We Didn’T Know We Were Poor Until Somebody Told Us: The Legacy of Growing up in the South

By William Lynn Smith

This book is a compilation of the stories William enjoyed and cherished over a lifetime, stories that are factual, somewhat factual, or just out and out tall tales. They recount his familys life during the depression era, the war years and the fabulous fifties and sixties. These stories mostly told by his father describes the trials and joys of growing up in the rural south. To some the descriptions will bring memories flooding back. To others it will present a definite human view of that time in history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491809761

William Lynn Smith

William is a retired railroader. He spent forty-two years at the only job he ever had. His view of life is indicative of the baby boomer generation. He brings a unique blend of faith, down-home humor, and common sense as they pertain to modern life.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

Introduction to my Daddy

Part 1 The Depression Wasn’t Always Depressing

The Haunted Place

The Mean Ol’ Truck Driver

Mr. Andy’s New Pickup Truck

The Launching of Hebo

The Sour Mash Pit

Part 2 From Western Valley to Normandy and Back

The Soldier’s 23rd Psalm

Big’un

The GI at the Roller Rink

The General’s Car

Capn’ Davey and the Tiger Tank

A Tank Makes a Terrible Blanket

Lou and the Short Truck

Part 3 They Told Us We Were Poor But We Didn’t Believe ’Em

The Wreck

Your Emergency May Not Be My Emergency

Tall Tales from Short Stools

Mr. Henry’s Fish Camp

Keary and the Monkey

Jesse, Paw and the Computer

The Mystery of the French Medal and PFC Smith

Part 4 The Legacy Continues

The Corvair and the Rock n’ Roll Singer

Incoming!!

A Welcome Miracle Doesn’t Always Have to be a Big One

Don’t Even Let it Cross Yo’ Mind

The Curious Buffalo

Taxi!

Backwards and In High Heels

The Encounter

Epilogue

Prologue

I am taking this opportunity to slow down and record my thoughts and the stories about growing up in the south. Not just to reflect but to relish and enjoy my memories of my family both immediate and extended. Memories, like the white clouds on a summer’s day, appear and disappear in a seemingly disjointed parade. At this point in my life it feels appropriate to make an attempt to save those memories from fading away altogether. This book will take the form of the many stories, tails and anecdotes related to me by my family and mostly the best story teller in the world, my Daddy.

With the exception of my immediate family, I have meticulously fictionalized each and every name in this series of stories. However, dear reader, if you think you recognize a name or description, please accepts it for its entertainment value and enjoy. If it offends you, I apologize. For I can assure you, that there is no malice intended. It is my hope that you derive some joy through these stories and laugh or cry with the characters and their exploits. I know Daddy will approve because he was happiest when those around him laughed.

Introduction to my Daddy

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The boy from Western Valley

I had always known him as simply Daddy but like most of us, he had a number of different identities. His given name was Jesse William Smith. To my Mom he was J.W.. To some of the folks he worked with he was Smitty. Later on to my daughters he was Grandaddy. However to my uncles, aunts, cousins and the rest of the world he was Jake or Uncle Jake. Jake is not short for any part of his name. I guess giving nick names to people seems to be a habit of folks where I grew up. I have never actually known where Dad’s nick name originated. The term Jake was slang used in the late 20’s and 30’s and meant OK and maybe it was given to him by those around him because he was OK.

He was the fourth of seven sons born to Hyram Frank and Sue Smith. He came into the world September 4, 1919 in rural west Tennessee. Mr. Frank, my grandfather, farmed and logged in the river bottoms and bluffs along the Mississippi River with his six boys. There were only six because Dad’s brother Edward only lived a short time after birth. Money was as scarce as politicians the day after the election, but Dad never spoke about being poor. His stories tell of a hard but good life growing up.

From Western Valley to Normandy and back

He married Mom, Francis Elizabeth Crook, just prior to World War II. He was drafted and was shipped overseas just after his first son, my brother Jesse, was born. It was during these times I feel that Dad felt most alive. Indeed, even though he lived 82 years, his most memorable time was encompassed in those few years he served as a truck driver in the army. With all his other accomplishments when we laid him to rest, his grave marker proudly read, Jesse W. Smith, PFC US Army I have often marveled at Dad’s generation. The media refers to them as the Greatest Generation. This is because they not only rose from a great depression but were called on to fight in a savage war for our freedom. Then they returned home and built the most powerful nation on earth. For his part though, even if I say that those years in the service were the only high point in Dad’s life, would be trite and unfair to the listener. Dad’s life was a series of high points because he ended up with lemonade every time life threw lemons at him.

They told us we were poor, but we didn’t believe ’em

He came back to the states in the late 40’s to an economy that was winding down from war driven to peace time. It was tough. He was one of millions of GI’s that flooded the labor market. The agricultural areas were not able to support employment needed for these families. In the south this time was quietly referred to as the silent depression No job opportunities caused many families to uproot themselves and move to the large cities in the north like Chicago and Detroit. I had several aunts and uncles that ended up in Chicago and were called hillbillies much like any other ethnic group such as Italians or Chinese. Dad returned to farming with Mom and began scraping out a living share cropping on farms around where he grew up. Over the next several years my sister and I were born. By 1950 he had begun to augment his income by taking truck driving jobs when they were available.

In 1951 shortly after I was born, Dad was injured in a horrendous trucking accident. He suffered 3rd degree burns over most of his body. The injuries left him with the loss of the fingers of his left hand and a chronic problem with his legs. However not only did he survive, he managed to continue working as a truck driver until he retired in the 1980’s, he and Momma raised three children to adulthood. He always said how proud he was of all of the kids.

Daddy was not a religious man, he was a faithful man. He didn’t quote the Bible, he lived it. Over his life and indeed at its end, he never failed to be thankful. He demonstrated how much he loved Jesus by the way he followed His one great commandment Love one another as I have loved you. Dad never met a stranger because he loved with a real love, not a back slap I’ll pray for you… love. I have seen him spend more time than he had or give away more money than he could afford to folks down on their luck many, many times.

My Dad went home to be with Jesus in February 2002. His passing was like his life had been. Bittersweet, a sad but somehow joyful time. He had suffered from five different types of cancer throughout his body that racked him with pain. However from fifty years of dealing with almost constant pain he had learned to deal with it well. I believe God began rewarding Dad even before he passed into His hands. Almost all of Dad’s family were able to be with him in the days before his death. His brother, Momma, my brother and sister along with brother in-laws, sister in-laws and nephews were in his room when Dad breathed his last. Although he had always worked hard at being happy, he was now able to rest. He was at last at peace without pain.

This book is dedicated to you, Daddy.

PART 1

The Depression Wasn’t Always Depressing

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The Haunted Place

As Dad and his brothers grew up along the bottoms and bluffs in west Tennessee they were like any other young people of that era. There were no automobiles or parents with automobiles to carry them places. If they wanted to go to a function of some sort they either walked or rode a mule. Even though riding the mule sounds like a better option, taking care of him before, during and after the trip definitely made it less attractive. Most of the time they just walked.

Timing was a real issue as well. To Paw, day light during the week, Monday through Saturday was for work. That left very few hours in the day for visiting or going to town. So Dad and the other kids became very adept at traveling in the evening and not staying too late before heading home.

There was a place however that even the stoutest spirit among them hated to go. It was over a bridge on the road between Three Points and Fulton. That bridge spanned a creek that passed through the old breast works, fortification trenches, at Fort Pillow. Fort Pillow was a fortification built on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi by the confederates during the civil war. The confederates had built an extensive system of trenches to protect the side away from the bluff.

There were three horrific battles fought around the fort. The fort was lost, taken back and lost again by the confederates. During those battles and retreats, there were atrocities visited on both sides by opposing forces.

Close to the bridge I spoke of earlier in