never did come back but it was just as well because I couldn't afford to hire any help anyway. Dianah and I began opening the café at 8 a.m. and closing at 10 p.m. and I continued working at Stater’s for the next thirteen months. This gave me enough time in the café to get a little business because I prepared the food and served the few breakfast orders I got between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. at which time Dianah came in. Then I helped Dianah through the noon rush and until 1:30, at which time I had to go on my wage job. Of course I cleaned the grill, worked tables, and washed the few dishes Dianah had left undone, after I came home from Stater's. Ordinarily, I'd do my sweeping and mopping after Dianah came on because we seldom got any business between 10 and 11 o'clock in the morning.

The first year's operation of Smith's Café wasn't a complete waste of time because we netted close to fifteen hundred dollars. Some days we’d near the fifty dollar mark, then business would, without apparent reason, drop to seventeen or eighteen dollars a day again. By the end of the year of 1964, I had managed to pay off enough of my loan to qualify for another loan at S.I.C. Finance Company. 

Dianah and I took the five hundred dollars we borrowed from S.I.C. and began a full time operation of the café on January 22, 1965. Business perked up immediately but we knew we'd have to clean and modernize the building in order to ever make a living there. Our first move was to scrub down the log building with steel brushes and sandpaper. We had to get off as much of the cresol as possible and too we had to smooth the logs some before painting.

We painted the outside with high gloss white enamel and trimmed it in sun burst yellow enamel paint. Then we had two rows of fluorescent lights installed all around the building excepting for the squared off back end. We painted the inside dining area with the same kind of paint we'd used for the trim outside. And for the kitchen we and used the high gloss white enamel. It took a hundred and nine dollars worth of paint and many hours of work to make the rundown building attractive enough to receive a letter of commendation from the Fontana Chamber of Commerce, which read: 

CHAMBER OF COMMERCE

8407 Sierra Avenue

233-4433 Fontana California

July 16, 1965

Smith’s Café 

15481 Foothill Boulevard

Fontana, California 92335

Dear Friends:

I’ve been meaning to write to you for some time to tell you how nice your place looks since you have spruced it up. The painting you have done certainly adds to the appearance of the café and I wish more people in Fontana would follow your example. 

Best wishes for a good business year.

Respectfully, 

Manager Wesley D. Bush

Before this year ended, our shabby looking little café was literally booming; everybody seemed to like the quaint atmosphere, professional cooking, and most of all the cheap prices. We bought us a twenty cubic foot upright deep freezer and were now buying our meats in quantity, half a beef at a time, whereas just a few months previously we had been lucky to use up ten pounds of hamburger meat before it spoiled. 

I felt rather proud, when I filed my income tax return at the beginning of 1966 and the accountant told me I'd better play safe and declare an estimated tax for the coming year. But my pride reached its climax when Dianah and I took a trip back to Texas in the fall. I was driving our recently purchased ‘60 model Impala Chevrolet. I suppose the news of my prosperity had been exaggerated back there, anyway an old acquaintance of mine asked me, "Mr. Smith, how many restaurants do you own now?" 

Mr. Arky must have suspected that I was making money, too, because he began to charge me for incidental repairs he had, heretofore, been doing free. On one occasion he fixed the water line on our roof cooler and this little job proved to be more expensive than I had anticipated. “How much do I owe you?" I enquired after Mr. Arky had completed the job. “Well you can pay me anything you like for the labor but the saddle I had to install cost four seventy-five plus tax,” He told me. Since I did think this little gadget Mr. Arky called a “saddle” cost a trifle too much, I decided to talk to one of Mr. Arky’s old cronies, Mr. Fox, about it.

I had no sooner related my story to Mr. Fox than he agreed to take a look at the expensive saddle Mr. Arky had installed. Mr. Fox began to laugh and then he joked, "Smith, Arky threw the spurs to you after he got the saddle on because you can buy that gadget anywhere for thirty-nine cents.” I hung my head and told Mr. Fox, "well I’ve learned my lesson...I won't let Mr. Arky install anything else."

As it so happens, I hadn’t learned my lesson though because it was only a few months later when Mr. Arky again threw the spurs to me, this time without the saddle. I had saved a little money and was open for a good buy the morning Mr. Arky told me about a refrigerated air-conditioner he could get me cheap to cool down the little shanty we were living in. "Lenard, it's a steal at seventy five dollars," Mr. Arky assured me then went on to explain, "it's a large unit and a beautiful piece of furniture.”      

I didn't agree with Mr. Arky, as far as it being a beautiful piece of furniture was concerned, but he was definitely right about it being a large unit. The man, who hauled it in for me commented, after we had disassembled it for loading onto his Chevrolet pickup, "I hope the highway patrol don’t catch me hauling this." When he made this statement, I told him, "why they couldn’t do anything because you have a three quarter ton pickup." "You don't know what you're talking about!" the man exclaimed, "this thing weighs three tons if it weighs a pound.” I spent considerable money trying to get the air conditioner to reverse itself and operate correctly before I disposed of it. After I realized that nobody would ever be able to keep the unit from pumping the cool air out of the house and the hot air into it, I gave a junky twenty-five dollars to haul it away.

Chapter 56

Dianah and I were doing very well financially with our café in Fontana but we closed it in June of 1968. Both of us had almost completely worn ourselves out during the five years we'd been there. Dianah weighed 155 pounds when we went into business there and at the time we went out, she weighed 97 pounds. I had lost some weight but not as much as Dianah. We had long since stopped taking any time off, other than two or three hours each night after we closed the café. Then we'd go to a nearby tavern and get drunk before going to bed. We did close one day a week, but this was one of our hardest days because I cleaned the café and grounds and Dianah cleaned our improvised living quarters.

After a lot of worry and talking, we decided our teeth were to blame for our declining health. So we spent over a thousand dollars having our abscessed teeth replaced with dentures. After this didn’t improve our health, we were at rows because we never once suspected that the long hours and heavy drinking could be, at least, a part of the problem. Finally after Dianah began running a temperature late in the evening of each day, I took her to a Doctor, who suspected she had T.B. The Doctor immediately had her placed in the San Bernardino County General Hospital for some tests. As it turned out she didn’t have T .B. but she did have three skin cancers and one internal cancer. Everybody, excepting Dianah, thought she was a terminal case. Dianah insisted that she had been through much more than this and wasn’t about to die. 

Dianah had been in the hospital about three weeks when she called me one night at four o'clock in the morning and told me to come get her. "They didn't release you at this time of the night, did they?" I asked. "No, I released myself'," she replied. I knew there was no use in arguing with her and asked, "where will you be?" "At the corner of Waterman and Baseline Avenues at a Shell Station," she answered and hung up. 

Before I ever reached the Shell Station, I saw Dianah standing, one foot on the curb and the other on Waterman Avenue looking in the direction she knew I'd be coming. She had on the County Hospital split back gown and a flimsy see through robe our customers had bought her. "It's a wonder you didn’t get picked up for indecent exposure," was my only comment when Dianah got in the car. I knew there was no sense in telling her she'd have to go back to the hospital. Instead of the hospital authorities coming out to our house and picking her up, as I thought they would, they called me. After I discussed the situation with them they put Dianah on an out patient basis. 

          We closed our café in June but it took us until the middle of September to dispose of it. Dianah and I held out until the last minute for twenty-five hundred dollars, which would have been about half its value. Finally a lady from Los Angeles offered us twelve hundred and fifty dollars cash and we accepted it. The Lady, Millie, laughed and told me after she had consummated the purchase, “Mr. Smith, I was prepared to give you the twenty-five hundred you were asking; so I'm very happy to get the place for half that price."

The main problem facing me after I closed the café was getting a job. I had doubts of getting on as a cook, at my age, and thought of trying for a dishwashing job. Since Miss Arky and Dianah insisted I didn’t look my fiftynine years, I decided to put my age back seven years. This proved not to be necessary because I got the second job I applied for without telling my age. However, I was glad that I had dropped the seven years when my new employer, Fred Freeman, owner of Zandy's Café in Colton, glanced over the form I filled out and remarked, "you're an older man that I thought you were." Then Fred, as I was told to call the boss, explained that he had had difficulty hiring a cook that could do the work.” I’m not sure that I can," I told him in a weak voice and ask, "what time did you want me to report for work?” “At three o'clock this afternoon," he curtly replied.

I had been on my new job a couple of hours when Ted, Fred's son, exclaimed, "my god man, I thought you said you had worked in a café before!" it’s been awhile"... I told him and was about to tell him, "since I worked for somebody else," when he interrupted, "it must have been a hell of awhile. When Fred came back to the café that night he wanted to know, “how's the new cook doing?" Ted pointed to a sign over the service window which read: “fix them right and serve them right,” and commented, "Dad you just as well take that sign down if you decide to keep this man because he won't do it.”

I had been working at Zandy's Café two days when I ask Ken, the afternoon dishwasher, where I could find the frozen vegetables to cook off. Ken completely lost his temper; he was talking loud enough for everybody in the place to hear him when he told me, “now Bud, you're making more money than me; so don't ever expect me to help you with your work." After I apologized and assured him this was the farthest thing from my mind, he explained to me, “you're only going to be here three more days because Fred's going to let you go at the end of the week."

I had a talk with Fred that night when he came in. I didn't mention what Ken had told me but we did have quite a lengthy discussion. Fred felt pretty much the same as Mr. Barrow had some forty years before this, he told me, "Lenard, you haven't showed me anything yet, the fact is, you're just in mine and Ted's way." Dianah begged me to quit when I told her what Fred had said, but I didn't want to do that because I'd no doubt just get in somebody else's way. I knew in order to stay at Zandy's Café, I'd have to kind of put myself in another awkward squad.

The next day when I went in at ten o'clock, Fred wanted to know, "what brings you in at this time of day?" “I came in to watch you work through the noon hour," I told him and went out front and got a menu. For the following three days I used the menu to verify each order Fred put in the service window. On the next day that I worked after having two days off, I came in at my regular time, three o'clock in the afternoon. When Fred came back that night, he watched me for a few minutes and then commented, "it's just possible that you will show me something after all."

          I guess I did show Fred something because I worked at Zandy's Café for him until he went out of business there in July of 1970. This was the most enjoyable two years I ever spent working in a café. Fred was the only employer, out of the hundred or more I had worked for during the years between 1926 and 1970, who showed that he appreciated loyalty and good work. Numerous times Fred has passed through the kitchen and stuffed a five or ten dollar bill in my shirt pocket.

          As for age... well most of the customers said I looked younger than my professed fifty-four years. On one occasion a new dishwasher even mistook me for Fred's son. Fred had told this elderly man, Bill Angel, when he hired him, to come in that afternoon and his son would show him around. As it so happened, Ted didn't work that afternoon; instead he called me to work in his place. Bill came bouncing in the back door all full of make believe pep and greeted me, "I’m Bill Angel your new dishwasher.“ Then he allowed, as he grasped my hand, "I suppose you're Fred's son." Since I was actually ten years Fred's senior, this came as a surprise...I had no idea I looked so youthful.

Chapter 57

Dianah and I took the twelve hundred and fifty dollars we got out of the café and bought some more furniture and rented a house in Bloomington. The two-bedroom house was run down but the rent of seventy-five dollars a month seemed cheap. The landlord, Paul Land, furnished the paint and we painted all the rooms, some of them with as much as four coats of paint. Paul and his wife, Gertie, were thrilled no end... at last they had tenants who would take care of their property. I began spending all my leisure time, including the two days a week I had off, on the yard, which was in unbelievable condition.

It seems that we had no sooner gotten the place to looking like somebody lived there than the Lands decided they’d have to charge more money for it. They even talked of moving back into the house themselves. Gertie, during one of her frequent visits with Dianah, remarked, "this is a nicer house now than the one Paul and I live in." Then she joked, "I'm tempted to evict you folks and move in myself." Gertie made it a practice to collect the rent in person, even though I had told her I could mail her a check for it each month. “No, it's so nice not to have to beg for the rent money!" she'd invariably exclaim when we'd give her the seventy-five dollars. Gertie would then, nearly always, tell us about the problems they'd had with other tenants.

Some of the previous tenants had left owing as much as three months back rent and none of them had ever taken care of the place. On one occasion the toilet got clogged while one of the other tenants was living in the house. From the way Gertie described the mishap, it must have been more obnoxious than the sewer gas incident Dianah and I had endured at Fontana. Instead of unclogging the toilet himself or calling a plumber, the head of the household took the easy way out... he crawled under the wooden flooring and disconnected the toilet bowl from the cesspool.

When the Lands finally raised our rent fifteen dollars a month, Dianah and I decided to buy us another home of our own. We had planned to shop around and get exactly what we wanted but as it turned out, we only went to one Realtor's Office, Kinser Realty of Bloomington. Mr. Bradshaw, a retired businessman, who was working part time as a salesman for Kinser Realty, didn't seem too interested when I told him I was in the market for a home. He was in the process of telling me that the down payments on all his listings were very high, when a lady typist interrupted, “why don't you show these people that house out on Tenth Street?”

After I inquired concerning the down payment and the overall price of the property, and Mr. Bradshaw knew I had the necessary money to make the down payment of five hundred dollars, he asked, “Would you like to drive by and take a look at it?” "No, I don't want to drive by it, I want to see the inside,” I disgustedly told him. "Well we'll go in your car then," he curtly replied. From past experience, I knew it was just as well not to look the part of an indigent person when trying to swing a deal. So I had purposely parked my brand spanking new 1969 Datsun Station Wagon directly in front of a large plate glass window in the Kinser Realty Office. My psychology proved to be correct because Mr. Bradshaw commented, as he seated himself in the front seat of my Datsun, “gee you sure have a nice little car.” "No, we'll take a look at the one you told us about first,” I told Mr. Bradshaw when he suggested, "I do have some nicer homes than the one we going to see, if you're really interested in buying." Then he explained, "I spend so much time and money hauling people around showing them houses they couldn't buy if they wanted to until I've about lost my patience."

On the way out to our future home at l8423 10th Street in Bloomington, I talked freely with Mr. Bradshaw. I told him that we had just recently sold our little restaurant in Fontana, after having operated it for six years. And I also made mention that we had owned a café in Yucaipa and had at two different times run Linko's Café in Colton. In answer to Mr. Bradshaw's question, "what kind of business are you in now, Mr. Smith... still café?" "No," I told him, and paused for a minute because I didn’t want to tell him I was the Chef at Zandy's Café and on the other hand I didn't want to classify myself as a cook, so I said, "I'm a Chef at Zandy's Café.” When we reached the intersection of 10th Street and Cedar Avenue and turned off on 10th, Mr. Bradshaw remarked, "this is a rather poor neighborhood.” In reply, I shrugged my shoulders and slyly boasted, "well we're not the wealthiest people in the world ourselves."

Some of the houses on 10th Street were vacant and boarded up but most of them were occupied, even though they appeared to be vacant. I soon learned that being poor had little to do with some of the ill kept houses and premises. All the tenants and owners I've met during the eight years I've lived in this poor neighborhood, excepting for me, are not poor. They all have good jobs, ranging in salaries from eighteen thousand dollars a year to heaven knows how much. Spending money alone won't ever make a house into a home; it takes pride, love, and hard work to convert a house into a home. Even though none of them are swanky, there are a few homes, including mine, mingled in with the houses on 10th Street in Bloomington. Mr. Bradshaw looked surprised when he ask, "well what do you think about it?" after he'd finished showing us the grounds and through the house. "I like it, because we can fix it up." Dianah told him then added, "we've fixed up worse places than this."

Chapter 58

Fred's sister and her husband, Ruth and Earl Comstock, took over Zandy's Café after Fred gave up the lease. Ruth had worked for Fred during the same time I did and we got along real well. She and Earl were eager for me to work for them and I was, at the beginning, happy to do so. I continued working the afternoon shift with the aid of one of the dishwashers, who Ruth had promoted to cook's helper. We, Ruth and I, had planned to make a short order cook out of the young man I had chosen for my helper. As it turned out, the new would be cook was more of a handicap to me than help. Ralph, my helper, had the impression that he was presently drawing his wages for watching me and asking questions. 

Ruth was paying me twenty-five cents an hour plus a bonus, more than the other cooks; so she wondered why I couldn't accomplish more since I supposedly had a helper. Ralph was a rather handsome, intelligent person who felt that brains and not brawn was the key to success. On one occasion, the afternoon dishwasher didn't show for work; so rather than trying to do three jobs, virtually by myself, I ask my helper to do the dishes. Not Ralph... his dishwashing days were over, “never again will I ever wash dishes," he informed me. I thought to myself, as I tackled the three jobs, dinner work, fry and dishwashing, "son you're going to wash a lot of dishes before you reach your ultimate goal...that of being a big shot.” But I guess I was wrong because the last time heard from my ex-helper, he was a supervisor over a chain of hamburger stands. What was I doing at this time... well I was back at Zandy's Café. This time around I was working combination short order cook and dishwasher.

I worked for Ruth some two weeks before I walked off the shift. Ruth and Earl had been nice to me and I've always regretted this rash move. It was a matter of not being able to take on responsibility and being so sensitive to criticism that caused me to do this. The waitresses, who had at one time been so nice, seemed critical of my ever move now... they couldn't appreciate me in any capacity, other than a fry cook. So when one of Ruth's suppliers brought in what he termed, “a real Chef,” to get the place going, I gathered up my tools and left.

A café, which I had at one time worked at, Joe's Café, had just recently changed management. I had worked with the new owner, Marie, when she was a waitress at the Colton Coffee Shop. Marie and her husband, Murrell, had both told me to come to see them if ever I was dissatisfied with my present job. So I had no problem going to work for them but I did make a mistake when I walked out on Ruth and took the job. For one thing, I did almost irreparable damage to my once good reputation and I soon learned that occupational jealousy was almost a way of life at the M & M Café.

          I enjoyed working at the M & M Café the three months previous to the accident I had, even though some of the cooks and all of the dishwashers resented me. I wasn't the Chef but Marie was paying me the same amount she paid the Chef; so I think this could have caused a little friction among the other employees. I told Marie before I went to work there that I would help with the dinner work but I didn't say anything about doing the dishes, too. The first few days I worked, Marie and Murrell did the dishes themselves but after I started helping with the dishes they quit. 

          “It just makes me sick to think about you having to take off a few weeks because you've been such an asset to the business," Marie lamented the night she took me to the hospital after I fell and broke my arm. And Marie and Murrell were very good to me the ninety-six days it took for my arm to heal enough for me to go back to work. When I'd go by to see them, Marie would never charge me for my coffee and sometimes not for food. Even though they were nice, I couldn't help but notice that they had a dishwasher working with the new afternoon cook and mentioned it to Marie. “We're just doing the best we can until you get back," she explained.

          It was almost like an old fashion homecoming event when I went back to work on December the second after having been off since August twenty-sixth. Marie told me any number of times that first day how happy she was to have me back. This good relationship between the management and me was short lived. I never did know what caused the sudden change unless it was that I tried too hard and thereby aroused suspicion. After considerable reflection on my part, because it always hurts me to lose good friends, I believe I could have still been working for Murrell and Marie, had I stood up for my rights.

          When I first started to work at the M & M Café, Marie and I had a long talk. She told me, "now Lenard any time you're unhappy about something come talk to us about it." Then she went on to elaborate, "if you do something that displeases us we'll talk to you about it... there's nothing that can’t be corrected if we’ll only discuss it." If Marie and Murrell had told me why they become irritable towards me and why they began taking inventory each night at the end of my shift I wouldn't have quit without giving them notice. I believe if I had told them at the beginning, "I’m a cook and I won't wash any dishes," we could have been an asset to each other. As it was I lost two good friends and added another blemish to my reputation. My conclusion is: They couldn't believe a cook with forty-three years experience would do the work I was doing and not have some ulterior motive for doing it.

Chapter 59

I planned to apply for my social security this year, which was 1971, and semi-retire, just make the seventeen hundred a year I would be allowed. Since I still had three months to go before I reached the age of sixty-two, I had to take another full-time job. The job I took, against my better judgment, was at a very busy café, the Antlers Café. The owner, Mr. Jackson, said cooks undoubtedly liked working for him because a couple of them had been there over twenty years. The elderly man, who's place I was taking, had been with Mr. Jackson since the café opened twenty-five years before. When Mr. Jackson was telling me about this man, I remarked, "I suppose he retired." "No, he would have still been with me if he hadn't died," Mr. Jackson looked sad and replied.

I got off to a bad start at this place... for one thing  I overdressed the morning I went to apply for the job. Oliver, the Chef, told me later, "I thought you were Mr. Nixon when I saw you coming back to the kitchen with Mr. Jackson." I was dressed in a fifty-eight dollar C & R brown suit, white French cuffed shirt, brown and white necktie, and a pair of Kinney's brown and white wet look shoes that morning I applied for the job at the Antlers Café.

One of the twenty-year men, Mike, worked on the early morning shift with the Chef and me and the other twenty-year man, Jerry, worked the afternoon shift. Mike was referred to as one of the cooks but so far as I could see he was more of a pantry man and cook's helper. I did the breakfast fry by myself but Mike helped me on the wheel during the noon rush, from about 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. This was the part of the day I dreaded most because Mike would lose all control. He'd swear at the waitresses, throw what we called: “dead orders”, the ones that weren't right, on the floor and belittle me during the rush hours. One day Mike had thrown so many dead orders on the floor until I slipped down on them and almost broke my arm again.

I was a little hesitant to talk to Oliver about Mike but I did talk to Jerry about him and his advice was, "Lenard, just ignore Mike...all good cooks are temperamental and get geared up." I got along fairly well with Jerry until Oliver took his yearly two weeks off and left Jerry in charge of the kitchen. It didn't take me long to find out that Jerry was, according to his definition, a good cook, too, because he was indeed geared up. Oliver had never done anything on the morning shift after I came there but the basic cooking; he didn't bother with the wheel. Jerry was different, every time I'd get five or six tickets on the wheel he'd take over. Then when the noon rush would start he'd come to my and Mike's aid and get the latter to really chinking show. 

One day while I was standing idly by, almost a nervous wreck with egg yolk and brown gravy splashed all over me, watching the two good cooks perform, Jerry ran over to my station and said, "just stand by real still Lenard I'll walk around you." This was too much for me; so I told him, "you won't have to walk around me any longer," and pulled off my apron.

When I walked out the back door, Jerry called to me, "don't ever think you're putting us in bind because we can do it better without you." “I'm sure you can," I told him and mumbled to myself, "the way you monkeys are geared up, I wouldn't be surprised at anything."

I had reached sixty-two years of age by this time, but hadn't, as yet, applied for my social security. I decided I'd go job hunting one more time, maybe I could get something I half way liked and postpone drawing social security until I reached sixty-five. I bought a pad of application blanks and typed up several of them before I began passing them out. I didn't have any references, other than Fred Freeman, because I had walked out on the last three jobs. Experience, I had plenty of and I had more than adequate education for the type or work I was applying for.

The managers of Sambo's, Howard Johnson’s, and Sandy's Cafés wouldn't even accept my application. They made no bones in telling me that they wanted much younger men than me. The Manager of Ace's Care, Vern, looked over my application and told me, “I like older cooks but, as you must know, I need somebody who I can depend on and who can get along with other employees.” Vern did file my application and promised to talk to me again if he ever needed a cook. I knew that this meant if he ever got in a bind and couldn't get anybody else he'd call me.

          I was on my way to Redlands to see about a job at Griswoll's Smorgasbord when I saw a sign from the freeway, "Harvey House Café". "I’ll stop by there on my way back and leave an application," I thought to myself. Griswoll's Smorgasbord had plenty of help and when I stopped in The Harvey House Café, one of the waitresses told me they didn't need any cooks either. I thanked her and was about to leave when a lady in her early thirties, who was talking on the phone, motioned for me to wait.

When this lady hung up the phone, she introduced herself as Mrs. Joy Toy, the manager. "Let me make a phone call,” she told me, after she had read my typewritten application. "There's a very neat well-dressed man fifty-six years of age here who I think you might be interested in," Joy told the other party. “He looks more like forty-nine or fifty than he does fifty-six," she explained and then told me, “Mr. Boeck, the supervisor, wants to speak to you."

"I'm Lenard Smith,” I answered the phone, "and I have left my application for a cook's job here with Mrs. Toy." “What kind of cook are you?" he asked. "Very ordinary... you know, coffee shop style," I explained and then interposed, "of course I'm not just a fry cook; I do dinner work too." "Oh some forty years in cafés," I told him when he asked, "how much experience have you had?" "And you started out, like the other cooks I know, as a dishwasher or bus boy," Mr. Boeck surmised. "No I began as a waiter and worked at that trade thirteen years," I corrected. "That's very interesting," he commented and remarked, before he hung up, "I might talk to you again after I've seen your application."

Two days passed before Mr. Boeck talked to me again and in the meantime Joy called me. She had resigned her position a week or so before and the Harvey House Management was looking for a replacement for her, she said. The next call I got was from Los Angeles. The person calling asked if I could meet Mr. Boeck at about ten o'clock that morning at the Loma Linda Harvey House Café.

Joy and I were sitting in a booth with two waitresses when a cream-colored Cadillac parked over to the side of the café building. "There's Mr. Boeck now!" Joy exclaimed and she and the waitresses returned to their duties. One of the waitresses turned to me, as she walked away, and said, "I sure hope you get the job, Mr. Smith... I think it would be fun working for you.”

          Mr. Boeck didn't say a word when he walked in and sat down on the opposite side of the booth from me. "You're Mr. Boeck, I was told,” I greeted him and introduced myself. "Yes," he replied, as he shook hands with me. Mr. Boeck was scanning over my application when he commented, "I see you completed three correspondence courses." He looked off into space and half whispered to himself, "you couldn't of selected three better ones than these for the job we're discussing. There’s some management, a little bookkeeping and a hell of a lot of salesmanship involved here," he continued on with the conversation. "Does that sound odd to you?" he abruptly inquired. "Well yes,” I admitted and told him, "I thought management would be the most important duty, bookkeeping next and salesmanship hardly involved.” "You do have to know something about bookkeeping here but so far as management is concerned... that's the easiest part of this job, if you sell yourself to the public and the employees," Mr. Boeck told me. Then he explained that he himself was actually just a glorified employee and would have to get confirmation from his superior.

This was by far the best job and opportunity of my sixty-two years of life, something I had always dreamed of accomplishing. I think I sold the public because I had customers who complimented me for being neat and well groomed. But my style of dressing was too much for the cooks and other kitchen help; they made all manner of fun of me, at first to my back and later to my face. I dreaded to enter the kitchen because the cooks and even the dishwashers would caution, "be careful Sir...don't get dirty,” and oftentimes they'd call to each other, "on your toes men, here come’s the boss.”

After working seventeen long miserable days at The Harvey House Café, I called Mr. Boeck and told him I wanted to give the job up. It was nearly midnight when I called; so Mr. Boeck seemed a little surprised that I'd call him about something that could be taken care of the next time he passed that way. "I'm not staying longer than noon tomorrow," I cautioned before I hung up the phone. Mr. Boeck just shook his head when he arrived at the café the next morning and I explained what was happening. "Well there's nothing I can do," he commented and then said to himself, "I thought I could judge people better than that."

While Mr. Boeck and I were sitting in the office, one of the cooks knocked on the door and asked, "Lenard, what time do we start on our breaks?" "What's he talking about? All he has to do is punch his break time out on his card and take it," Mr. Boeck remarked. "No, I always put on a smock and relieve them on their breaks," I explained. "There's part of your problem," Mr. Boeck commented and then changed the subject. "I believe you told me when I inquired concerning transportation that you drive a little foreign car." “Yes, a Datsun," I replied. Mr. Boeck chuckled and said, as he pointed to his cream-colored Cadillac, "there's what I drive because I’m Mr. Boeck and you drive the little Datsun because you're Lenard." I never felt so insignificant and unimportant as I did that morning I walked out the back door of The Harvey House Café in Loma Linda.

Chapter 60

I had enough money with my Harvey House check to make my house payment and car payment. Where my other expense money was coming from, God only knew at this time. I had applied for my social security but I knew that would take time and wouldn't nearly be enough money to live on. I was at my lowest ebb, mentally and financially, since the depression years. 

"You'll get something, other than a dishwashing job," Dianah would tell me when I'd discuss our situation. I'd have been happy to take a dishwashing job that morning the phone rang. “I’ll bet that's a job now!" Dianah exclaimed, as she ran for the phone. "God I hope so," I told her. "There's the job," she optimistically declared in a soft tone of voice when she handed me the receiver. "Is this Mr. Smith?” the party on the phone asked. When I replied, ”yes," the man curtly stated, "I'm Mr. Gregory, your insurance man... I thought I'd call and explain that we're sending you eight hundred and forty dollars as final compensation for the accident you had at the M & M Café back in August of last year." "When will I get it?” was all I could think to say. "It'll be a week or so because it has to be okayed by a referee board in San Bernardino,” Mr. Gregory told me and hung up. 

When Dianah ask if I had a job forthcoming, I exclaimed, “no honey, but we're going to have steak with all the trimmings soon!” And as an afterthought I told her, "not to mention the alcohol and ready roll cigarettes we've been going without.” Dianah counted our money after I told her the good news. We had twenty-two dollars and thirty cents on hand. “I know you want to go somewhere and have some drinks,” Dianah told me when I put the money in my billfold. I didn't get a drunk driving ticket that night but it was the highway patrol's fault.. certainly not mine. 

I talked Dianah into going by Zandy's Café to see how Ruth and Earl would respond. I was surprised when she told me how friendly they were... even asked about me. I hadn't been in Zandy's for about a year and it took a lot of nerve to go in after I had treated them like I had. Ruth came out front and talked to me and she wouldn't let me pay my check. “Ruth, I don't want you to think I'm trying to get a job back with you because I know you wouldn't think of hiring me," I told her, while I was apologizing for my past misdeeds. “That's where you're wrong, we'd like to have you back," she told me. 

It was in April when I talked to Ruth. I told her about applying for my social security; so she agreed to let me work part time, about six days a month. I worked three days, one day a week, before I received my first social security check on May 3, 1971. I was shocked to find the check was for only one hundred and fourteen dollars and twenty cents; I had expected around two hundred dollars. This would just about make my house payments and the one hundred and forty-two dollars a month I would be allowed to earn wouldn't nearly pay my other bills. 

I didn't cash the social security check, which I was actually entitled to, but sent it back. Ruth hired me on a full time basis and paid me twenty-five cents an hour more than she did her other cooks because I would be helping with the dinner work. I had doubts, at this time, of drawing my social security before I reached the age of seventy-two because I couldn’t live on it without working full time. I had planned all these years to quit working when I became a senior citizen and not getting to was quiet a disappointment. I worked full time for Ruth and Earl another year before I again applied for my social security. By now my benefits had increased to one hundred and fifty-six dollars a month. Also the amount of money I was allowed to make had increased to twenty-one hundred dollars a year. I could live on this amount of money and went back to work on a part time basis for Ruth. She and Earl didn't stay in business but about three months after I began working part time.        

Leroy Lauderman, the man who bought Earl and Ruth's I business, couldn’t see having a part time cook; he wanted full time cooks. It wasn't long before Lee, as we were told to call the new owner of Zandy’s Café, found that cooks of any kind weren't as he had described them, "ten cents a dozen." After learning this, Lee called and wanted to know if I'd consider giving up my social security and working for him full time. “Definitely not," I told him, but did agree to work one day a week until he could see his way clear to give me two days a week.          

I didn't meet Lee's wife, Barbara, until the day before the general election in November of 1972. "You're a much younger looking man than I expected you to be,” she complimented me when she introduced herself. Then Barbara explained that Lee had told her he had a social security recipient working part time. I thought I was going to like Lee's wife because so far as I was concerned she couldn't have made a more pleasing statement. I didn't resent it but I did feel a bit embarrassed when Barbara observed, "I see you roll your own cigarettes.” “Yes," I replied, and laughed with her when she jovially commented, "they look more like tamales than they do cigarettes." It wasn't enough to make me dislike Barbara when she got off on the subject of politics but I did resent her bluntness. "Who are you going to vote for tomorrow, McGovern or Nixon?" she asked. "McGovern," I jokingly replied because I already knew that Lee was strong for Nixon. "Why?" I quibbled and before I could explain that I was kidding, she answered the question for me, "I know, so you can get more State Aid and Welfare." I was a little sarcastic when I replied, “Lady, I've never drawn unemployment, let alone any form of charity.” "Well most people do after they reach sixty-five” she informed me. “And I wish to make a correction there, too, Mrs. Lauderman," I told her, "I'm not sixty-five; I'm sixty-three." 

Barbara soon learned that I bought all my work clothes at a nonprofit charity store, "The Value Village", and she undoubtedly assumed I had no dress clothes. And she thought I was a wino because I kidded a lot about drinking wine. So when Barbara asked me if I'd like to come to the Christmas party they were giving that first year, she told me, "you don't have to dress up Lenard... just wear whatever you have,” and then she asked, "what kind of wine do you drink?" told her. "Oh the cheapest I can buy," I laughed and told her. 

 It so happens that I didn't buy the eighty-five dollar brown sportcoat, twenty-five dollar cream-colored double knit slacks, eighteen dollar pale brown whipped cream French cuff shirt, seven and a half dollar necktie and my forty-seven fifty Florshiem buckle shoes at the Value Village and I didn't borrow them either. I dressed like Barbara had suggested, just wore what I had to the Christmas party at the Lauderman home that December night back in 1972. I only drank one glass of the high quality wine Barbara had bought for me because I have never been able to stand the taste of wine. 

When Margaret, the graveyard cook, relieved me a few nights later, she remarked, "I hear you were dressed fit to kill the other night at the Christmas party." "Oh yeah," I nonchalantly answered and asked, "why didn't you go by before you went to work?" "I don't care for parties," she shrugged her shoulders and told me, then went on to comment, "I wouldn't have tried to show off if I had gone by." "Who tried to show off?" I asked. "Nobody, I guess," she said and mumbled, "I'd rather have my money in the bank than on my back." Margaret just gave me a dirty look when I boasted, "it's nice when you can have it both ways." 

I thought it was all set for me to begin working two days a week at Zandy's Café come the first of January. Two or three of the women cooks had said earlier that they had rather work four days a week instead of the five they were working. Of course this was before I showed off at the Christmas party and having Lee and Barbara out to dinner one night just before the first didn't help the situation any either. Harold, one of Lee's ex-army buddies and supposedly partner in the business, called me and explained, "Lenard, I'm sorry but I can't give you the two days a week you wanted because none of the other cooks will give up any of their days; so you'll have to continue on with the one day a week for awhile.” After I told Harold I didn't want the one day a week, he chided, "I wouldn't be too hasty...you know you're not as young and good looking as you once were.” I thought of how I'd dressed for the Christmas party and joked, "I'm not as young as I use to be but I'm better looking than ever," and hung up the phone.

It was only a couple of weeks before Lee called me and asked if I would still like to work the two days a week. The cooks had changed their minds about giving me two days a week; they had rather do that, even though it would help me out, than to alternately work six days a week. In the meantime, Lee had refunded the pittance Harold had invested in the business and had run him off. Juanita was the Chef now, since Harold had relinquished that exalted title. She was a little afraid I couldn't bring up the specials and soup for the day a week I'd work in her place. After I explained to Juanita that I had had some experience along this line; I learned that her job paid ten cents an hour more than the fry jobs. Lee was a little reluctant to pay me Chef's wages but did agree to do so temporarily, at least. He did say though that the first time I didn't do it right he'd have to cut me back to the two seventy-five an hour.

My embarrassment and humiliation over the way I dressed for the Christmas party was nothing compared to what I suffered when I bought a new Subaru Car in October of 1973. "How much did you pay for that thing?" some of the customers and the employees at Zandy's wanted to know. Juanita said she had a Subaru parked in her backyard, which hardly made it home before conking out. She was presently driving a 1955 Cadillac which she wouldn't trade even Steven for my new Subaru. None of the employees, excepting Carolyn and Alma, two of the waitresses, would even step outside to look at my new car. "You needed a new car like you needed a hole in your head," one of the customers, a retired policeman, told me. "What was wrong with that little Datsun?" he then asked. “Nothing," I told him." “Well why did you trade it in on that thing then?" he asked. When I told the ex-policeman, "I didn't; I still have it," he almost went berserk. Finally, after seeing that he wasn't going to accept my apologies for buying the Subaru, I ask him, "how many cars do you have?" “Three counting my teenage daughters," he told me. 

 I worked for Lee, off and on, until I completely retired back in December of 1975. He let me know, by his actions, the fourth or fifth time I quit that he wouldn't ever hire me again. But if I should ever take a notion to work again I'd rather work for him than anybody I know, excepting Fred Freeman and Ruth Comstock, and neither of them are in business any more. As for Barbara... well my first impression was the lasting one. Most of the old cooks, waitresses, and dishwashers are gone from Zandy's Café now. I still go in there occasionally though and it amuses me when some of the customers poke fun at my style of dress and ask personal questions. They seem to expect the worst when they ask if I’m still living at the same place or if I still have the Subaru. Then invariably some construction worker will say to another one, "a guy like Lenard could live on what I pay out in income taxes." No doubt a guy like me could and still not line up in the Post Office to purchase food stamps like some of them do the first of every month. 

Chapter 61

I feel, in some respects, that my sixty-eight years of life was a complete loss. Even though I'm a great lover of children, I never had any of my own. All the things I once planned to do or become fizzled out in the bud. At the age of twenty years, I passed an examination for a Second Grade Elementary Teacher's Certificate and taught school one term. I have owned two small cafés and one partnership café. These were all minor accomplishments and really didn't reflect my innermost desires and abilities. 

Early in life I became a "born again Christian" and fancied I'd become a great Evangelist when I grew up. This wasn't within my grasp but my desire of becoming a schoolteacher was within easy reach at one time. I have three diplomas: Business Management, Salesmanship and Bookkeeping, hanging on my den walls. The only business I ever, even half, successfully managed was my own; I was a complete flop when it came to managing somebody else's business. I tried selling, before and after I got my salesmanship diploma, and soon learned that no amount of training in the world would make a salesman out of me. Bookkeeping would have been a more suitable occupation for me than restaurant work but when I received my diploma, I hung it on the den wall and never once applied for a bookkeeping position. 

I have a good sense of humor... and the jokes I enjoy most are the ones I or someone else tells on me. I'm an extrovert; I like to talk and mingle with people. I'm not conceited; I've never, to my knowledge, acted nor felt that I was better than the next person. I go out of my way to be friendly with people of lower skills and social standing than my own. I don't have an inferiority complex; I've never, meanly, acted in an ingratiatory manner towards another person regardless of his skills, authority, or social standing. 

I have always been a very sensitive person; I immediately detect the attitude another person has toward me. If it's good, I'm almost overcome with joy but if I sense the person doesn't approve of me, I'm depressed and ill at ease. I'm easily intimidated and very non-competitive; I never try to equal, let alone outdo my rival; I always lag a little behind. 

I made a lot of casual friends and avoided some criticism and jealously by lagging behind but I certainly didn't do justice to myself all these years. I didn't nearly do my best; if I had exploited even fifty percent of my potential... maybe I wouldn't have been in "Who's Who," but I would have, I believe, attained at least one of my goals. The very thing I wanted most, for people to like me, was my downfall. I still have many casual friends, nearly everywhere I go somebody recognizes and speaks to me, but I have very few close friends. There's nothing more pleasing to me than to hear that somebody said I was a nice person. But I believe if I could have been a little more aggressive and less meek, I could have been an even nicer person and a lot more prosperous. 

I like to look back on my childhood and adolescent years and I enjoy talking to people about them. They think I'm jesting when I tell them I never went to school more than sixty months in my lifetime. Milton and I would enroll in the one- or two- teacher school on opening day, which was ordinarily in October; but it was November before we could finish harvesting our crops and really start to school. Then come late February or the first of March, we were pulled out of school by our schoolteacher father to begin breaking the half frozen Texas sod for a new crop. 

Undoubtedly Papa was the poorest member out of his family of four brothers and three sisters, still living, back in those days. Uncles Bertie, Egbert, and Sell would bring their well-fed, neatly dressed children out to see "Uncle M’s" half-starved, overworked and near naked country cousins. Oftentimes our city and wealthy farmer-reared cousins would bring their new bikes their Papas had bought them for Christmas. They'd ride them over the yard while Vera, Milton, Gaines, and I would play with our homemade hoops and guides. Our Papa hadn't bought us anything for Christmas, much less a new bike... I never owned nor rode one in my life. 

Naturally Aunts Ambler and Beulah didn't have any children because born out-of-wedlock children were almost unheard of back in those days, but aunt Una had eight, all much younger than Papa's. I had a much better time when Aunt Una's family would visit us than I did when my other relations on Papa's side of the family came. They were poor farm people, too. Not like us because nobody lived as poorly as we did. On these occasions, if it was summertime, we'd go fishing and picnicking and if it was winter time, we'd stay indoors and play dominos or checkers. There were no bikes and fancy dolls involved for any of us to envy.

None of Mama's brothers and sisters, other than her youngest sister, Lena Mae, ever got married before they were in their late thirties and Mama's brother just younger than her, Uncle Will, didn't get married until he was past sixty. So we didn't have any cousins from that side of the family, but two of Mama's brothers and one sister were in our age bracket and like us, poor farm people. Grandma Allen's new house was built out of unfinished boxing plank and weather stripped with one by twos. This house did have glass windows in it but the house they had lived in before Grandpa Allen died was built of hewn logs and all the window openings were closed by wooden shutters. 

My early upbringing was an asset to me; it has made me appreciate the few luxuries and conveniences I've had. Many are the nights I've turned my bed down and crawled under the covers and thought of the nights I slept in a boxcar or beside the road on the ground. I've thought of the few times during the year we had any kind of beef to eat when I was growing up. I can't imagine a kid this day and age, running to meet his tired older brother, as he comes from the field, gleefully screaming, "we're having beefsteak for supper!" 

And I don't hear of any kids missing school because they don't have shoes to wear. I was lucky the year we only made three bales of cotton because I had small feet and wore a pair of Mama's high top button shoes to school. But Vera, Milton, and Gaines didn't get to go to school, except on warm days, because they couldn't wear Mama's shoes. When I see kids munching candy, I think of the few times Papa brought us candy from town. I’d always save mine until the other kids had eaten theirs and then eat it in their presence and watch them slobber. We only had store-bought chewing gum when we were sick enough for the Doctor to come. Sometimes the Doctor would give the sick child two sticks of gum and the well ones one stick each; other times he might not give the well kids any.

We didn't have welfare back in the teens and twenties; and you didn't draw social security when you reached sixtyfive back in those days, either. If you didn't have some money saved and your relations wouldn’t take care of you, you might starve to death. I remember one old man, Uncle Jimmie Dunn, who almost did starve. Before he got too weak, his nephew, Riley Dunn, let him do the chores around the place for his meals. Uncle Jimmie lived in a tiny log hut with dirt flooring on Mr. Riley Dunn's farm.      

I use to enjoy going by Uncle Jimmie's hut and chatting with him. He'd tell me about the battles he'd led his men to victory in during the Civil War. He said he was a Lieutenant in the Confederate Army but I always suspected that Uncle Jimmie was just a Private. Mama made me quit going by to see Uncle Jimmie because she was afraid one of the rats that shared his home might bite me. Even though the rats were pretty well domesticated, it wasn't uncommon for one of them to bite Uncle Jimmie. 

Friends kid me about rolling my own cigarettes and accuse me of drinking cheap wine. I seldom ever drink wine; I drink cheap beer but I do buy the cheapest I can buy for my wife... she likes wine. It makes me feel good to think to myself, while they're kidding me, "I could buy every bottle of wine and every carton of cigarettes in most liquor stores and still have enough money left to buy a fifth of good whiskey and a box of cigars." 

Chapter 62

It's been fifty-one years since I stood in the lobby of the Athens Hotel and listened to Uncle Bertie apply for my first café job. I can just see and hear Mr. Murrell, as he stood there talking to Uncle Bertie, "working in a café is almost like going to college," he grinned and said, as he looked at me. Ad I remember how proud I felt when Mr. Murrell said to Mrs. Murrell, Lenard's Mr. Smith's nephew." “Oh how I hope I can hold his job and be like town people," I was thinking to myself, when Mr. Murrell finished the sentence, "and he's going to work for us and go to school.”

         Uncle Bertie was a forty-seven year old educated, successful, and highly respected man in 1926. Even though he held a permanent First Grade Teacher's Certificate, and had twice been elected County Superintendent of Schools, he had never attended high school. Uncle Bertie did attend, what they called back in those days, teacher's normals but never high school nor college. While I stood admiring Uncle Bertie, as he talked to Mr. Murrell that night back in 1926, I hoped that I could some day talk to important people with as much ease and poise as he exhibited. “And to think," I reasoned to myself, "Uncle Bertie use to be a country boy just like I am now."

Papa use to joke about Uncle Bertie hiding in the cottonseed bin section of the log barn on Grandpa's farm when he was a boy with a stack of books. But to my knowledge, nobody ever introduced Uncle Bertie as M Smith's brother; it was the other way around. Clark Simmons asked me if I was M Smith's son but the county Superintendent of Schools didn’t when he sent me a certification of my Second Grade Teacher's Certificate. Mr. Ballew, the County Superintendent, supplied all the necessary information, then added a P.S., "I'll bet you're related to the late B.P. (Bertie) Smith."

I received a letter from J.B., Uncle Bertie's oldest son, a few weeks back; he didn't make mention of his deceased father. But I did when I answered his letter, "your dad would be ninety-eight, if he were still living,” I commented, then went on to tell him, "he was about the same age you and I are now back in 1947 when he died. As you know," I told J.B., "Papa was six years younger than Uncle Bertie; so he would be ninety-two if he were still living."

          Papa survived all the members of his once large family, excepting Aunt Una; he lived to be eighty-six; years old. Uncle Egbert lived to be eighty-two, and Uncle Sell passed on when he was seventy-seven. Aunt Una is eighty-seven, if she's still living, which I doubt. Uncle Ernest's wife, Aunt Click, died ten years ago at the age of 83 years. She was very young when Uncle Ernest got killed in a duel back in 1908, but Aunt Click never remarried.

I haven't heard from nor seen some of the star characters in this story for years. Some of them are still living but most of them, I'm sure, are deceased. Miss Leona, my second stepmother, died January 2, 1964 at the age of 80 years. Bill Bowers, my ex-good friend and employer, died of cancer back in 1963 at the age of 68 years. Lonnie White died of a heart attack in December of 1975 at the age of 66 years. Mr. and Mrs. Murrell, I'm sure, have passed on by now because they would be in their late eighties if still living. Mrs. Linko, Mr. and Mrs. Blair and Mr. Fox are all in their eighties and still living. Tillie, at the age of 68 years, is still very much alive but not as hard to keep track of as she was when I courted her thirty years ago. 

            Seven of the super-star characters, who comprised the union of MAMA AND PAPA AND US CHILDREN, are, so far as I know, still living today. Mama died of pneumonia on January 12, 1929, at the age of 42 years. Milton died of a heart attack August 9, 1959, at the age of fifty-one years. L.M. fell several stories down an elevator shaft, killing himself instantly at the age of forty-five. Papa died in his sleep December 12, 1970. The little obituary in the local paper, The Athens Review, made mention of Papa having been a farmer, schoolteacher, and grocery store operator. Papa's survivors included three sons: Gaines, Clarence, and myself; four daughters: Vera, Amie, Avie and Abbie; one sister: Aunt Una and 25 grandchildren, 51 great grandchildren and 7 great, great grandchildren. Papa's last wish was fulfilled... he was buried between Mama and Miss Ellen in the Rockhill Cemetery.    

Papa's death brought on a rash of ill feeling and nasty letters. I regret it but I was the author of some of these letters. I wasn't close to my relations anyway but this finished alienating me from my immediate family. Papa's home was eventually sold to one of my nephews, Ray Parker, for less than $4,000. The surviving Smith children received $222.22 each out of the estate. The remainder went to Miss Leona's only child, Morise McCluris.

The End